A/N: I didn’t think yall would actually go crazy for pt 2 and lowkey I’m ready for it too so likeee here it issss
Warning: idk if yall would like this but I like it sooooo likeee yesssss, smut, more Lisa 😛
The air in Radio City Music Hall was electric, thick with the sweat of anticipation and the roar of twenty thousand voices. You stood at the edge of the VIP balcony, your sequined gown catching the spotlight’s stray beams, a deliberate beacon. Two years. Two years of silence, of therapy, of pouring every ounce of your hurt into your art. Two Grammys. A platinum album. A body and a soul rebuilt from the shattered pieces he’d left in that Parisian suite. You were a monument to your own resilience now, and you’d made sure everyone knew you were here tonight.
From your vantage point, you could see the stage, a pulsing heart of light and noise. And you could see her. Lisa Marie, seated in a front-row booth, her face a studied mask of cool indifference. But you saw the tremor in her hand as she lifted her champagne flute. You saw the way her eyes tracked every movement on the stage with a possessive, hungry focus. She was a ghost, but she was a ghost who refused to be buried.
Then the noise shifted. The frantic pop beats faded, replaced by a single, haunting piano chord. The crowd’s roar softened to a collective, reverent murmur. A spotlight bloomed at the center of the stage, and there he was.
He stood alone, dressed in simple black, his silhouette as slender and graceful as a shadow. The years had etched a deeper weariness into his posture, but the moment he lifted his head, the old magic flooded back. The spotlight loved him. It always had. He opened his mouth, and that voice—the voice that had once whispered desperate promises against your skin—flowed out, smooth and sorrowful, filling the vast hall.
The song was a ballad, a plea. It was supposed to be universal. But as he sang, his eyes, those wide, vulnerable eyes you knew so intimately, didn’t scan the anonymous crowd. They locked. They locked onto a specific point in the front row. They locked onto Lisa Marie.
A deliberate, lingering gaze. A slight, almost imperceptible nod as he sang the line, “I am here with you…”
“Though you far away” he points to Lisa in the crowd and you could tell she was annoyed. It also annoyed you how ungrateful she is. She’s getting this recognition and couldn’t care
It was a message. A private, public declaration. You felt it like a physical blow to your sternum. The air you’d been proudly breathing turned to ash in your lungs. The sequins on your dress felt like a clown’s costume. He was singing to her. In front of everyone. In front of you.
The performance was flawless, aching, beautiful. He moved with a liquid sadness, his gestures minimal but profound. The crowd was mesmerized. But you were frozen, a statue of cold fury. When the final note hung in the air and he bowed, his eyes flickered upward, searching the balconies. They found you. For a second, his expression shifted—a flash of panic, of recognition. Then the stage lights died, and he was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the swelling applause.
Lisa Marie stood up from her booth. She didn’t look toward the balcony. She turned, her back stiff, and walked out of the main hall without a glance behind her. She was leaving him. Again. Or was she letting him chase her?
You didn’t wait. You moved through the post-show chaos like a shark through glittering water, your target fixed. The backstage corridors were a maze of security, crew, and giddy celebrities. You used your name, your newfound stature, to cut through it all. You found his designated holding room—a small, quiet space away from the main dressing areas.
He was alone. Still in his performance clothes, sitting on a plain couch, his head bowed. He looked like a boy waiting for a punishment. The door clicked shut behind you.
The sound made him jump. He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. “You came,” he whispered.
“I saw,” you said. Your voice was calm, a flat plane of ice. “I saw your little tribute.”
He winced. “It wasn’t a tribute.”
“It was a callout. You looked right at her. You sang to her. In front of the world. In front of me.” You stepped closer. The scent of his stage sweat, of his particular cologne, filled the small room. It was a scent that used to make your knees weak. Now it just made your stomach tighten with nausea. “After two years. After everything. You’re still sending her signals.”
“No,” he said, standing up. He reached for you, but you stepped back, just as you had in Paris. “It wasn’t like that. Please. Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” The fury finally broke through the ice. “Explain why you’re still hooked on her? Explain why you’ve been ‘hooking up on the low’ with her while telling the press you’re separated? Explain why, tonight, you had to make sure she knew she’s not alone?”
He looked stricken. The guilt on his face was so profound it was almost theatrical. But this wasn’t a stage. “It’s not… it’s not a hook-up,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s… she needed me. She was in a bad place. A dark place. After Danny… her ex… he was abusive. She told me he… he hurt her. She was depressed. She said she had no one. She said she was going to… to do something to herself.”
He took a step toward you, his hands pleading. “I was scared for her. I felt responsible. I went to her. Just to talk. Just to… to be there. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t love. It was pity. It was guilt. I thought I was helping her.”
You stared at him. The raw confession hung in the air. It was a new flavor of lie, or maybe a new shade of truth. “So you lied to me again. By omission. You let me believe you were free, while you were still tied to her by this… this savior complex.”
“I didn’t lie!” he insisted, but the force was gone. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I knew you’d be hurt. I knew you’d walk away again. And I couldn’t… I can’t lose you again.” His eyes filled with tears. “Seeing you tonight, up there, glowing… you’ve become everything. Everything I ever dreamed of. And I’ve become nothing. A ghost haunting his own life.”
He sank back onto the couch, his energy spent. “The song… looking at her… it wasn’t for her. It was a goodbye. A final, public goodbye. I was telling her she’s not alone… so she could finally leave me. So I could finally leave her.”
The room was silent. You watched him. The man who had once moved with such predatory grace in a Parisian bed now looked broken, hollow. The performance had drained him, and this confession had emptied him further. Was it manipulation? Or was it the raw, unvarnished truth of a man who couldn’t navigate his own heart?
Your own heart, the one you’d fortified over two long years, thudded heavily. The anger began to dissolve, replaced by a weary, complicated sorrow. You had loved him. You had loved the frantic, desperate need in him. You had loved the way he looked at you as if you were the only real thing in a world of mirrors.
You walked to the couch. You didn’t sit. You stood before him. “You hurt me,” you said, simply. “You broke me.”
“I know,” he whispered, looking up at you. “And I’ll spend every day of my life trying to put you back together. If you let me.”
He reached out, slowly, tentatively. His fingers brushed the sequined fabric at your hip. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a current through you, a deep, somatic memory of his hands on your skin, in your hair, inside your body.
His touch grew firmer. His hand slid around your hip, palm pressing against the small of your back, drawing you closer. You allowed it. You stepped into the space between his knees, looking down at his face. His eyes were wide, desperate, full of a hope so fragile it could shatter with a breath.
“I have nothing to offer you but my truth,” he said, his voice a husky scrape. “And my need. My need for you is the only real thing left in me.”
His other hand rose, cupping your cheek. His thumb traced your jawline. The sensation was a key turning in a lock you’d thought was sealed forever. Your body remembered him. Your blood remembered him.
You leaned down. Your lips met his.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a reclaiming. A collision. His mouth opened under yours, and you tasted the salt of his tears, the faint sweetness of stage lip balm, the unique, addictive flavor of him. His hands came up, framing your face, holding you to him as if you were the only source of oxygen in the world.
The kiss deepened, turned hungry. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping the black fabric of his shirt. You could feel the muscle beneath, the familiar, slender strength. He moaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you off your feet, down onto the couch with him.
You fell into his lap, your legs straddling his hips. The sequined gown was a barrier, but the heat between you burned through it. He kissed you like a man starving, his lips moving from your mouth to your cheeks, to your eyelids, to your neck. Each kiss was a punctuation, a mark of ownership and surrender.
“I’ve missed you,” he breathed against your throat. “I’ve missed your smell. Your taste. The way you feel under my hands.”
His hands were on your back, sliding down to the curve of your ass, gripping you through the gown. He pulled you tighter against him, and you felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your inner thigh through his trousers. The contact sparked a low, throbbing ache in your own core. Two years of celibacy, of focused, solitary work, evaporated in the heat of his body against yours.
You pulled at his shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons. He helped you, his own hands shaking. The fabric parted, revealing the smooth, pale plane of his chest, the subtle definition of his abdomen. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his collarbone, then lower, to the center of his chest. You licked a bead of sweat from his skin. The taste was primal, familiar.
His hands went to your hair, pulling gently at the pins holding your elaborate style. They came loose, and your hair fell around your shoulders in a cascade. He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply. “Your hair,” he murmured. “Always like this. Always perfect.”
He was worshiping you. Piece by piece. And you were allowing it. The balcony, the performance, Lisa Marie’s exit—they faded into a distant noise. The only reality was this small room, his hands, his mouth, the urgent pressure of his need against you.
You slid your hands down his chest, over his flat stomach, to the waistband of his trousers. Your fingers dipped inside, finding the hard, hot length of him. You touched him through the cotton of his underwear, and he shuddered, a full-body convulsion.
“Please,” he gasped. His head fell back against the couch cushions. His eyes were closed, his face a portrait of exquisite torment. “Please touch me.”
You obliged. You pulled his trousers open, pushed his underwear down. His cock sprang free, slender but thick, already glistening at the tip. You took him in your hand, feeling the familiar weight, the silken skin, the pulse of his heartbeat within it. You stroked, from root to tip, a slow, deliberate rediscovery.
He cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound. His hips bucked, pushing himself deeper into your grip. “More,” he begged, the word echoing the one you’d uttered in Paris. But this was different. This was a plea for absolution, not just sensation.
You lowered your head. Your mouth found the tip of him, and you tasted the first salty bead of his precum. You licked it away, then took him deeper, sucking gently, then with more force. His hands clenched in your hair, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed an anchor.
You worked him with your mouth, your tongue circling the sensitive ridge beneath his head, your lips sealing tight around his shaft. His breath came in ragged, sobbing gusts. “God… god… you’re so good… you’re so…”
You could feel his control fraying. You released him with a soft pop, looking up. His face was flushed, his eyes wild. “Not here,” you said. Your voice was low, commanding. “Take me to your hotel.”
He nodded, a frantic, eager motion. He helped you up, his own clothes in disarray. He grabbed a nearby jacket, threw it over his shoulders to hide his unbuttoned shirt. He took your hand, his grip firm, possessive.
He led you out, past the oblivious crew, into a waiting limousine that idled at a private exit. The drive was short, silent, charged. You sat beside him, your hand still in his, your body already humming with anticipation.
His hotel suite was a mirrored, modern space overlooking the city. It was not the opulent, old-world luxury of Paris. It was colder, sleeker. But when he closed the door behind you and turned to you, the coldness evaporated.
He didn’t speak. He simply walked to you, took your face in his hands again, and kissed you with a renewed, desperate intensity. This kiss was a promise, a vow. His tongue delved deep into your mouth, claiming it. Your hands went to his jacket, pushing it off. Your own gown felt like a prison now.
He found the zipper at your side. He pulled it down, the sound a slow, metallic rasp. The sequined fabric loosened, and he pushed it from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a shimmering heap. You stood before him in only your heels and a pair of sheer, black lace panties.
His eyes devoured you. He looked at your body—the body you’d honed, the body that was stronger, more confident now—with a reverence that was almost painful. “You’re even more beautiful,” he whispered. “A goddess.”
He knelt before you. His hands went to your hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pulled them down, slowly, revealing you to him. When they were off, discarded, he stayed kneeling. He looked up at you, his face a study of adoration and hunger.
Then he leaned forward. His mouth found the inside of your thigh, kissing softly. His lips traveled upward, a slow, torturous pilgrimage. He nuzzled the juncture of your thigh and hip, his breath hot against your skin. You trembled, your hands finding his shoulders for support.
His mouth finally reached your core. He didn’t enter you immediately. He kissed you there, a soft, closed-mouth press against your damp, swollen flesh. You gasped, the sensation so intimate, so tender, it felt like a confession.
Then he opened his mouth. His tongue, that agile, clever tongue, found your entrance. He licked, a slow, flat stroke that gathered your wetness. He tasted you, humming softly, a sound of pure pleasure. “You taste like heaven,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin.
He began to work. His tongue became a dedicated instrument, tracing your folds, circling your clit, dipping shallowly inside you. He used his lips too, sucking gently at your sensitive flesh. He used his hands, one spreading you wider for him, the other gripping your hip to hold you steady.
The pleasure built quickly, a rising tide of heat and pressure. You arched against his mouth, your head falling back, your eyes closing. The world narrowed to this point of contact, to the wet, rhythmic friction of his tongue, to the soft, greedy sounds he made as he consumed you.
“Michael…” you moaned, his name a mantra on your lips.
He responded by deepening his efforts. His tongue pushed deeper inside you, fucking you with it in shallow, penetrating thrusts. His thumb found your clit again, applying a perfect, persistent pressure. The dual assault—the internal and external—was exactly what you remembered, exactly what you’d craved in your loneliest nights.
Your climax approached not as a wave, but as a sudden, sharp spike. It was a lightning strike of pure sensation, a white-hot bolt that locked your muscles and ripped a cry from your throat. You convulsed against his mouth, your hands clamping on his head, holding him to you as you rode the shocking, delicious peak.
He didn’t stop. He drank your release, his tongue continuing to move, gentler now, coaxing you through the aftershocks. When you finally sagged, boneless and panting, he rose. He stood before you, his own nakedness now fully revealed. His cock was hard, urgent, a testament to his own need.
He guided you to the large, low bed in the center of the room. You lay back on the cool sheets, and he climbed over you, his body covering yours. He kissed your mouth again, and you tasted yourself on his lips. It was a carnal, intimate flavor that sent a fresh thrill through you.
He positioned himself between your legs. He didn’t enter you immediately. He held himself above you, his tip just brushing your soaked entrance. He looked into your eyes. “This is it,” he said, his voice raw, earnest. “No lies. No ghosts. Just you. Just me. Just this.”
You nodded, your own voice gone. You reached up, touched his cheek. It was your consent, your forgiveness, your surrender.
The feeling was a homecoming. A deep, filling, perfect reunion. Your body opened for him, accepting him with a hungry, eager welcome. He went slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every millimeter of his penetration. When he was fully seated, when he was buried inside you to the root, he stopped. He shuddered, a full-body tremor of overwhelming emotion.
“I’m yours,” he whispered, his forehead touching yours. “I’m finally yours.”
His thrusts were different from the frantic, desperate rhythm of Paris. They were slower, deeper, more worshipful. Each withdrawal was a deliberate, aching pull, each return a profound, filling push. He was not trying to drown out guilt this time. He was trying to communicate devotion.
His hands framed your face again, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he moved inside you. His eyes stayed open, locked on yours. You could see everything in them—the relief, the love, the lingering shadows of pain, the bright, burning hope.
You moved with him. Your hips rose to meet each thrust, your body seeking the deepest possible connection. Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, the sweat-slicked planes of his chest. You touched him everywhere, relearning the map of his body.
The pace gradually intensified. The worship turned to hunger again. His thrusts became faster, harder. The bed began to creak beneath you. His breathing turned ragged, his moans louder, less controlled. He was chasing his own peak now, driven by the feel of you around him, by the sight of your face contorted in pleasure beneath him.
One of his hands slipped down, found your breast. He cupped it, his thumb brushing over your nipple. The touch sent a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to your core, amplifying the deep, rhythmic friction of his cock inside you.
You were climbing again. A second, deeper orgasm was gathering, building from the base of your spine. You felt it coiling, tightening, a promise of even greater release.
“Come with me,” he pleaded, his voice strained. “Please. Come with me. Let me feel you…”
You nodded, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You focused on the feeling—the perfect, thick slide of him, the pressure of his body against yours, the scent of sex and sweat and him filling the room.
He changed his angle slightly, tilting your hips upward. The new position sent him grinding against a spot deep inside you that made your eyes roll back. You cried out, a wordless, primal sound.
That sound triggered him. His own control snapped. His thrusts became frantic, a final, desperate race toward the finish. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you immobile as he pounded into you, his body a piston of pure need.
The climax hit you both at the same moment.
For you, it was a deep, internal eruption, a flood of pleasure that seemed to originate from your very center and pour outward, leaving your limbs trembling, your mind blank.
For him, it was a violent, vocal release. He shouted, a raw, unguarded cry of your name, as he drove into you one final, deep time and held himself there, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside you.
He collapsed onto you, his weight a welcome, crushing warmth. His face burrowed into your neck, his breath hot and rapid against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic drumbeat synced with your own.
You lay there, joined, sweating, spent. The world outside—the awards, the gossip, the ghosts—was gone. There was only this bed, this body, this moment of sweet, exhauste
The silence in the suite was thick, warm, and private. A shared, post-coital haze wrapped around you and Michael, insulating you from the city’s glittering sprawl beyond the windows. His weight was still a delicious, anchoring presence, his body molded to yours on the bed. The scent of sex—sweet, musky, intimate—filled the air, a perfume of your reconciliation. You traced a path with your fingertip along the ridge of his spine, feeling the fine tremors that still coursed through him.
His face was buried against your neck, his lips occasionally brushing your skin in soft, unconscious kisses. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured, the words vibrating against your throat. “I can’t believe I can touch you again.”
You smiled, a lazy, contented curve of your lips. The anger, the suspicion, the two-year wall of ice—it all felt like a distant dream, dissolved by the sweat and the shuddering union of your bodies. His confession, his public goodbye to Lisa, his raw need for you—it had woven a new truth. A fragile, hopeful one. You kissed his shoulder, tasting salt. “I believe you now,” you whispered.
He shifted, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes, still dark with spent passion, held a luminous sincerity. “It’s over with her. It’s finally over. That song… it was my last word. My last look.” He kissed your forehead. “Now it’s just us. For as long as you want.”
You wanted it. You wanted this weight, this warmth, this man who moved with a grace that belonged only to you in this quiet room. Your hand slid down, over the curve of his hip, to his thigh. Your touch was possessive, a reaffirmation. “I want you,” you said, and the words were a vow.
He responded instantly, a fresh heat stirring in his gaze. His own hand moved, slipping between your bodies, his fingers finding the slick, tender place where he’d just been. He touched you there, a gentle, exploratory circle. “You’re still so wet,” he breathed, a note of awe in his voice. “Still open for me.”
The touch reignited a low flame in your core. You arched slightly, inviting more. He obliged. His fingers pressed deeper, two slipping inside you with ease. You gasped, your inner muscles clenching around the intrusion, a reflexive, welcoming grip. “Yes,” you sighed, your head rolling back on the pillow.
He watched your face as he moved his fingers, a slow, rhythmic in-and-out that mimicked his earlier thrusts. “I love watching you,” he said, his voice husky. “I love seeing what I do to you.”
His words, his gaze, his touch—they were a feedback loop of arousal. Your breath shortened. Your hips began a subtle, rocking motion against his hand. You could feel your own wetness coating his fingers, a slick testament to your desire. He leaned down, kissing your breast, his mouth closing over your nipple. He sucked, gently at first, then with increasing pressure. The dual sensations—the deep, internal stroking and the sharp, localized pull on your nipple—sent pleasure sparking along your nerves.
You moaned, a low, throaty sound. Your hands went to his hair, gripping the soft curls. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded.
He didn’t. He intensified. His fingers curled inside you, pressing against a sensitive inner wall. His mouth worked your breast with a hungry, focused dedication. You felt another orgasm begin to gather, not the explosive peak from before, but a slower, deeper, rolling wave. It was building from the foundation he was so expertly stimulating.
Then, a sound cut through the haze.
Not from you. Not from him.
A sound from the world outside your bubble.
A knock. Sharp. Insistent. On the suite’s door.
Michael froze. His fingers stopped their movement. His mouth released your breast. He lifted his head, his eyes wide, suddenly alert. The intimate warmth in the room evaporated, replaced by a chill of intrusion.
“Ignore it,” you whispered, trying to pull him back down to you. You didn’t want this moment broken. You didn’t want the world intruding.
But the knock came again. Harder. More urgent. Then a voice, muffled but unmistakable through the thick door.
“Michael? Michael, it’s me. Open the door.”
The voice was smoky, Southern, threaded with a pain so intimate it seemed to pierce the wood and velvet. It was Lisa Marie.
Michael’s body went rigid against yours. The color drained from his face. The luminous sincerity in his eyes shattered into panic. “No,” he breathed, the word a prayer, a denial.
“Michael, please,” the voice came again, closer now, as if she was pressing her face to the door. “I know you’re here. I tracked you. I need to talk to you. It’s not over for me. It can’t be over.”
You stared at him. The rolling wave of pleasure inside you collapsed into a sickening drop. Your hand fell from his hair. “She tracked you?” you asked, your voice flat.
He looked at you, his expression a mask of desperate guilt. “I… I don’t know how…”
“She’s here,” you stated, the reality settling like a stone in your gut. “At your door. After your ‘final goodbye.’”
He scrambled off you, off the bed, moving with a frantic, graceless speed. He grabbed his trousers from the floor, pulling them on, his movements jerky. “I’ll… I’ll tell her to go. I’ll make her leave.”
You sat up, the sheets pooling around your waist. The cool air of the room hit your naked skin, a stark contrast to the heat that had been there moments before. You watched him button his trousers, his fingers fumbling. The sight of him—the man who had just been inside you, worshiping you, promising you a future—now panicking because his wife was at the door, felt like a physical betrayal.
“You said it was over,” you said, your voice quiet but sharp.
“It is!” he insisted, turning to you. His eyes pleaded. “She’s just… she’s confused. She heard the song and thought… I’ll make her understand. I’ll send her away. Just… just stay here. Don’t come out.”
He moved to the door, but he wasn’t fully dressed. He was shirtless, his chest bare, his hair disheveled from your hands. He looked like a man who had just been in bed. With someone.
The knocking became pounding. “MICHAEL! OPEN THE DOOR!”
He hesitated, his hand hovering near the lock. He looked back at you, a silent plea for you to hide, to disappear, to let him handle this.
But you didn’t move. You sat on the bed, naked, exposed, your body still humming with the echoes of his touch. You were not going to hide. You were not going to be his secret again.
He saw your resolve. His face crumpled. He turned, and with a trembling hand, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Lisa Marie stood in the hallway.
She was dressed in a simple black dress, her hair slightly tousled, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desperate hope. She looked past Michael, into the room. Her gaze landed on you.
On you, sitting naked on the bed, the sheets barely covering you, your skin still flushed from sex, your hair a wild cascade around your shoulders.
Her expression shifted. The hope evaporated, replaced by a cold, stunning realization. Then, a raw, wounded fury.
“You…” she breathed, her voice a low, venomous scrape. She looked at Michael, her eyes accusing. “You’re with her. Now. Here.”
Michael stood like a statue, blocking the doorway but not blocking her view. “Lisa… you shouldn’t have come.”
“I thought you were for me. You made a promise. A reconciliation. I tracked your car. I came here to… to talk. To finally talk.” She looked at you again, her gaze slicing across the room. “But you’re talking to her. You’re… you’re fucking her.”
The word, crude and brutal in her Southern accent, hung in the air.
“It’s over, Lisa,” Michael said, but his voice was weak, trembling. “This was all a goodbye. I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me anything!” she shouted, stepping forward, pushing against his half-block of the doorway. “You sang to me! And then you come here, to her, and you…” She couldn’t finish. Her eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of rage, not sorrow.
She looked at you, a direct, searing stare. “You,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You think you’ve won? You think you’ve finally gotten him? You’re just another distraction. Another bandage for his guilt. He’ll never leave me. Not really. He’ll always come back when I call. He’ll always feel responsible.”
Her words were arrows, each one striking a target you’d tried to forget. The savior complex. The guilt. The pity. They were the same reasons he’d given you in the backstage room. And now, here she was, proving them true.
Michael tried to shut the door. “Lisa, leave. Please.”
But she pushed harder. She was stronger than her slender frame suggested, fueled by a hurricane of emotion. She shoved past him, into the suite.
She stood there, in the middle of the room, staring at the bed, at you, at the discarded sequined gown on the floor, at Michael’s bare chest. The evidence of your intimacy was everywhere—in the air, on the sheets, on your bodies.
Her face went pale. She looked at Michael, her eyes searching his for some denial, some explanation. But he just stood there, shirtless, guilty, caught.
“I’m done,” she said, the words final, cold. “I’m finally done.” She turned, her back stiff, and walked out of the suite. She didn’t look back. She didn’ slam the door. She simply left, her footsteps fading down the hallway.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. It was a silence of wreckage.
Michael stood by the open door, staring into the empty hallway. His shoulders slumped. He looked broken.
You watched him. The pleasure in your body had turned to a cold, hollow ache. The warmth was gone. The hope was gone. Lisa Marie’s words echoed in the room: “He’ll always come back when I call.”
He turned to you. His eyes were shattered. “I… I didn’t know she’d come,” he stammered. “I thought… I thought she understood. I thought it was over.”
You stood up from the bed. The sheets fell away. You were naked, vulnerable, but you felt a strange, cold power. You walked to your gown, picked it up from the floor. The sequins were cold under your fingers. You didn’t put it on. You held it, a shield, a reminder of who you were outside of this room, outside of this man.
“She tracked you,” you said, your voice calm, deadly. “She knew where you were. She came because she believed your song was for her. Because you’ve never truly cut the cord.”
He rushed toward you, his hands reaching for you. “No, please. Don’t. Don’t let her ruin this. What we just had… it was real. It was the most real thing I’ve ever felt.”
He touched your arm. His fingers were warm, but the touch felt like a brand now. You stepped back, out of his reach.
“It was real for me,” you said. “But for you? What is real? Your guilt for her? Your need for me? Your public performances? Which one is the truth, Michael?”
He shook his head, tears spilling from his eyes. “You are the truth. You are.”
But the door was still open. The hallway was still empty, but her presence lingered like a poison in the air. She had seen you. She had seen everything. And she had walked away, not in defeat, but in a final, cold dismissal. She had left him, for good. But she had also left him with you, in a room stained by her witness.
He looked at the open door, then back at you. A desperate, wild idea seemed to flash in his eyes. A need to reclaim what had been shattered. A need to prove, physically, violently, that you were his truth.
He closed the door. He locked it. The click of the lock was definitive. He turned to you, his chest bare, his eyes burning with a new intensity—not love, not devotion, but a frantic, possessive hunger.
“She’s gone,” he said, his voice low, guttural. “She left. She’s gone for good. Now it’s just us. Just us.”
He walked toward you, each step a deliberate, predatory advance. The broken man was gone. Now he was something else—a man cornered, a man desperate to erase the intrusion with a new, deeper possession.
You held your gown, a barrier. “Michael, stop.”
He didn’t stop. He reached you, his hands gripping your shoulders, his fingers strong, insistent. “No,” he said. “No more stopping. No more talking. She saw us. She saw what we are. Now I need you to feel what we are. I need you to know.”
He pulled the gown from your hands, letting it fall again. He was naked again, his trousers the only barrier. He pushed you backward, toward the bed. His touch was not gentle now. It was forceful, demanding.
You stumbled back, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress. You fell onto it, the cool sheets under you. He followed, climbing over you again, but this time his movement was not worshipful. It was dominant, almost angry.
He pinned you with his body, his hands on your wrists, pressing them into the mattress. He looked down at you, his face a mask of raw need. “You’re mine,” he declared, the words a growl. “After tonight, after what she saw, you’re mine. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”
His mouth descended on yours, not a kiss but a claiming. His lips were hard, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, a deep, invasive plunge. You tasted his desperation, his fury, his fear. You tasted the ghost of Lisa Marie on his breath.
You didn’t fight him. A part of you, a dark, wounded part, wanted this. wanted to be claimed, to be marked, to be so thoroughly possessed that no ghost could ever haunt you again. Your body, still sensitive, still aching from before, responded to his aggression. A heat began to coil again in your core, a dangerous, defiant heat.
He released your wrists. His hands moved to your breasts, squeezing them, not with reverence but with a rough hunger. His thumbs brushed your nipples, then pinched them, a sharp, startling pain that melted into a sharp, startling pleasure. You gasped, arching under him.
“You like that,” he murmured, watching your face. “You like when I take you. When I don’t ask.”
He was right. The shift from tender worship to raw dominance was unlocking something in you—a rebellious, matching hunger. You reached up, grabbing his hair, pulling his head down to yours for another brutal kiss. You bit his lip, a small, sharp retaliation. He groaned, the sound pleased, encouraging.
His hand slid down your body, over your stomach, to the wetness between your legs. He didn’t tease. He didn’t explore. He pushed two fingers inside you immediately, deep and rough. You cried out, your inner muscles clamping around the sudden intrusion.
“Still so wet for me,” he said, a dark satisfaction in his voice. “Even after her. Even after all that.” He worked his fingers, a harsh, quick rhythm that mimicked no loving thrust. It was a punishment, a reclamation. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful, a bright, white-hot wire being pulled through your nerves.
He removed his fingers. He shifted his weight, kneeling between your legs. He looked at you, spread before him, your body open, vulnerable, still glistening with your own moisture and his. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated with a possessive fury.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Look at me while I take you.”
You obeyed. Your eyes locked with his. You saw the tormented icon, the guilty husband, the desperate lover—all fused into this single, driven man above you.
He didn’t use his hands to guide himself. He simply leaned forward, his body aligning, and pushed into you.
The entrance was swift, unceremonious, a deep, filling plunge that stole your breath. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t slow. He sank into you to the root in one continuous, powerful motion. The stretch was intense, a breathtaking fullness that bordered on discomfort before melting into a profound, deep pleasure.
He held there, buried inside you, his body trembling. “Mine,” he whispered again, the word a vow forged in the heat of your body.
His thrusts were not the worshipful, deep strokes of before. They were hard, fast, pounding. Each one drove him deep into you, each withdrawal a nearly complete exit before he slammed back in. The bed rocked beneath you, the frame protesting the violence of his rhythm. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you in place for his onslaught.
The sound was obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, his ragged breaths, your own sharp gasps. The air filled with the scent of aggressive sex, a muskier, sharper version of the earlier perfume.
You met his thrusts. You raised your hips, matching his pace, accepting the brutal rhythm. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, then his back, leaving faint marks on his skin. You were not a passive recipient. You were a partner in this furious reclamation.
“Harder,” you moaned, the word torn from you.
He obeyed. His thrusts became fiercer, deeper, each one aiming for the very core of you. His body was a machine of need, his muscles taut, his sweat beading on his skin and dripping onto yours. He looked down at where he joined with you, watching himself disappear into your body, watching your flesh accept him, envelop him.
“You see?” he gasped, his voice breaking. “You see how you take me? How you want me? Even now. Even after everything.”
You did see. You felt it. The pleasure was a storm now, building from the base of your spine, a tumultuous, chaotic wave that threatened to drown you. It was different from the earlier climax—less sweet, more savage, more desperate. It was a climax born of conflict, of possession, of a need to erase the ghost that had just walked through the door.
His pace became erratic, his control fraying. He was chasing his own peak, a release that would seal this act, that would mark you irrevocably. His breathing turned to grunts, his movements to short, frantic jabs.
You felt your own climax approaching, a sharp, impending explosion. You tightened around him, your inner muscles spasming in anticipation. “Michael… I’m…”
“Come,” he ordered, his voice a rough command. “Come for me. Now.”
It was the command that triggered it. The permission, the demand. The wave broke over you, a crashing, overwhelming surge of sensation that locked your body rigid. You cried out, a sound that was half pleasure, half pain, a release of all the tension—the betrayal, the confrontation, the intrusion.
Your climax triggered his. He shouted, a raw, broken sound that was more a sob than a cry of pleasure. He drove into you one final, devastating time, holding himself deep as he released. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, a final, physical claim.
He collapsed onto you, his weight heavier than before, his breath a ragged, exhausted wheeze against your neck. His body shuddered, then went still.
You lay there, joined by the most violent, possessive act you’d ever shared. The room was silent again, but the silence now was charged, heavy with the aftermath of fury.
His face was buried in your hair. He was crying. Silent, hot tears wet your skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words choked. “I’m sorry for… for that. For her. For everything.”
You didn’t speak. You just felt him. The weight. The warmth. The tremors. The tears.
The door was locked. Lisa Marie was gone, for good.
But she had left her mark. She had left her ghost in the way he’d taken you, in the desperation of his possession, in the tears now soaking your skin.
You were his. He was yours.
But what did that mean, in a room where a ghost had just stood and seen everything?
titsay
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
stormborns
