reader getting married to someone new and Michael is her ex husband/ baby daddy and stops the wedding or begs her back ughhhh
synopsis: two years ago, breaking up with michael jackson felt like the safe option. the mature option. now, the wedding is only forty eight hours away, michael shows up and your door to drop off your son. every piece of your perfect new life completely shatters beneath you.
themes: HIStory era! michael x non famous! fem reader, ex-boyfriend, baby daddy, heavy hidden feelings, you’re getting married, he’s begging for you, lots of desire, kiss, fingering, angsty michael.
note: i have been SOOO excited to write this!! i hope I’ve done it justice!!
People always assumed that because you and Michael Jackson had broken up, it must have ended in a spectacular, tabloid-worthy explosion. The public imagined screaming matches that shook the walls of Neverland, shattered glass, dramatic betrayals, or bitter ultimatums.
That was almost the cruelest part of it all. There was no villain to hate, no specific sin to forgive.
You had simply reached a quiet, devastating point where life became too heavy to carry.
His career was a beast, swallowing him whole, demanding every ounce of his energy and soul as he traveled from country to country, stadium to stadium. Meanwhile, you were drowning in the profound, isolated exhaustion of raising a newborn. The silence of empty hotel rooms morphed into the silence of a massive estate. Every goodbye at the tarmac hurt more than the last, chipping away at your foundation until, one rainy Tuesday night in a dimly lit kitchen, you’d both quietly agreed that maybe loving each other simply wasn't enough to survive the storm.
It had been the easy option. The safe option. The kind of mature, rational decision that made perfect sense on paper.
Because two years later, there still wasn’t a single day not a single fraction of a second that either of you had truly let each other go.
Co-parenting Prince had become second nature, a flawless, well-oiled routine. Michael was a fiercely devoted father he never missed his designated days unless a physical impossibility or a global tour dictated otherwise. You’d celebrate birthdays together under a shower of confetti, laugh genuinely over the ridiculous, mangled words your toddler said, and even spend Christmas mornings in the exact same room, unwrapping presents while pretending the phantom ache in your chest wasn't there.
Only the two of you knew how dangerous that performative peace really was.
There had been moments. Unguarded, terrifying moments. A lingering glance over the top of a storybook that lasted a beat too long. An accidental brush of hands while passing a baby bottle. Late-night conversations that stretched out into the early hours of the morning, long after Prince had fallen asleep in his crib and the rest of the world had gone quiet.
And then… there was two weeks ago.
Prince had been fast asleep upstairs at Neverland after a long movie marathon. You had been waiting by the grand front doors for your driver to arrive, your coat already pulled tightly around your shoulders, when Michael offered to walk you out to the porch.
The night air was crisp, smelling of jasmine and wet earth. You’d laughed about something incredibly trivial neither of you could even remember the punchline now and then the laughter had slowly died down, leaving a thick, charged silence in its wake.
He’d looked at you. Really looked at you, with those deep, searching eyes that seemed to read every hidden secret in your soul.
"You look beautiful tonight," he had murmured, his voice a low, raspy velvet that vibrated straight through you. "You always do, but tonight... you're glowing."
Your breath had caught sharply in your throat. "Mike, don't say that."
"Why not?" he whispered, taking a slow step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "It's the truth."
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers didn't pull away; instead, they lingered against the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with a reverence that made your knees weak.
"So…" he’d whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours.
"So…" you replied, your heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against your ribs. "I should... I should see if the car is here."
Neither of you moved. The world stopped spinning. Michael leaned down, resting his forehead against yours for barely a second. It was close enough that you could feel the exact cadence of his uneven breathing, close enough that the scent of his familiar cologne overwhelmed your senses. His lips had brushed against yours not a full kiss, but a ghost of a touch, a desperate, feather-light graze that tasted like everything you had lost. One more inch would have completely rewritten the past two years.
Instead, panic had flared in your chest. You’d stepped back, breaking the spell, pulling your coat tighter around your shivering frame.
"Goodnight, Mike," you had choked out, rushing toward the car without looking back.
He hadn’t tried to stop you. He had simply stood on the porch, a solitary figure under the warm golden glow of the lights, watching you drive away into the dark, leaving you to spend the next fortnight drowning in the phantom feeling of his lips against yours.
You promised yourself it had been nothing. A momentary lapse in judgment. A symptom of nostalgia. After all, you were getting married. You had a meticulously planned future. A beautiful new house, a successful, dependable fiancé who adored both you and Prince, and a life free of chaos. There was no room left for old feelings.
Two days before the wedding, the new house was finally beginning to feel like a home, though it was still trapped in a state of transition. Cardboard boxes sat unopened in the corners of the living room, glittering wedding gifts filled the dining room table, and your own exhaustion was starting to weigh heavily on you despite your best efforts to tidy up before your fiancé got home from his business trip.
The clock on the wall read just after eight when the sweeping flash of headlights washed across your living room windows.
The quiet hum of an engine died out in the driveway, followed by the sound of a car door firmly shutting. A moment later, there was a gentle, rhythmic knock at the front door.
You smiled despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders dropping for a brief second as you walked down the hallway. You pulled open the heavy front door, and Michael stood there on the porch, holding a sleepy Prince securely in his arms. He was finally dropping him off after their day out at the zoo.
Prince mumbled sleepily, burying his small face into the crook of Michael's neck and tightening his little arms around his dad's shoulders.
Michael looked up from Prince, his gaze meeting yours. The easy, playful smile on his face softened into something quieter, something entirely intimate.
"Hey," you replied softly.
"I wore him out," Michael said, shifting Prince’s weight to his hip.
Prince’s little curls were a wild, static mess, a telling smudge of chocolate ice cream stained the collar of his shirt, and his eyelids were visibly heavy, fluttering as he fought a losing battle against sleep.
"We went to the zoo," Michael explained, a faint chuckle in his voice. "He insisted on seeing every single animal twice."
"I know. I heard all about the lions over the phone earlier."
"They were THIS big, Mommy..." Prince mumbled suddenly, waking up just enough to weakly stretch his tiny arms out a few inches before dropping them back around Michael's neck.
Michael laughed, rocking him. "They definitely weren’t that big, Prince. You're exaggerating."
You couldn’t help the genuine smile that tugged at your lips. "Thank you for bringing him back, Mike. And thank you for taking him. I really needed the afternoon to clear out some of these boxes."
"My pleasure. Always," he said.
An abrupt silence settled between you. It wasn't awkward; it was comfortable, heavy with history, and desperately, dangerously familiar. You looked at him standing in your new foyer the foyer of the house you were about to share with another man and a sudden pang of hospitality, or perhaps pure self-destruction, took over.
"You… uh…" you glanced at your watch, clearing your throat. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"
Michael hesitated, his eyes darting to the unpacked boxes, then back to your face. "No. I was planning on grabbing something back at the hotel."
"You should probably…" You knew better. Every logical instinct in your brain was screaming at you to stop, to wish him a good night, to close the door and lock it tight. Your heart completely ignored the warning. "…come in. I was just about to order something."
Michael’s eyebrows lifted in slight surprise.
"You sure? I don't want to intrude."
"It’d be rude not to feed the father of my child after he spent the day chasing a toddler around a zoo," you rationalized, stepping aside to let him through.
A tiny, knowing smile appeared on his lips. "If you’re sure."
An hour later, empty cardboard takeaway boxes covered the sleek marble of your new kitchen island. Chinese food. It was Michael’s absolute favorite. Neither of you had mentioned the glaring fact that you’d ordered his exact usual, steamed white rice, vegetable spring rolls, and garlic broccoli, without even asking him what he wanted. Some habits were too deeply ingrained to ever truly erase.
"So…" you smiled, swirling the remaining wine in your glass.
"So…" Michael echoed, leaning his elbows on the counter, looking relaxed in a way he rarely was in public.
"Prince is getting so big," you murmured softly, looking toward the hallway. "He's starting to ask questions about everything. He wants to know how the world works."
"He's smart," Michael said proudly, a soft look in his eyes. "Just like his mom. He has your curiosity."
"And your stubbornness," you retorted with a smirk.
"Hey, that's a good trait to have," he defended with a completely straight face, pointing a chopstick at you. "Helps him stand his ground. I’m not crushing his spirit."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You are unbelievable."
"I’ve been told," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense warmth.
The conversation flowed with an embarrassing, terrifying ease. You talked about Prince's upcoming preschool, old memories from the Bad tour, favorite movies you'd both seen recently, and new music. It was seamless. It was everything except the one colossal, suffocating topic hanging over both of your heads.
The wedding. In forty-eight hours.
Suddenly, Prince’s little head dropped heavily against your arm where he sat next to you, his eyes completely shut, a soft little snore escaping him. He was completely spent.
"Looks like the zoo finally won," Michael whispered, a tender smile on his face.
"I've got to put him to bed," you said softly.
"He's practically a zombie."
You carefully scooped Prince into your arms, his small body warm and heavy against your chest. "I'll be right back."
"Take your time," Michael murmured, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.
You carried Prince upstairs to his new bedroom, the one with the freshly painted walls and the star-shaped nightlight. You gently pulled off his shoes, changed him into his favorite pajamas, and tucked the soft duvet up to his chin. He mumbled something incoherent, turning onto his side, completely asleep. You stood over his bed for a long moment, brushing his curls away from his forehead, your heart aching with a profound, terrifying confusion. When you finally closed his door and walked back down the stairs, you felt entirely exposed.
You walked back into the kitchen, your motions slow and deliberate. Michael didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood there, looking around the pristine, modern kitchen. His eyes tracked the takeaway boxes, the two half-empty wine glasses, and finally, they landed on you. A soft, bittersweet laugh escaped his lips, a sound tinged with a heavy sadness.
"What?" you asked, leaning forward slightly against the island.
He shook his head, looking down at his shoes before looking back up. "This…"
He walked over, resting his hands on the high back of the barstool opposite you. "This is the old days."
You frowned, your chest tightening. "What do you mean?"
"Us," he said, his voice dropping into a nostalgic, velvety whisper. "You putting him to bed, walking back downstairs to the kitchen where it's quiet, and finding me exactly where you left me. It feels exactly like the old days. Like we never left that kitchen in Neverland."
You swallowed hard, the wine suddenly tasting bitter on your tongue. "He was only little then, Mike. It was a different time. We're different people now."
"Are we?" Michael asked softly, taking a step around the kitchen island. "Because when I look at you, I don't feel different. I used to love walking back downstairs, or waiting for you to come down, just to have this peace with you. Just us."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The air in the kitchen grew thick, charged with an undeniable, electric tension. Michael walked slowly, his footsteps completely silent until he stopped right beside your stool.
Then, without another word, his long, slender fingers gently slid across the marble and found yours.
Your entire body stiffened. His hand was warm, larger than yours, comforting, and far too familiar. It felt like a homecoming you weren't allowed to have, a beautiful ghost pulling you backward into the dark.
"Mike…" you warned, your voice trembling as you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough not to hurt, but to beg you to stay.
"I loved you so much when I first met you," he whispered, his eyes wide and glossy under the kitchen lights.
You closed your eyes, shaking your head. "Michael, please don't do this. Don't say these things now."
"But then you became a mother," he continued, completely ignoring your plea. His thumb began to gently brush back and forth across your knuckles, a sensation that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "And somehow… I didn't think it was possible, but… I loved you even more." His voice cracked, a raw, fragile sound. "I didn't think my heart could hold that much."
Tears instantly burned behind your eyelids, hot and threatening to spill over. "Mike, stop. Please, I'm begging you."
"I watched you become everything I’d ever hoped the woman I loved would be," he said, looking down at you with a heartbreaking, unshielded honesty that stripped away every defense you had spent two years building. "You gave me Prince. You gave me a real family. Not a headline, not a crowd. A family. Do you know what that meant to me? What it still means?"
The room was dead silent, save for the uneven, ragged sound of your own breathing.
Then, he leaned down slightly, his lips inches from your ear, and whispered the words that destroyed everything: "I still love you now."
Your heart stopped dead in your chest.
"No, Michael, you don't," you cried, finally ripping your hand away from his touch as though it physically burned you.
"I’ve tried not to," he confessed, a tear finally escaping his eye and tracking down his cheek. "God knows I've tried. I've stayed away, I've buried myself in the studio, I've tried to force myself to see you as just my co-parent. But it doesn't work. It never works."
"You can’t say this to me," you choked out, standing up so quickly that your barstool scraped harshly across the hardwood floor.
"You can't do this to me right now."
"You can't look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel it too," he urged, standing his ground, his eyes burning into yours. "Look at me and tell me you don't ache for me the way I ache for you."
"I am getting married!" you yelled, your voice cracking under the sheer weight of your panic.
"In two days, Michael! Two days!"
"You shouldn’t even be in this house right now! You shouldn't be saying these things to me!"
"I know!" he yelled back, his own voice breaking as he took a step toward you. "I know all of it! I know it's wrong, I know the timing is terrible, but I can't keep pretending anymore! I can't let you walk down that aisle without knowing that my heart is still lying at your feet!"
"No," you sobbed, shaking your head violently, covering your mouth as the tears finally spilled over. "No, no, no. I promised myself."
Michael’s expression fell, looking completely shattered. "What did you promise yourself?"
"I promised myself that whatever happened between us two weeks ago on that porch… whatever that almost-kiss was… I was done looking backwards. I was moving forward. I have a life planned, Michael! A safe life!"
"I wasn't done," he said softly, a desperate plea in his eyes. "I never stopped looking back. I've been looking back every single second of every single day, drowning in the memory of you."
"Don't do this," you begged, pressing your hands against your temples. "Please, don't do this to me."
"Why are you marrying him?" Michael asked suddenly, the question cutting through the air like a knife.
"So do I!" Michael shouted, taking another step forward, his hands gesturing between the two of you. "I love you more than my own breath! I love you until it physically pains me to breathe!"
"He’s here, Michael!" you screamed back, your chest heaving. "He is actually here! When life gets complicated, when things get loud, he doesn't fly to another continent! He stays! He's consistent!"
"But you’re looking at me," Michael whispered, his voice suddenly dropping into a fragile, devastating octave. "Even when he's here, you're looking at me. Your body is reaching for mine right now, I can feel it."
"You are. You've been doing it all night." His eyes searched your face, tracing the tears on your cheeks. "He gives you stability. I know he does. He gives Prince security. He’s safe. But let me ask you something… Does he make you laugh until you cry?"
You bit your lip, fresh tears rolling down your face, unable to answer.
"Does he know how you take your coffee without you having to ask?" Michael pressed, his voice thick with emotion. "Does he know that you sing under your breath when you’re cooking, completely unaware that you're doing it?"
"Stop it, Michael," you sobbed, turning your head away.
"Does he know you still sleep with one foot outside the duvet because you get too warm in the middle of the night?"
"Does he know the exact face you make when you're trying desperately not to laugh at something inappropriate? Does he know the sound of your real laugh? The one you only give when you're completely happy?" Michael’s voice was breaking completely now, a ragged, breathless sound.
You covered your face with both hands, your shoulders trembling violently as the brutal accuracy of his words tore through your armor. He knew you. He knew every microscopic, trivial detail of your existence because he had loved you with an intensity that another man could only dream of mimicking.
He stepped into your space, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face so you were forced to look at him.
"So why him?" he whispered, his eyes completely bloodshot, glittering with unshed tears. "So why not me?"
Your breath hitched, a broken sob tearing from your throat. "Because you broke my heart!"
Michael flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The tears finally cascaded down his face, his lips trembling. "I broke my own too," he admitted, his voice barely a whimper. "I broke my own heart every single day I spent away from you. Every hotel room, every stage, every crowded stadium... I was entirely alone because you weren't there."
Neither of you moved. The house was completely silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your shared, fractured breathing. The yearning between you was a living thing, stretching tight, pulling you toward him like gravity.
Michael’s grip on your hands softened, becoming entirely desperate, his fingers intertwining with yours as if he were drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. "I know I chose the easy option back then. I know I let you walk away because I was terrified of destroying you with the madness of my life. I know I spent two years pretending co-parenting was enough, telling myself that if you were happy, I’d survive it."
He shook his head, a look of pure, unadulterated terror crossing his features. "But I was wrong. I won’t survive watching you marry someone else. I won't survive seeing another man hold my son and love my woman. It’s an agony I can’t bear."
Your heart shattered into a million unfixable pieces. You wanted to pull away, but your hands gripped his jacket instead, your fingers bunching the fabric, pulling him closer even as your lips formed a protest.
"I’ll smile for Prince," Michael whispered, his chin trembling. "I’ll shake his hand at the altar. I’ll tell the press, I’ll tell everyone who asks that I’m happy for you. I’ll play the perfect, supportive ex-boyfriend." His voice broke entirely, a sob escaping him. "But it’ll kill me. It will absolutely kill me. I'll be a ghost walking through life."
He took one final step forward, closing the remaining distance between your bodies. His forehead came to rest against yours once more, mirroring the night on the porch, but this time, he wasn't pulling back. He was trembling, his chest heaving against yours, the desperate, unyielding hunger of two years of separation crashing over both of you.
"So don’t," he begged, his warm breath mingling with yours, his lips brushing yours with every word. "Don’t marry him."
"Michael…" you breathed, your eyes closing as the sheer force of your own longing threatened to consume you. "It's too late. The invitations, the house, the future..."
"It's never too late," he cried, his hands moving up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "Please. Look at me. Just look at me."
You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, completely undone by the raw devotion shining through his tears.
"Choose me," he pleaded, his voice a broken, desperate whisper. "Let me spend the rest of my life making up for choosing fear instead of us. I don’t care if we have to start completely over from scratch. I don’t care if we have to earn each other’s trust all over again, piece by piece. I don’t care if it’s difficult, or if the media goes crazy, or if the world screams. I don't care about any of it anymore. I just need you. I'm empty without you."
He squeezed your face gently, his lips lingering just a millimeter away from yours, the torment of the space between you almost impossible to endure.
"Just… please," he whispered against your lips, a final, ragged breath of a man pouring his entire soul into your hands. "Please don’t marry him. Come back to me. Come home."
Michael’s hands slowly dropped from your face, the absence of his touch instantly leaving you cold. He stepped back, his chest still heaving, looking at you with a gaze that was entirely raw, stripped of the global superstar facade. He looked entirely like the man who loved you in the quiet hours of the night, before the rest of the world got a say.
Turning away, he began to walk slowly toward the dining room doorway, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood. He stopped at the threshold, gripping the frame, his back to you for a moment before he turned his head.
"You still have time to decide," he said, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly whisper that cut right through the quiet kitchen. "You have forty-eight hours. The choice has always been yours."
He didn't wait for your answer. He walked out of the kitchen, his silhouette moving through the dimly lit dining room and toward the front entrance door.
For a single second, the silence of the house rushed back in the heavy, suffocating reality of the unopened boxes, the wedding gifts, and the safe, predictable life waiting for you in two days. It was the ultimate battle of logic against instinct.
But your head didn't stand a chance. Your heart completely took over, shattering every promise, every rational thought, and every ounce of fear you’d been hoarding for two years.
Your bare feet slapped against the floor as you bolted from the kitchen, tearing through the dining room just as Michael’s hand wrapped around the brass knob of the front door.
"Michael!" you gasped out.
He stopped, freezing in place before slowly turning around. His dark eyes widened slightly as he saw you standing there, breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
You took a step closer, your voice trembling but entirely resolute. "How bad do you want me?"
Michael’s breath hitched. A dark, intense fire suddenly ignited in his eyes, the tragic sadness from moments before burning away into pure, unadulterated hunger. He let go of the doorknob, stepping away from the exit.
"So bad," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a deep, dangerous intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "So bad it feels like a sickness."
"How bad do you need me?" you pressed, taking another step, the space between you completely dissolving.
"More than you will ever know," he whispered fiercely, his eyes tracking the frantic movement of your lips. "More than my own soul."
"What can you offer me, Michael?" your voice cracked, desperate and pleading, needing to hear it one last time. "If I throw everything away... what do you give me?"
"Life," he said instantly, closing the final distance between you until he was looming over you, his heat enveloping you completely. "Life. Love. A non-broken family. Prince getting to be with his mom and dad all the time, under one roof. Me and you. Everything we were meant to be before I let the world tear us apart. Just trust me."
That was it. The final thread snapped.
With a low, possessive growl that was entirely uncharacteristic of his gentle demeanor, Michael lunged forward. His hands gripped your waist, and in one swift, powerful motion, he spun you around and slammed your back against the heavy wood of the front door. The impact jolted through you, but any shock vanished the instant his lips crashed onto yours.
The kiss was explosive a violent, desperate release of two years of unendurable yearning, stolen glances, and suppressed agony. He didn't kiss you like a ghost anymore; he kissed you like a man claiming what belonged to him. His mouth parted yours hungrily, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, bruising rhythm that made your head spin.
You let out a broken gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to wrap firmly into his jacket, pulling him closer, crushing your chest against his. You wanted to dissolve into him.
"Ah, God," Michael groaned into your mouth, his lips moving down to trace a path of searing kisses along your jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. "You're mine. Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," you cried out, arching your back off the door as his lips found the sweet spot at the base of your throat. "Always yours, Mike."
His hands became frantic, sliding down your hips, gripping your thighs through your clothes before his fingers fiercely hooked into the waistband of your pants. He didn't hesitate. His long, warm fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding smoothly past your underwear to find the bare, burning skin of your hip.
You whimpered, a sharp spike of heat pooling between your legs as his touch slid lower. Michael’s breathing was completely ragged against your ear, his chest heaving aggressively against yours as his fingers slipped directly into your wetness.
"Michael—" you choked out, your fingers tightening in his hair, your head snapping back against the door.
"I've got you," he whispered darkly, his fingers finding your slick heat and immediately moving in a slow, torturous stroke. He knew exactly how you felt, exactly how to touch you, his muscle memory guiding him perfectly. He slid one finger, then two, deep inside you, stretching you out as his thumb found your swollen center, pressing down with a firm, deliberate friction.
A loud, uninhibited moan escaped your lips, completely muffled as Michael brought his mouth back down to yours, drinking the sound straight from your throat. He began to pace his fingers inside you, pushing deep and pulling back, matching the desperate, frantic rhythm of his tongue. Your hips buckled against his hand, completely helpless under the sheer, blinding pleasure of his touch. He was driving you over the edge within seconds, the intensity of the reunion too overwhelming for your body to handle.
"Look at me," Michael breathed, pulling his lips back just an inch, his fingers continuing their wicked, relentless rhythm inside you, driving you to the absolute brink of sanity.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, your vision blurred with tears of pleasure, meeting his dark, blown-out pupils.
"You're not marrying him," he ordered, his voice raw, dropping into a terrifyingly beautiful, low pitch.
You let out a broken, trembling gasp, your body shaking against the door, completely at his mercy. "Michael... the wedding..."
"No," he cut you off, his grip on your waist tightening until it borders on bruising. "The decision is made for you."
He growled the words against your skin, a sound so fiercely possessive it made your heart stop, before he crashed his mouth back onto yours. The kiss wasn't just a reconciliation; it was an absolute takeover. It was a declaration of ownership, a promise that he would tear down the entire world before he ever let you walk away from him again. He drank your cries, his tongue deep and demanding, claiming every part of you as his fingers delivered the final, hard strokes that sent you crashing over the edge.
The climax ripped through you like wildfire, a breathless, sobbing cry torn from your throat as your walls clamped tightly around his hand. Michael held you up, pinning you flat against the door, absorbing the violent tremors of your release while his own ragged breath burned against your neck.
Slowly, the blinding waves began to recede, leaving you completely spent, clinging to his broad shoulders for support, your chest heaving in sync with his. Michael gently withdrew his hand from your pants, but he didn't give you an inch of space. He kept his heavy, solid frame pressed firmly against yours, trapping you in his warmth.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a dark, velvety whisper that promised everything and left you entirely undone.
"Go upstairs. Pack one bag for you and Prince. Just one." He kissed the sensitive spot right beneath your jaw, making you whimper all over again. "I'm calling the car. Tonight, you're coming home."
