synopsis: you knew the rules. you knew the age gap. you knew that you had to maintain a professional boundary. but what happens when michael starts looking at you differently on a business trip? you were just his PA..until the bedroom door shuts.
themes: mature era! michael x non famous! fem reader, age gap relationship, you’re his PA, keeping it professional, michael teases you, midnight phone calls, kiss, oral, p in v sex, michael claiming you, he calls you baby girl, hotel room sex.
You thought you understood Michael Jackson.
Not the headlines that everyone saw each day. You understood the quiet gravity of the man who walked into a room and, without uttering a single word, shifted the entire atmosphere.
When you first became his personal assistant, you were confident. At twenty six, you had a sharp mind, a resilient work ethic, and a healthy dose of youthful fearlessness. You knew the music industry’s chaotic underbelly. You knew schedules, logistics, and how to out-maneuver demanding executives. You knew how to organize chaos, and you did it with a calm, unblinking efficiency that made people twice your age look amateur.
Michael, who was forty-five and deeply weary of people who froze or fawned in his presence, had respected that immediately. He trusted you. For months, your interactions were a finely tuned and professional. You handled his arrangements, double-checked every itinerary detail with him, and ensured his sanctuary remained uninvaded. You were a shield and a shadow.
"You’re very good at what you do," he had told you once, his voice a low, gravelly cadence quite different from the soft pitch he used for the public. He had been looking over a travel manifesto you’d spent all night correcting. You remembered it vividly because Michael didn't give compliments casually. When he praised your work, his dark eyes held yours with an intensity that made you realise he saw everything.
But somewhere along the way, the air between you began to change.
The trip to Los Angeles in the spring of 2004 was supposed to be standard. It was a grueling blur of album meetings, legal discussions, and long days spent in sterile corporate conference rooms. Michael was facing immense pressure, and your job was to be the anchor. Yet, the dynamic was slipping out of its neat, professional box.
That particular Thursday had been exhausting, but surprisingly light. Michael had been relaxed, laughing with a genuine, booming warmth that rarely made it into the press. Throughout the meetings, he kept turning to you, asking your opinion on production timelines and creative concepts instead of simply handing down instructions.
As you finally left the Sony building late that afternoon, the routine broke. Usually, you walked two steps behind him. It was easier. It was your role to watch his back and keep the pace. But as you moved down the quiet, wood-paneled corridor toward the private exit, Michael intentionally slowed his long strides. He lingered until you were walking perfectly side by side.
"Go ahead," he murmured, halting just before a heavy glass doorway.
You stopped, momentarily confused, looking from the door to his face. "Michael?"
"After you," he said, a faint, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You're letting me go first?" you asked, a little laugh escaping you. "I'm pretty sure my job description says I clear the way for you."
"Why wouldn't I let you go first?" His voice was incredibly gentle, devoid of the superstar persona. "A beautiful woman should always lead the way."
As you stepped through the doorway, his hand lifted. His palm rested lightly, securely, against the small of your back. It was a fleeting gesture, meant to guide you forward, but the warmth of his hand burned through the fabric of your blazer. It wasn't just a polite, old-school chivalrous gesture. It felt like an electric current snapping straight through your skin, leaving a trailing path of heat that made your breath hitch. And the strangest, most terrifying part was the look in his eyes when you glanced back. He knew exactly how much that brief touch had disrupted your equilibrium. He liked it.
That evening, the hotel lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel was quiet, save for the soft murmur of a jazz pianist. You were tucked into a plush velvet armchair, a laptop balanced on your knees, sorting through a deluge of emails. A shadow fell over your screen. You smelled his cologne first something rich, subtle, and distinctly masculine before he actually sat on the arm of the opposite chair. He had changed out of his formal jacket into a loose-fitting black shirt, his curls damp and framing his face.
You blinked, pulling your eyes away from the screen. "Michael, I'm just finalizing the schedule for tomorrow's security brief, and the lawyers sent over—"
"Dinner," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, cutting through your frantic checklist. He smiled, a slow, mesmerizing expression. "Not a meeting. Just dinner. Forget the lawyers for two hours."
You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Is this business?"
"At first," he admitted, his eyes dancing with a hint of mischief.
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "At first?"
He laughed quietly, a sound that felt incredibly intimate in the dimly lit lobby.
"Okay, no. I want to get to know you."
That caught you completely off guard. You closed the laptop slightly. "Michael, you've known me for months. You hire me, you pay me, we talk every day."
"I know your work," he corrected softly, leaning a fraction closer, his eyes locking onto yours. "I know you can organize my entire life without breaking a sweat. I know you remember every little detail I forget, and I know you aren't afraid of the sharks in those boardrooms. But I don't know you. I don't know what makes you laugh when you aren't being the perfect assistant. I want to see the real you."
The restaurant he chose was a secluded, dimly lit spot hidden away in the hills, entirely booked out for privacy. Sitting across from him at a small, candlelit table, the nineteen year age gap and the staggering weight of his global fame seemed to evaporate into the shadows. He wasn't the King of Pop here. He was just a man.
"What was your childhood like?" he asked, resting his chin on his hand, watching you intently over the rim of his glass.
You smiled, swirling the wine in your glass. "Normal. Boring, honestly. Growing up in a quiet suburb, riding bikes until the streetlights came on, fighting with my siblings over the TV remote."
He tilted his head, a look of genuine fascination in his eyes. "Normal is interesting to me. It sounds beautiful. I would have given anything for a day of that. Just to run around outside without a care in the world."
You laughed, the tension finally leaving your shoulders. "You're probably the first person in the world who has ever called a boring suburban childhood 'interesting.'"
"I mean it," he said softly, his expression turning reflective. "I like hearing about people's stories. Real stories. Tell me why you chose this industry, of all places. It can be a very cold world."
You shrugged, looking down at the table before meeting his gaze. "Because music is one of the only things that connects everyone. It doesn't matter where you're from, what language you speak, or how much mess is going on in your life. You can be from completely different worlds, but you can hear the same song, feel the exact same emotion, and suddenly you don't feel so alone. It's a universal language."
Michael's smile was breathtakingly soft. He reached across the small table, his long, slender fingers lightly brushing against the back of your hand. It was just a graze, but a sharp, undeniable spark flared where your skin met. Your fingers twitched under his touch. "That is exactly why I love it. Exactly," he whispered, his eyes dark and intent. "You feel it too. You look at it the same way I do. You have a beautiful heart, you know that?"
"I think I'm just pragmatic, Michael," you murmured, your pulse quickening as his fingers slid just a little further along your skin.
"No, it's more than that," he said, his voice dropping lower, holding your gaze captive. "It's rare to find someone who actually understands the soul of it. I knew from the moment I hired you that there was something special about you. I just didn't realize how captivating it would be to sit across from you like this."
The conversation stretched for hours, bleeding into the late-night air. It was easy. Too easy. It felt dangerously comfortable, like slipping into a reality where you weren't his employee.
When you finally returned to the hotel, the spell broke. A phalanx of security met Michael at the elevator to escort him to his penthouse suite, while you walked in the opposite direction toward the standard staff rooms. Before turning the corner, you risked a glance back. He was already looking at you over his shoulder, ignoring a question his head of security was asking him. You quickly looked away, your heart hammering against your ribs.
In your room, after a long shower, you walked to the window and aggressively pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the glittering, fake neon skyline of Los Angeles. You sat on the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands.
"What the fuck is my life?" you whispered to the empty room.
This was a disaster in the making. You were twenty six. He was Michael Jackson. He was your boss, a man carrying the weight of the world, and your entire livelihood depended on maintaining a flawless professional boundary. Your job was to organize his life, not weave yourself into the fabric of it.
You had barely drifted into a restless sleep when the sharp, shrill ring of the hotel bedside phone shattered the silence. You blinked at the glowing clock. 1:00 AM. There was only one person who bypassed the hotel switchboard directly to your room at this hour. You picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Did I wake you?" His voice was a low, intimate murmur, accompanied by the faint sound of classical music playing in his background.
You sat up, pulling the sheets to your chest. "No... No, I was just resting. Michael, are you okay? Is something wrong?"
A long pause stretched over the line. "I can't sleep," he admitted quietly. He sounded incredibly vulnerable, a stark contrast to the composed man from the afternoon. "My mind won't quiet down."
Your heart softened, the professional walls crumbling just a bit. "Do you need anything? I can call room service, or I can personally ask the kitchen to bring you a hot drink? Camomile tea?"
Another silence, thick and heavy with unsaid words. "That... that would be nice. Thank you."
"Of course. Try to rest, Michael."
You hung up, arranged the delivery, and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, pretending your chest didn't ache with a strange, terrifying warmth.
The next morning, the corporate mask was back on. It was a brutal day of legal briefs and scheduling conflicts. You were professional, cool, and detached. Except when Michael caught you alone by the coffee station.
"Thank you for last night," he said, stepping into your personal space, his voice kept low so the passing executives wouldn't hear. "For the tea. You didn't have to do that."
"It's my job, Michael," you said, keeping your eyes on your clipboard.
"I know," he murmured. He reached for a sugar packet, and as he did, his palm slid slowly along the inside of your wrist. It was deliberate, smooth, and full of intention. The contact sent a sharp shockwave of heat straight up your spine, making your breath stutter. His eyes caught yours, tracking the sudden flush on your neck. "But you did it anyway. I appreciate it more than you know."
Throughout the day, the subtlety vanished. He stood closer to you during presentations.
When he handed you folders, his fingers lingered against yours for a second too long, each touch carrying a heavy, magnetic pull that left you dizzy.
By Friday night, you were utterly spent. When the production crew invited you out for drinks, you politely declined, desperate to escape the tension. You ordered room service, took a bath, and turned off the lights early.
A helpless smile tugged at your lips as you reached for the receiver. "Michael?"
A soft, melodic laugh came through the line, laced with a playful warmth. "You knew it was me."
"You're calling at the exact same time every night," you pointed out, leaning back against the pillows. "It's becoming a pattern."
"I suppose I am a creature of habit," he murmured, his voice dropping into a teasing purr. "Or maybe I'm just incredibly predictable when I want something."
Your stomach did a violent flip at the implication. You gripped the phone tighter. "And what is it you want, Michael?"
"I told you. I just wanted to talk to you."
There was a long pause, the silence between you thick with a heavy, sweet tension. Then, he spoke with a raw honesty that took your breath away. "During the day, everyone needs something from me. They need decisions, they need answers, they need a performance. They look at me and they see an asset, or a legend, or a target." His voice lowered to a whisper, sending a shiver over your skin. "But when I talk to you... I don't feel like I have to be Michael Jackson."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight, the air in your room suddenly feeling very warm. "Who do you feel like?"
"Just Michael," he said softly, a smile evident in his voice. "And honestly? I think 'just Michael' is completely infatuated with his assistant. What do you think about that? Am I crossing a line?"
"Michael, you shouldn't say things like that to me," you breathed, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts.
"Why not?" he countered, his voice dripping with a smooth, relentless charm. "Because it's true? Because every time you look at me with those sharp, beautiful eyes of yours, I forget what I'm supposed to be doing? You have this effect on me, and I don't think you're as indifferent as you pretend to be."
Your heart beat so hard you were certain he could hear it through the line. "I think... I think you should try to get some sleep, Michael."
"Coward," he teased gently, a low chuckle vibrating down the wire. "Fine. But I'll see you tomorrow. And don't wear your hair up. I like it down."
The next day, the tension reached a boiling point. During a break between legal strategy sessions, you were organizing documents at the back of the empty conference room. You heard the door click closed, but before you could turn around, a shadow loomed behind you.
Michael stepped up right against your back. He didn't touch you with his hands, but you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. Slowly, he leaned down. His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of your neck, making every single hair stand on end as a profound spark fired through your entire body.
"You're avoiding my eyes today," he whispered directly into your ear, his voice a gravelly, devastating murmur. "It’s driving me crazy. Stop hiding from me. I miss my favorite view."
Before you could even draw a breath to respond, he stepped away, leaving you trembling and clutching a stack of papers to your chest like a lifeline.
By Saturday night, you were entirely undone. You lay in bed, staring at the phone, your mind a battlefield of logic versus desire.
1:00 AM. On the dot. The phone rang. You answered on the first ring. "Let me guess."
"I wanted to talk," he said, the teasing tone gone, replaced by something deep, heavy, and resonant.
You laughed quietly, trying to mask your nerves. "You really need to fix your sleeping schedule, Mr. Jackson. This can't be healthy."
"Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe... I just really like the sound of your voice at night. It's the only thing that calms me down. Come have breakfast with me tomorrow. Early. Before the world wakes up."
"Michael, we have the final wrap-up meeting at ten—"
"Breakfast," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument, though it was incredibly soft. "There's a private café nearby. Completely secured. No meetings. No schedules. Just you and me. Say yes."
You closed your eyes, knowing you were stepping over a ledge. "Okay. Yes."
The breakfast was magical. Away from the lawyers and the stress, Michael was funny, incredibly attentive, and utterly disarming. He sat close to you at the small booth, his knee brushing against yours under the table, another spark, another jolt of electricity that kept your pulse racing. As the plates were cleared, his eyes darkened with a deeper curiosity.
"Have you ever been in love?" he asked, resting his interlaced fingers on the table, staring at you with an intensity that made the rest of the café disappear.
You shook your head, suddenly feeling very young, yet fiercely grounded. "No. Not really. I've been busy. Focus on my career, trying to make it... I haven't found anyone who made me want to stop running."
He smiled, his eyes searching yours, dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. "Not really? Or you just haven't let anyone get close enough to try? Maybe you're just waiting for the right person to show you what it actually feels like."
You laughed nervously, shifting the weight. "What about you?"
His expression shifted, a fleeting shadow of old pain crossing his features before it smoothed away. "I've had people around me. Many people. But it’s hard to know who loves the man and who loves the shadow."
"That's not what I asked, Michael," you said softly, emboldened by the privacy of the room. You reached out, reversing the roles, and let your fingers brush against his wrist.
He leaned into the touch instantly, his hand turning over to clasp yours, wrapping his long fingers around your hand. The warmth was overwhelming, a crackling, heavy heat that settled deep in your stomach. "You're very honest," he whispered, squeezing your hand, his voice thick with a low, intense heat. "People rarely say 'no' to me, let alone call me out. I like that about you. I like it a lot. It makes me want to keep you very close. Closer than anyone else."
"You asked," you countered with a small smirk, your heart hammering as his thumb caressed the back of your hand, tracing slow, dizzying circles.
"I did," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth again, the flirtation turning heavy and deliberate. "And I'm glad I did. Because looking at you right now, all I can think about is how much I want to find out what else you're hiding behind that professional mask."
That night, the internal dam broke. You went to bed telling yourself that breakfast was just a friendly gesture. You were determined to stop overthinking. You were his PA. That was it.
You were finally drifting into sleep when the phone rang.
1:00 AM. You stared at the plastic device, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You picked it up, your voice breathy. "What do you need, Michael?"
Silence. Only the sound of his steady breathing on the other end. Then, softly, like a confession: "You."
Your breath caught completely in your throat. "Michael..."
"I know," he interrupted, his voice a gentle, pleading caress that felt like a hand sliding down your cheek. "I know this is complicated. I know who I am, and I know how hard your job is. I know all of it."
You bit your lip, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across your face in the dark room as you listened to the King of Pop lose his legendary composure over you. "Then why call? Why do this to me?"
"Because I've spent all day telling myself I shouldn't," he whispered fiercely. "I spent hours listing every single reason why this is a mistake. And I still wanted to call you. I still want you here. Come to my room. Please."
You knew it was a terrible idea. You knew that in less than nine hours, you would have to sit across from him in a room full of cutthroat executives and pretend your world hadn't just tilted on its axis. But the thrill of it was intoxicating. You were already throwing off the covers.
The hallway of the hotel was deserted, bathed in muted golden light. Your bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. When you reached the door of his penthouse, your hand trembled only slightly as you knocked.
The door clicked open, and before you could even register the relief on his face, Michael pulled you inside by your waist. He slammed the heavy door shut, locking it immediately with a sharp twist of the deadbolt, and pressed your back firmly against the wood.
His mouth found yours instantly, hard and hungry, drowning out any lingering hesitation. The sheer force of the collision sent a massive, soul-deep spark flaring through your entire body. He tasted like mint and sweet heat, his large hands anchoring your hips against his.
"God, I wanted to taste your lips," he groaned against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes burning into yours. "That pretty smile has my mind racing. I haven't been able to think about anything else."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into his warmth and deepening the kiss, matching his intensity. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your lips flushed, a breathless smirk playing on your face. "You think you get your own way, don't you, Jackson?"
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. In one swift, effortless motion, Michael scooped you up into his arms, lifting you off your feet. You gasped, gripping his shoulders as he carried you across the dimly lit room and placed you gently on the center of the massive plush bed.
He hovered over you, his long frame casting a shadow in the moonlight filtering through the curtains. "Only when it's something that I want," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, dominant whisper that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.
He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before sliding down, his mouth trailing fire along your jawline, down the sensitive column of your throat, and over your collarbone. You arched off the mattress as his lips tracked down your chest and over your ribs, his hands gently tracing your curves. He kissed his way down your stomach, each press of his lips sending sharp jolts of electricity straight to your core.
Slowly, his fingers gathered the hem of your satin nightdress, lifting it up over your head and tossing it to the floor. His warm hands slid along your thighs, pulling off your lace panties and throwing them to the other side of the room. The contrast of his warm skin against yours made your breath hitch.
Michael looked up at you through his dark curls, his gaze intense and completely unyielding, before he hooked his arms under your knees, lifting your legs and draping them over his broad shoulders.
You gripped the silk sheets beneath you, throwing your head back and moaning his name, "Michael... oh god, Michael," as his tongue swiped directly over your clit. A breathless gasp tore from your throat, your hips twitching instantly against him as the overwhelming waves of heat and sparks entirely consumed the space between you.
While his tongue maintained a relentless, torturous rhythm against your clit, he slid two fingers deep inside your slick warmth. You cried out, moaning so loud the sound echoed off the high ceilings of the penthouse suite.
He paused for a fraction of a second, looking up your body, his eyes dark with unbridled desire. "I've spent hours thinking about you moaning under me," he growled, his deep voice sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your center. "Hearing you say my name like that."
You reached out, your hands tangling in his damp curls as you tried to pull him up. "Michael, please..." you moaned, completely undone by the sensation.
He ignored the plea, shifting his body upward to blanket yours. His large hands gripped your breasts, squeezing them firmly before his mouth clamped down on one hard nipple, sucking heavily. A sharp gasp left your lips. He pulled back, his thumb rubbing the wet peak as he stared down at them. "Fuck, I've pictured these tits for so long. In those low-cut tops you wear to the office... driving me completely out of my mind while I'm supposed to be listening to legal briefs."
"You... you noticed?" you whined, your body arching up into his touch, your skin tingling with an electric shockwave at his words.
"I notice everything about you, baby girl," he whispered roughly, the nickname sending a thrilling shiver down your spine.
Wanting to touch him just as badly, you braced your weight on your elbows and tried to sit up as he briefly shifted off you. You reached for the tie of his silk robe, your eyes dropping down his frame. "Let me... let me suck your cock, Michael. Let me look after you."
But Michael gently caught your wrists, his grip firm but incredibly soft, pinning them lightly to the mattress above your head. A sultry, dominant smile played on his lips as he looked down at you. "No. Let me look after my pretty princess for once."
You blinked up at him, a breathless, teasing smirk returning to your face despite your racing pulse. "Your pretty princess?"
"You heard me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly purr as he untied his robe and parted it, his hard length pressing against your thigh. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he delivered the final blow to your composure. "You're mine now. Entirely mine."
Before you could even process the words, he guided his cock to your entrance and pushed deep inside you in one smooth, heavy stroke. A loud, ragged moan tore from your throat, your eyes rolling back at the sheer fullness of him.
He didn't give you time to recover. Michael locked his fingers through yours, pinning your hands to the bed as he began to move, establishing a powerful, driving rhythm. You moved together effortlessly, your hips rising to meet every single push. "Michael... oh god, Michael, yes," you moaned his name repeatedly, the rhythm between you building a friction so intense it felt like pure electricity snapping through the room.
"That's it, baby girl, take it for me," he growled, his pace quickening as his sweat dripped onto your chest, his chest slamming against yours with every thrust.
The room filled with the raw, heavy symphony of your collision a shameless blur of friction and heat. Every deep, relentless plunge of his hips brought a loud, wet slaps of his skin roughly meeting yours, the sound echoing sharply off the walls of the quiet penthouse. Beneath his weight, the massive bed groaned under the force of his rhythm, the slick, sliding friction of your soaked centers adding a dirty, intoxicating cadence to his movements. Over it all was the ragged sound of your combined breathing; your high, breathless whimpers and trembling cries were completely swallowed by his low, gravelly grunts as he claimed you deeper with every single strike.
Sensory overload was taking over, and you needed more. You managed to pull your hands free, pressing them against his hips. "Turn me over," you panted, your voice thick with desperation. "Michael, turn me over."
He complied instantly, his hands gripping your waist to guide you onto your hands and knees in doggy style. The moment you were settled, Michael reached forward, his large hand tangling firmly into your loose hair, pulling your head back slightly so you had to look toward the mirror on the wall. He lined himself up and drove back into you, burying his entire length inside you from behind.
You cried out, your back arching sharply as he pulled on your hair and fucked you with a fierce, possessive urgency.
"Your pretty pussy is perfect for me," he whispered darkly against the skin of your shoulder, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, hitting your sweet spot over and over until you were completely blind with pleasure.
"Look at us," he commanded roughly, his grip tightening in your hair to force your gaze onto the massive, gold-framed mirror reflecting the entire bed. The sight was completely obscene your chest flushed and trembling on your hands and knees, while he loomed over you, his dark curls falling forward as his hips slammed relentlessly against you. With every deep plunge, you watched his length disappear completely inside you, your wet skin parting and gripping him in a tight, desperate hold.
"Look at how you take all of me," he growled, the dirty words vibrating against your spine as you watched the visual proof of him stretching you open. You threw your head back, your eyes locking with his in the reflection as a heavy, breathless sob left your lips. "Michael... oh god, I can see you so deep inside me," you cried out, entirely undone by the view of your bodies completely joined in the glass, your frantic hips rolling backward into him to beg for more.
"Michael, harder... please, fuck me harder," you begged, entirely shameless, your voice cracking as the climax began to crest over you.
He didn't hesitate, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to anchor you as he slammed into you with everything he had, driving you both straight over the edge into a shattering, breathless release.
The next morning, the sun was blindingly bright, flooding the grand conference room of the hotel. The long mahogany table was crowded with managers, publicists, and legal counsel. Everyone was entirely focused on a heated debate regarding international distribution rights.
He sat at the head of the table, wearing his signature black fedora and dark aviator sunglasses, seemingly listening to his manager speak. But his posture was entirely directed toward you, where you sat three chairs down, your skin still hypersensitive, every nerve ending screaming with the memory of his touch from just hours before.
When you finally looked up, you found him already watching you. Michael smirked.
Slowly, he reached up with two fingers and tilted his aviators down just enough to look over the rims. His dark eyes flashed with an undeniable, wicked playfulness, a secret shared between just the two of you in a room full of people. You had to violently bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the smile threatening to break across your face.
By the time the grueling meeting finally ended, the room erupted into the chaotic noise of people filing out. You purposely lingered, gathering your papers with agonizing slowness, pretending your hands weren't shaking slightly as you slipped them into your briefcase.
Michael waited. He remained seated at the head of the table, watching the doorway until the very last executive left and the heavy oak door clicked shut. The silence in the room became absolute.
Michael stood up, adjusting his cuffs, and walked slowly down the length of the table until he stopped right behind your chair, leaning down until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear.
"Make sure your schedule is completely clear at 1:00 AM tonight, baby girl," he whispered, his voice a low, dirty promise that sent an immediate jolt of heat straight to your core. "Because I'm going to fuck you even harder than I did last night."
