pairing: dangerousera!michael jackson x undercoverspy!female reader
synopsis: a desperate, debt-ridden wardrobe assistant tries to sell out Michael Jackson’s private secrets to a tabloid—only to discover the soft-spoken singer already knows her game.
tags: mature content, explicit smut (minors dni!), porn with plot, power imbalance, age gap (reader is 24 / michael is 34), p in v sex, missionary, table sex, doggy style, mirror sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), dom!michael, slight choking, squirting, crying, slightlydark!michael (?), angst, comfort (?)
an: dangerousera!mj won in my previous poll! i hope you guys enjoy this ;)
The eviction notice carelessly taped on her front door was printed on cheap paper. But the ink bled through her senses–heavy enough to make her want to sink into the tiled floorboards.
Two thousand, and two hundred dollars. That was just the back rent for her cramped and moldy apartment in Glendale. The walls stained a questionable green, the air smelled permanently of old radiator fluid and the next door tenant’s fried onions. Throw in the monthly payments on a mountain of student loans for a graphic arts degree that had provided her absolutely nothing but a temporary contract as a low-level wardrobe runner, and she was drowning.
When she had managed to secure a spot on the production crew for Michael Jackson’s Dangerous World Tour, she thought it was the light at the end of a neverending tunnel. Instead, it was almost an exploitation scheme on how she is horribly treated by her superiors–only for a low salary barely covering her expenses.
As an assistant wardrobe coordinator, she was at the very bottom of the food chain in the glamorous kingdom of MJJ Productions. Her days blurred into an endless loop of labor–hauling heavy garment crates through the corridors of Culver City soundstages, her hands smelling of industrial steamer water and leather polish. She was the one who had to meticulously re-stitch the delicate gold piping on military jackets, and sprint across arena floors to deliver quick changes.
Despite working for the King of Pop, her paycheck was a pity, swallowed entirely by her debt before it even reached her palms. She was invisible to the money hungry executives, ignored by bodyguards, and survives purely on self loathing and stale coffee.
Then came the man in the ashy suit.
It happened at 1:15 AM in a greasy, neon-lit diner only four blocks away from the rehearsal studio. She was sitting alone in a vinyl booth, her hands nursing a mug of black coffee she could only pretend to enjoy. As her eyes burned with exhaustion, a man she had never seen before slid into the booth across her without asking. He certainly did not look like a normal blue collar worker, nor someone wanting to get her number. Not like she’s expecting.
He didn’t bother with the pleasantries. He only slid a heavy manila folder on the greasy table. When she opened it, her brows furrowed as her chest tightened.
Inside were copies of her bank statements, her four months worth of rent backlogs, her college transcripts, and the very resume he submitted to the recruiter in MJJ Productions.
“The world is hungry for a peek of the Dangerous tour,” the man said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “A major publication in London is prepared to pay thousands of dollars for a little…on the ground reporting. Nothing too major. Only personal habits. How he acts when the cameras are off.”
She swallowed. Her morals clearly blaring loud alarms in her head.
This is wrong. This is not who she was.
She tried to push the folder away.
“I signed an NDA. His lawyers will destroy me.”
“Well then, you shouldn’t get caught, little mouse,” the man replied without a hitch. He reached into his breast pocket and slid an ivory cashier’s check across the table. Her eyes widened as her gaze locked onto the zeroes.
“This covers your back rent and your loans for the next months. There’s fifty thousand more waiting for you at the end of the first half of the tour. All we need are time to time reports, and audio recordings. Document everything. You do this, and your debt disappears. Practically a life brand new.”
She stared at the check. A life vest dangling in front of her eyes as she drowns in a vast sea. But it didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like being pushed head first into the water.
She thought of Michael–the way he always spoke to the crew in that gentle voice even as he complains about a beat that felt off, and how he just thanked her two days ago when she handed him his fedora. He was eccentric, yes, but she knew he was only protective of his privacy because the world had spent all their might to pick at it. And she knew that very same privacy is the one she is about to breach.
But then she thought of her landlord. The crushing weight of waking up every day feeling like a criminal just for being poor. Desperation crept up her throat like bile.
With trembling fingers, she grabbed the check, folded it neatly in half, and slid it into her purse.
For three weeks, she lived a double life that even the best CIA agents would be in awe of her.
She noted everything. She documented the silence of the soundstages at 4:00 AM when he would suddenly decide to practice a five-second dance transition over and over again until the stage floor was scuffed by the residue of the leather of his loafers. She noted how he would only drink freshly squeezed orange juice and carrot juice even after a grueling set.
But the real deal was his private dialogue.
On a rainy Wednesday night, the production was locked in Culver City for technical run-throughs. The air inside the wings was freezing, smelling of damp wood and the synthetic scent of the subwoofers. While the rest of the wardrobe team stayed at the hotel, she stayed behind under the guise of cataloging the heavy beaded jackets and holographic military apparel.
When the technical crew went on a dinner break, she slipped into the dark corridor behind the main stage where Michael’s private quick-change trailer sat. Her chest ached with the familiar sickening mix of adrenaline and guilt as she reached into her pocket, pulling out the sleek, micro-cassette recorder.
She stepped inside his trailer. Her dirty Sketchers squeaking softly against the carpeted flooring.
Her hands shook violently as she reached toward the small velvet-line tray on his vanity mirror where he kept his heavy aviator sunglasses. She slipped the tiny recorder just under the plush fabric, hiding it perfectly.
She was just about to slip back out when she heard a rustle of fabric.
She spun around, her heart jumping straight into her throat. Her hip slammed into the vanity table, sending the clutter of powder foundations onto the floorboards with a wince inducing rattle.
Michael was standing in the narrow doorway of the trailer.
The Michael the world knew was completely gone. He has already stripped off his heavy blazer, leaving him in a loose v-neck shirt, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his chest. His damp messy curls fell wildly across his face, casting shadows over his large, dark eyes. He looked drained, but the sheer physical presence of him was suffocating.
“Michael!” she choked out, her hands flying behind her to grip the edge of the vanity, desperately regaining his balance and covering the velvet tray she was just tampering with.
“I–I’m sorry. I thought everyone was at dinner. I was just checking on the armbands for ‘Jam.’”
Contrary to what she expected, Michael didn’t look angry. He looked at her through his long eyelashes with a quiet curiosity she had never seen him direct toward a low-level crew member before.
He took a slow step into the trailer. The steel door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the distant mechanical hum of the soundstage.
“You’re always working so late,” he observes. His voice a breathy whisper–the exact kind of intimate audio publications would die for. Hearing it this close made her knees turn into jelly. “Everytime I look at the wings, you’re there. Stitching shirts.”
“It’s my job, Mr. Jackson,” her voice uneven. The guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on her lungs. He was closing the distance, his soft loafers making no sound.
“Michael,” he corrected gently, stopping just a few inches from her. He was taller than she realized standing this close—in comparison to when she looked at him from afar. A shy dimpled smile touched his lips, but his eyes were heavy, trailing down the front of her maroon paisley cut top before rising back to her face. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.”
He reached out. His long, slender fingers caught a stray lock of her hair that had fallen out of her messy ponytail. His touch was light, but it felt like fire against her skin.
“You always look so scared when I walk into a room,” Michael whispered, his breath hot against her cheek as he leaned down slightly, tilting his head. The innocent, boyish demeanor he always displayed was there, but it was masking a sudden intensity that made her pulse jump out her skin. “Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?”
“No,” she lied, her voice barely a gasp. Her heart rapidly thumping she was terrified he could hear it too.
“Mhm…I think I do,” he murmured, a lopsided smile flashing on his face. He didn’t pull away, instead, his fingers slid down the side of her neck, his thumb resting directly over the pounding artery in her throat. “Your heart is beating so fast. Like a little mouse.”
The nickname made her heart stop. The same nickname the man in the ashy suit called her, making her mind swim with an even more crushing guilt.
He stepped even closer, his hips gently nudging her back against the edge of the vanity, effectively pinning her in place. He stared down at her through his lashes, his breathing suddenly shallow.
“The managers…they yell at me all day. Everyone wants something from me,” Michael whispered, his voice dropping into a low, seductive rasp that vibrated down her spine. His thumb pressed harder on her frantic pulse, coaxing a hum from his chest. “You’re different. You just watch me. I’ve been watching you back, you know.”
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the skin beneath her jawline, making her shiver violently.
“You work so hard,” his hand tightening around her neck with a sudden possessive urgency.
She closed her eyes. Her tongue darted out to lick her suddenly dry lips–making his eyes darken as he followed the movement.
“Let me take care of you tonight.”
He moves the hand on her throat and nudges her head upward, his lips immediately finding the column of her throat to plant wet, languid kisses. His other hand found the skin of her waist as it crept up under her shirt.
“Michael,” she breathes out as her knees buckle from the sensation of his mouth.
“Shh…” he moves lower, his tongue catching at her collarbone as his hands deftly lifted her shirt, inching it upward—revealing the unassuming fabric of her gray cotton bra.
He moves back slightly only to look down at her chest, his lips curving into an amused smile as he thumbs the underside of her bra.
“Very cute,” he mumbles before peeling off her shirt and dropping it behind him. His fingers immediately darted to her back, finding the clasp of her bra and twisting it free with the speed only an experienced man would have.
She gasps, her throat constricting as her arms flew up to shield her chest. He didn’t let her hide for long. His hands gently grabbed her wrists and set it down to grab onto his waistband.
“Don’t,” he breathes as his eyes wandered appreciatively over the peaks of her breasts, her nipples pebbling from the cold air of the trailer. “You’re so beautiful.”
She bites her lips as she watches him descend onto her chest, his mouth latching onto her nipples as he provided a suction so delicious her torso voluntarily arched into him.
He smirks into her skin, his movements becoming even more determined. His tongue darted out to draw slow circles on her nipple, his other hand twisting and pulling at the other.
Her hands flew up from his waistband to hold onto his nape. She sighs into his touch, her panties growing wetter by the second.
Suddenly, he withdrew—a string of saliva connecting the dark bud of her nipple into his lower lip. Her mouth dropped open as she looked at him with heavy lidded eyes. He moves to carry her on top of the vanity table, his hands strong and stable as they hook under her thighs.
He did not care for the mess of make up on the floor. He leaned in, kissing down her stomach as his fingers moved to pull her pants down. Once the fabric was removed from her ankles, he groaned as his hands softly travelled up to the soft skin of her thighs.
Michael moved to kneel down the floor of the trailer. His dark eyes gazing up at her with a hunger that made her heart stutter inside her ribs.
He kept his gaze on her face as he leaned in to plant wet kisses up the inside of her thighs, not quite reaching the heat of her desire.
“You’re so soft,” he mumbles into her skin. She unconsciously widened her legs, making him chuckle softly as he bit softly on the plush flesh of her thighs.
As his fingers hooked under the waistband of her panties, he paused.
She stilled for a second. Her emotions are a mess–hungry and craving for his touch, and drowning in a guilt so heavy she believes she doesn’t deserve to even breathe near him.
Even still, she found herself nodding softly.
“Words, sweetheart,” he tuts as he palms her hips.
“Y–Yes…I want this,” she manages to breathe out.
Michael’s eyes grow darker. “Good girl,” he cooed as his fingers finally pulled her panties off her legs, his eyes fixed onto the soft patch of hair on her mound, the center of her thighs damp and smelling like pure desire.
He closes his eyes to compose himself. His hands tightening around her ankles as he maneuvered them to rest on his shoulders.
“Watch,” he commands her as he finally leans in, his mouth meeting her damp core.
She let out a choked moan, her hand flying to grab onto the table as she felt his flat tongue lick slowly from her perineum up to her pulsing clitoris. He didn’t rush. As a man who believed in the art of anticipation, he didn’t rush for the climax. He savored her—the young and ripe taste of her desire.
Michael moans into her core, the vibration causing her hips to stutter. His tongue moved to draw lazy eights onto her swollen nub.
When he feels her head loll back, he reaches up and grabs her chin to direct her gaze back towards him. “Thought I told you to watch,” he says as he plants wet kisses directly on her entrance.
“‘m sorry. It’s too much,” she whines softly as she forces her watery eyes to focus on his cruelly handsome face situated between her thighs.
He only laughs, the sound so full of condescending adoration. Instead of resuming his mouth’s ministrations, he stands up into his full height. His arms bracing on both sides of her hips as he leans in to look down at her through his lashes.
“‘s too much?” he coos as he runs a finger down the damp skin of her ribs, making her twitch away from the ticklish touch.
Michael draws back to fumble with the buttons of his trousers, her eyes following the movement with a reverence so deep it made her blood grow hot.
He smirks as he watches her watch him. He didn’t shy away from her gaze, instead, leaning into it as he finally dropped his pants, revealing the large tent on the center of his black briefs.
Her wide eyes zeroed into his arousal, her mind swimming with want, fear of this exact moment, and a great sense of shame.
“Does the little mouse like what she sees?” he moves to hook his fingers on the waistband of his briefs, slowly pulling it down as his thick and hard length sprung up, hitting his stomach as the fabric fell away.
She could feel herself salivate as she observed his arousal. He was long, thick, and slightly curving upwards. His pubic hair neatly trimmed as it surrounded his desire like a crown.
Now, she wasn’t a virgin. Being young and stupid, she hooked up with various boys from her college from those frat parties. But this was different. Michael was different. He’s way bigger, way thicker, and way more intimidating than those lanky seniors.
Michael slowly leans in, his hand finding her hipbone as his other hand lined up the head of his dick into her warm entrance. His chest was heaving, his mouth letting out ragged breaths as he tried to control himself.
She grabs his shoulders as he uses the swollen head of his desire to collect her essence.
“Michael,” she whines, growing impatient and needy.
He smiles softly before planting a soft peck to the corner of her mouth.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he breathes out before finally inching the tip of his length inside her.
He groans, his eyes rolling back at the tight and warm sensation of her. He forced himself to stop his hips, reminding himself to let her body adjust to his size.
Her mouth drops open in a silent gasp as she feels his tip notch inside her entrance. The feeling was so full, satiating an itch she didn’t know she even had.
It stung, for sure. But she was feeling impatient, and she felt like she deserved the pain a bit.
“P–Please…You can move,” she babbles, her eyes watering.
He bit his lower lip, a habit he can’t quite erase. His restraint began to crumble. The feeling of her warm and damp heat becoming too much to ignore, and her wide eyes staring up at him like he’s her god made his dick twitch dangerously.
“If you say so,” he grunts as he plunges in, immediately sinking deep into her heat. His pubic bone meets her swollen nub, making her brows furrow as her eyes fluttered close. She bites her lips, her fingers frantically squeezing his shoulder blades.
“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he groans, his voice gravelly and deep with lust.
He leans in to lick up behind her earlobes as he begins to thrust slowly inside her. His length practically outside her entrance before sinking back in, kissing her cervix.
“A–Ahhh…Michael, please,” she doesn’t even know what she is begging for. Her wet lips are parted as she pleads for him. Anything. Just him.
Michael’s eyes darkened as his lips curved upward in a dangerous smirk against her skin. “So desperate f’ me.”
He begins to thrust faster, his hips becoming a blur of motion, the vanity table begins to screech loudly against the metal floor.
“God…” he groans against her earlobe. His hands travelled up to fondle her breasts, his index fingers flicking her nipples quickly. Her head twisted to the side, overwhelmed by his assault.
Michael’s lips stayed brushed against the sensitive skin of her jawline for a heartbeat too long. She expected him to pull her closer. Instead, she felt a subtle change in the way he held her. The warmth in his grip turned rigid as concrete.
He stilled his thrusts as his right hand withdrew from his chest and darted downwards, somewhere she couldn't see from her angle.
He let out a soft, breathy chuckle against her neck, but it wasn’t the shy, high pitched giggle he gave the public. It was low, dry, and entirely devoid of innocence.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” he whispered.
The words were so quiet she almost missed it, but the cold dread that spiked through her veins made her entire body lock up. She tried to pull away to look at him, but Michael’s hand travelled to grip her hip tighter like a vice, pinning her flush against the table.
“M–Michael?” she choked out, her voice cracking.
He slowly pulled his head back, looking down at her through his messy, damp curls. The boyish, naive expression she was used to was gone, replaced by a sharp, piercing stare. He looked at her the way a king looks at a thief caught in his treasury.
"I know every single object in this trailer," Michael murmured, his voice dropping to that signature, intimate rasp, though his dark eyes were completely cold. "I know when a bottle of cologne has been moved an inch to the left. And I definitely know when someone slips a cheap little plastic bug under my jewelry tray."
He gives her a condescending pout. “You think I didn’t see you flick through my vanity table? Guess you weren’t as sneaky as you thought you were, little mouse.”
She felt the air leave her lungs. This is it, she thought frantically, tears of absolute terror stinging her eyes. The lawyers. Her life is officially over.
"I—I can explain," she whispered, her voice trembling violently. "Please, Michael—"
"Shh," he breathed, placing his thumb firmly over her lips to cut her off. He tilted his head, a wicked, dark little smile touching his lips. "Don't lie to me. I hate liars. You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? Wanting a little piece of me to sell. Wanting to hear the secrets when the cameras turn off."
He revealed his right hand. She winced, expecting him to rip the velvet tray away and call his security. Instead, his long, slender fingers gently lifted the micro-cassette recorder from its hiding place. He brought it between their faces. The little red recording light was still blinking, a steady, blood-colored pulse in the trailer light.
Michael looked at the device, then looked back at her, his breathing suddenly shallow. The anger in his eyes didn't vanish, but it melted into a heavy, possessive hunger.
"You want a scandal, sweetheart?" he whispered, his face hovering just inches from hers. "You want something dirty to give to your friends in the press? Okay. Let's give them exactly what they paid for."
Before she could process his words, Michael pressed the recorder flat against the vanity table right next to her hip, ensuring the microphone was perfectly positioned to catch every single sound.
With a sudden, dominant surge of movement, his hands gripped her hips in a bruising force, his dick pistoning inside her so fast the pleasure is borderline painful.
"Michael, please," she sobbed softly, torn between the agonizing guilt of her betrayal and the blinding, electric heat of his skin against hers.
"Don't beg," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding growl as his hand came up to grip her neck not to suffocate her, but enough to make her dizzy. "You wanted to hear me, didn't you? You wanted to record me. So I want you to be very, very loud for the tape. I want whoever listens to this to know exactly what I did to you."
He leaned down, his teeth gently catching the soft skin of her shoulder, making her arch off the table with a sharp, breathless gasp. Michael caught the sound in his own mouth, kissing her with a fierce, desperate hunger that completely shattered his gentlemanly facade.
His tongue swirled against her. He’s desperate to taste every inch of her mouth, drool starting to seep between their lips.
His hands were everywhere—possessive, heavy, and completely unyielding—forcing her to bend to his will on the vanity. And as the trailer filled with the erratic, desperate sounds of their collision, Michael kept his eyes wide open, staring directly into hers through the dark, ensuring she knew that every heavy, undone groan he fed into her microphone was a mark of his absolute ownership.
With a sudden movement, he lifts her and sets her down to the floor, his length still plunged deep inside her. He maneuvers her so she is bent over the vanity, her face pressed against the damp and foggy mirror.
He resumes his brutal thrusts, his hand reaching up to grip her nape to anchor his movements. She lets out a cacophony of breathless gasps and moans, her wet lips smushing against the mirror.
“You wanted to watch me?” he grunts as he forces her neck upwards so her eyes are planted on his reflection. “Watch me ruin you.”
The vision was so erotic it made her veins grow hot. His face was flushed with sweat, his curly hair bouncing with every thrust, and his loose shirt damp with his sweat making his chest and toned stomach visible through the fabric.
“C–Can you take your shirt off, please?” she shamelessly begs. Her wide, tear streaked eyes met his through the mirror.
He groans, his hand travelling down to the curve of her waist. “Yeah? You wanna see me?”
He didn’t think twice. Although this is technically a punishment, Michael found himself submitting to her needs. He didn’t stop his thrusts as he moved to peel his damp shirt off him. The moment the shirt was off, he leant down—his sweaty chest pressing against the damp skin of her back.
He practically melts at the contact. It felt so real and primal. Unleashing an animalistic hunger inside him. He grabbed her leg, lifting it up to the vanity table, making her thighs spread impossibly wider. His thrusts become even more possessed. Her eyes heavy lidded as grunts and moans of pleasure fill the trailer.
“M–Michael,” she chokes out, her eyes rolling back as she feels her climax approaching. Her fingers clawing desperately at the wet mirror.
“Yeah? You gonna come?” he rasps out. He didn’t change the tempo of his thrusts, instead, his fingers travelled underneath her to play with her swollen and pulsing nub.
“O–Oh God!” she screams, her head thudding against the mirror as her thighs begin to shake from the stimulation.
His fingers move even faster, swiping across her clitoris in a dizzying speed and precision.
“You’re gonna take it, sweetheart. M-Make the press so happy,” he murmurs against the skin of her shoulder.
“You’re so tight, so perfect f’ me,” he grunted, his heavy breathing and the wet, slapping rhythm of his hips against her backside filled the room.
Her mouth fell open, her senses completely hijacked by the sensation of him drilling inside her relentlessly. The guilt and fear from being caught completely out the window.
As a wave of pleasure dawned on her, a long helpless moan escaped her lips, and she felt a string of drool spill from the corner of her mouth down into the foggy mirror.
Michael saw the way she became undone, the way she was losing control of her most basic functions. It seemed to fuel his hunger. He reached around her, his hand splaying flat against the soft flesh of her stomach, pulling her even harder against him, forcing him to take every unforgiving inch of him.
“Look at you…Completely lost in me, exactly like a good girl should be.”
He increased his tempo. He is chasing his peak, a moment of absolute perfection, and he is driving them both towards it. The table creaked loudly beneath them.
Her body buckled, his relentless thrusts making her muscles clench around him with an intensity he almost cannot move.
The second wave of her release was even more violent than the first. A hot, clear spray erupted from her core, the liquid saturating the skin of his thighs, and the sensation of it dripping down his legs made his heart stutter.
Under any circumstance, any other man would’ve been repulsed and slowed down. But Michael was not any other man. He was a man possessed by her pleasure.
He let out a low growl. To him, the mess was a testament of her surrender.
“Yes!” he groaned. “Give it all to me!”
He continued to hammer into her, his hands gripping her hips so tight they would surely leave marks. Michael gave everything he had.
And in that moment of absolute ecstasy, Michael finally broke. He let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half roar as his entire body went rigid. His head snapping back as he came inside her with a pulsing force.
He stayed buried inside her, both of their frames trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. The silence was heavy, broken only by ragged gasps and the soft drip of her essence falling onto the floor. He held her there, his face buried in the crook of her sweaty neck.
After a few seconds, he finally pulled out of her. His softening length dribbling hot release down onto the floor, joining her essence.
The tiny plastic mechanism of the recorder let out a sharp clack, signaling the end of the tape.
The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with the scent of his cologne, sweat, and the tang of euphoria and fear. She lay motionlessly on the vanity, her hands trembling so violently as she bent down to grab her clothing. Every muscle in her body ached from the dominant grip Michael had her in just minutes before.
He quietly dressed again. The fierce persona had vanished as quickly as it appeared. He grabbed a fresh white tank top from his dresser and put it on, tucking it back into his trousers. His movements were slow and heavy.
He didn’t look at her as he reached over the table and clicked open the cassette door. He pulled the tiny tape out, holding it between his long, slender fingers.
She held her breath, expecting him to drop it to the floor and crush it beneath his feet to end her little game.
Instead, Michael slid the tape directly into the pocket of his trousers, patting the fabric down with a soft movement of his palm. He looked up to face her, a tiny, faint smirk touched his lips.
“Michael,” she whispered, her voice cracking as a wave of cold dread washed over her. “The tape…please. What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to keep it,” his voice a velvety rasp that vibrated down her chest. He took a slow step towards her, his fingers fixing the sleeve of her paisley cut top back onto her shoulder.
“It’s a very special recording, don’t you think? Every single sound you made for me. I think I’d like to listen to it when I’m lonely on the tour bus.”
“Please,” she choked out, tears of absolute desperation spilling over her cheeks. She thought of the man in the diner, the crushing weight of her debt. “I’m sorry. I–I’m so sorry I tried to record you. If I don't report to them, they’ll destroy me. I need the money, Michael. I’m in serious debt—my apartment, my student loans.”
Michael paused. For a split second, a flash of genuine surprise crossed his features, his large eyes widening as he registered the unfiltered truth of her desperation. He realized she was desperate to escape the claws of her financial ruin.
But he didn’t give the tape back.
Instead, his expression softened into something he can’t quite name. He reached out, his thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.
“You should have just told me you needed help, sweetheart,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin as he leaned in closer. “I have more money than the world knows what to do with. You don’t ever need to be used by those vultures.”
He slid his hand down to her chin, tilting her face to force her to look into his consuming gaze.
“I’ll take care of your rent. I’ll take care of your bills,” he murmured, his voice a low purr.
“But the tape stays with me. It’s my insurance. M’ gonna make sure you stay a very, very good girl.”
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