Pairings: Thrad!Michael x Fiance!Reader
Genre: SMUT!!(MDNI), Established Relationship, ANGST, some fluff.
Warnings: AGAIN SMUT!! (MDNI), D. Ross. Arguing. Questionable motherly advice. Cursing. Public Sex! Oral!(f. receiving)
Summary: Michael makes a fool of you to keep Ms. Ross happy. When you remove yourself from his life completely, he tries everything to win you back. Can he convince you that you mean more to him that a chapter from his past?
Author’s Note: Hey honeys! This log is from this file request. I feel a littleeee iffy about this one, but lmk what you think in the comments, reblog if you love it. As always, happy Reading! All credit for the moodbord goes to @siiighrns !
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Cool January air nipped at your skin as you exited the limousine hand in hand with your prospective husband. You and Michael were the picture of perfection. A dark pin-striped blazer cloaked your upper body and accentuated the curves you’ve been blessed with. The tie around your neck was simple, a deep black that drew eyes toward you. Plain black slacks adorned your legs, and a matching pair of close-toed stilettos pulled the outfit together.
Your hair was styled beautifully for the event: blown out, meticulously parted, curled, and incredibly dangerous. A set of pearlescent earrings rested in your lobes, and a few spritzes of the Chanel perfume your fiancé picked out wafted in the air as you passed by.
And Michael? Well, he looked like Michael. Regal and almost excessively flamboyant. Red sequins gleamed in the light as he moved, waving at the cameras with an award-winning smile. His eyes were hidden beneath the aviators he never left home without. Gold accents in his jacket emphasized his status as American royalty. Black dress pants covered his lower half, and those signature white socks and penny loafers cradled his feet.
Your eyes darted around, blinded by the constant flashes of light in your direction. Incessant shouts filled the air, as expected when accompanying the world's biggest star: “Michael! Who’s the girl?” one of the paps asked. He wasted no time answering, “Her name is y/n,” not quite elaborating on your role in his life.
“Y/n! Over here!” You weren’t even sure which way ‘here’ was. What you were sure of was that Michael had bickered with you about wearing his sunglasses at night for a reason. He shielded your eyes quickly. “I told you,” he rasped as you shuffled into the venue.
These events have always been so exhausting: filled with endless small talk, cameras clicking, questionable singing, and poorly written speeches. That’s all that was waiting for you at this year’s American Music Awards ceremony. When your eyes finally adjusted to the low-light setting surrounding you, one sweep across the room let you know that it was going to be a long night. Roughly three thousand people filled the auditorium.
“Come on, baby. Let’s go find our chairs,” Michael mumbled. You nodded and followed closely behind him, keeping your focus on the path ahead. Several attendees greeted you both in passing, until one in particular stopped the pursuit for seating dead in its tracks.
“Mikey!” a shrill voice rang out. Your fiancé came to a complete stop, and you nearly crashed into his back. He looked over his shoulder with a knowing smile. As if you were a ghost, the woman, wrapped in what seemed to be a gold…tablecloth, brushed past you with open arms. Michael turned fully, eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and stepped into her tight embrace.
“Diana!” He exclaimed, squeezing her just as hard.
The two of them remained that way for a moment, gently rocking side to side. You didn’t miss the way his hands moved to rest on her hips, and how hers trailed up his back as if it were second nature. “It’s been so long!” He beamed, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. You watched, irritation already bubbling in your chest, as your fiancé cradled her like a long-lost lover. Well, I suppose that’s what she was, which made the encounter all the more intimate. In front of god and everybody, Michael made a show of just how much he missed her.
Regretting your decision to come, you folded your arms, hoping that your ever-attentive fiancé would have gotten the hint. When he didn’t even cast a sideways glance in your direction, your face fell flat. The sound of your throat clearing had both heads snapping in your direction. The man you came with glanced between the two of you and stepped back from the older woman. Now, it was his turn to clear the discomfort in his chest.
“Uhh, Diana.” He muttered nervously while picking at the hem of his jacket, “This is my…friend, y/n.” You glared at him incredulously, not believing what you’d heard. Her thin eyebrows raised as she studied you, “Friend, huh?” All thirty-two of your teeth flashed at her as you bit out a response. “Oh, yes.” The words dripped slowly from your lips, “Such good friends that he brought me as his plus. one. Can you believe it?”
Internally, Michael had gone into full panic mode. He wasn’t sure why he referred to you as his friend; you’d been engaged for a year, and together for five. The look in your eyes shook him to his core. He’d only seen that stare once, and it didn’t end well for him. Before he had a chance to correct his mistake, Diana began the turf war.
“Oh?” She cut her eyes to meet his while rubbing his bicep. “Well, Michael,” Diana started, tone sultry, “If you needed a date, why didn’t you call me? You know I’m always available…for you. I’d hate to see you trapped with someone who isn’t from your world.”
The man before you must certainly be an idiot; what he sputtered out next proved that. “I— well, yo-” The older woman waited expectantly. “You’re just so busy these days, I didn’t want to bother you, and y/n is always available.” Your arms uncrossed, and you looked to your partner in disbelief. He avoided your gaze but remained aware, feeling like a prey animal being observed by an apex predator.
Michael knew that it would only be worse for him if he faced you right then. It was her turn to flash a smile. “Nonsense, you didn’t have to settle.” Her eyes flickered across your frame once before returning to his. “I would’ve gladly accepted the invitation, and I certainly wouldn’t have shown up in…that.” You skimmed your body, and then hers.
“Apologies. I didn’t know I was supposed to steal my mother’s curtains for this event,” you snarl. The anger resting in your belly was going to reach a fever pitch soon. “Hm. I take it, raiding your father’s closet seemed like a better choice?” Michael wished he could disappear as the catfight grew more intense.
The passive-aggressive comments flew back and forth, and began to teeter more toward hostility. Two very important women in his life were clashing right in front of him, and it was his fault. He didn’t want to choose a side, fearful of hurting either, but things were dragging on, and the show was starting to begin.
“Ladies, the announcer is going up to speak in a few—” Diana held her hand up, eyes still burning into yours. “Listen here, wench. Michael is delicate. He shouldn’t be with a woman like you.” Your mouth opened in shock. This bag of bones really had some nerve. A rebuttal didn’t have a chance to make it past your teeth.
“He needs someone that cares for him…inside and out.” She finished with her eyes on Michael, batting her lashes. “He needs me.” He stood there, stunned that she would say something like that to you, but he didn’t open his mouth to correct her. No, instead, he became fascinated by the auditorium's ornate detailing. His eyes were everywhere but on the two women in front of him.
As Michael tried to calculate his next step, a defining slap reverberated through his ears before all hell broke loose. A high-pitched “Bitch” was all he could make out between your violent swats at the elder. One hand clutched tightly in Diana’s mane while the other landed wherever it could reach. The older woman wailed as you continued your assault. “I don’t know who you think I am!” Once the initial shock passed, your fiancé made quick work of prying you off his first love.
“Okay…Okay!” He yelled as arms caged around yours, “Y/n, that’s enough!” He pulled you back, lifting you in the process. Your feet kicked toward Diana, heels threatening to cut her night short with a trip to the emergency room. They didn’t have a chance to connect as the man holding you back twisted his body. The hag, trying to catch her breath, moved to speak again, “Michael..” she grunted, “Keep that bitch on a leash!”
You wriggled in your captor's arms, itching to show her how much of a bitch you could really be. His arms squeezed you tighter, forcing you still. You heard him gulp and felt his head nod frantically. Was he serious? Diana kissed her teeth and stormed off to find her seat, no doubt embarrassed by the shape of your hand branded into her skin. When she made it far enough not to be dragged back, Michael finally let you go. You shrugged him off roughly, fixed your hair, and smoothed out your jacket.
Your fiancé glared at you, as if the commotion were your fault. He then grabbed your hand and started weaving through the auditorium, hoping to find a place out of view from the others. When he happened upon an empty dressing room, he threw you inside and closed the door behind him. You stumbled with a squeak, catching yourself on a nearby chair just before you fell.
“Why the hell would you do something like that, y/n?” His normally soft voice was filled with a bass that rubbed you the wrong way. What the hell was he talking about? Your head snapped up, and you rose to your full height. The look of disappointment and annoyance on his face pissed you off more than she did.
“Oh! I am just soo sorry, Mikey,” you started, feigning concern, “Was I a bad friend?” He flinched at your remark, moving further into the room before going to speak. “Yes!” Michael yelled as he threw his arms up. Your eyes were the size of saucers; the nerve this man had baffled you. He thought for a moment before continuing to dig himself into a deeper hole.
“Well— Not, a friend, but—”
“But what?” you mused, curious as to what his explanation for your impromptu demotion could have been.
Michael sighed while rubbing his forehead. He was growing frustrated as he tried to explain his slip-up to you. “I just didn’t know how to tell Diana that you’re my fiancée, okay?” You scoffed and brought your fingers up to rub your temples.
“And why the hell not? Hm?” A sort of choked sound escaped his body as he tried to form an answer. Patience for him had stretched incredibly thin, and you weren’t sure how much more of this you could take. The night had formed into the biggest shit-show, and its main character refused to take any responsibility. “Was it too hard to tell your ex— Whatever the fuck! That you’re getting married?”
Michael’s face warped, offense clear as day across his soft features. You’ve never spoken to him like this, and he didn’t appreciate the sudden abrasive tone you had taken. “Y/n, you don’t have to use that kind of language.”
Your shoulders dropped, and the only thing you could offer him in response was a long, cold stare. Language, really? A deep inhale through your nose is the sole thing keeping you steady. You thought for a moment, about when you first arrived. How he didn’t make it clear who you were from the start. Michael knew better than anyone who would be in attendance; these were his peers.
A lump formed in your throat as it dawned on you that he cared more about what she thought than about letting the world know you belonged to him. You needed to leave before you pounced on him next. “You know what, Michael?”
He gazed at you curiously, as if his statement held incredible merit that you shouldn’t have been questioning.
Michael's hands came to rest on his hips, and a brow quirked up, unable to believe you’d actually thrown in the towel. “Whatever?” Michael mirrored. You rolled your eyes, exhausted with him now.
“Yes, whatever. I’m not about to play second fiddle to that woman all night.” He huffed and looked around in disbelief. “You aren’t—” Before a lie could slip past his teeth, you cut him off. “I am, and you know it.”
His mouth closed, and for the first time since the catastrophic fallout, his eyes met yours, and his arms fell to his side.
What he found in them was a defeated kind of hurt. He’s let you down, and there wasn’t anything he could do to fix it now. Still, he tried, “Baby,” his voice came out soft, in that tone that would normally make it all better, as he moved toward you. Your eyes stung, and tears brimmed in your waterline. You took a step back, not wanting to be touched by the man who had all but betrayed you.
A hand came up to stop him, leaving no more room for conversation. You shook your head as a single tear fell, “Just...find Bill and let him know I want to go home.” With that, you turned, pulled the door open, and made your way to the building’s exit.
When you settled into the limousine, the weight of the night came crashing down on you. There was no need to save face anymore, no cameras watching your every move. Only you, and the thought that Michael couldn’t ever love you as much as he did her.
Your shoulders shook slightly at first, with only small whimpers leaving your lips. But as the car pulled off and your mind ran faster, those whimpers devolved into full-blown sobs. Bill offered the best comfort he could without making you recount the details, but all you could do was cry. By the time he’d pulled into Havenhurst’s driveway, the loud wails that filled the space had morphed into sniffles.
You nodded, not trusting your ability to speak just yet. As you slid out of the car, the ring that decorated your finger had been left in the backseat, along with any respect you had left for the world’s biggest star. You marched through the house and up to your and Michael’s shared room. Sadness had gone, and in its place, anger and disgust settled. If he wanted to be single so badly, you’d grant him his wish.
The first thing you did when you made it up was grab a suitcase and rip it open. The second? Clearing any sign that you’d ever been there. You cursed and huffed as you threw your clothes, shoes, perfumes, and even your toothbrush into the luggage haphazardly. Then, you zipped it and headed for the door leading to the stairs outside. The thing nearly came off the hinges with how fast you tore it open. Without much of a second thought, you sent the suitcase careening over the railing, and it landed on the concrete below with a loud ‘Thud!’
That was thirty-four days ago.
Thirty-four days since Michael had embarrassed you.
No, he hadn’t done just that. That would have been forgivable. He had forsaken you and made it clear that it was intentional. When you’d arrived at your mother’s doorstep with your head hung low, she welcomed you with open arms and a copy of some tabloid that detailed Michael’s eight-time win at the award show…and your encounter with Ms. Ross. You begged her to spare you the speeches, but with her being your mother, it was almost as if you’d said nothing.
For the first two weeks, the phone rang tirelessly, no doubt your fiancé trying to right his wrongs. You stopped paying it any mind after day three. On day seven, you just took the receiver off the hook. Then began the letters. The post doesn’t move fast enough to deliver one every day, so you knew he was having them dropped off. They all said the same thing: how sorry Michael was, how he just wanted you to come home, how he loved you. Hell, there were even a few marred with tear stains.
How fitting, the man who made you weep, was crying out for you to stay by his side. Still, you stood strong, and after another five days, every letter made its way back to him. Across the front of each one, painfully bright red ink marked “Return to Sender.”
After the letters failed, it became apparent that Michael had grown desperate. Ridiculously expensive gifts graced your mother’s doorstep next. Bags you had no use for, shoes that didn’t fit in your closet, clothes that you would’ve only worn by his side, and even jewelry that you knew cost more than a few limbs. Just as before, you tried to get rid of it, wanting nothing to do with Michael’s theatrics.
On day sixteen, the almost endless display of gift boxes that littered her countertops had pissed you off. The longer they sat there, the more they mocked you. Michael sincerely thought he could sweet-talk or even buy his way back into your good graces. By no means would a blank check grant him redemption.
You rounded everything up and hauled it outside. Your mother came into the kitchen, yelling about something you had forgotten to pick up at the store, and noticed the empty spaces. She’d been robbed, that was her first thought.
She flew out the front door and down the porch steps with a quickness someone her age should not have. “What the hell?” she muttered as she approached you. The older woman had caught you, jumping up and down, trying to stuff everything into the garbage; that’s where she drew the line.
“Uh-uh!” She hollered while trying to pull you away from what you considered to be an expensive heap of junk. You huffed and pushed harder, already knowing where this would go.
“Mama, I don’t want any of this. It’s all trash to me.” You fussed.
“Oh, girl, stop it!” She yelped, attempting yet again to pry you away. Your mom succeeded this time, but not without some serious effort. The look she gave you while catching her breath could’ve put you six feet under. “Mama!” You breathed out, “I don't. want. it.”
“You don’t!” She yelled, fed up with your theatrics. “Just because y’all are in a little spat, that don’t mean good stuff should go to waste!”
You let out a frustrated groan as she sifted through the items. “It ain’t a spat, mama. He chose her, right there in front of me!”
The older woman rolled her eyes and waved her hand, having had enough of the melodrama stirred up between two twenty-somethings. “Y/n, he didn’t choose her. You just didn’t like that your name wasn’t plastered on his forehead.”
You froze and turned to look at her fully as a sour feeling began to rest on your tongue. “Mama, how could you say that?” You uttered, voice barely there.
The older woman paused and sighed. “Because, baby. That boy is scared of his own shadow.”
Your brows knitted together, and you threw your hands up, not understanding what that had to do with anything. Your mother could sense your confusion and continued,
“What he said was foolish, yes. I’ll give you that. But baby…knowing Michael, it could have been an honest mistake.”
You shook your head and scoffed out a laugh. Honest mistake? She couldn’t be serious.
“I’m more than serious, y/n.”
Oh, you said that out loud. Doesn’t matter. What she was saying still didn’t make any sense. How could his adamant refusal of your engagement be “an honest mistake”?
You tried to walk away, having lost all patience for the conversation, but the woman before you grabbed your arm and held you steady.
“Little girl, mind yourself. I wasn’t done talkin’.” Her tone cemented your feet where they were. She let go as she finally pulled away from the bin, and looked you in the eye.
“Y/n. Michael is a perfect idiot. And if that ragged woman was right about one thing, it’s that he is delicate. He didn’t mean to cause as much damage as he did, I’m sure.” She rambled, rubbing your arm in an attempt to soothe you.
The silence that fell between you let her know that you didn’t believe a word she said. He was a grown man after all. Delicate or not, something had to give. Your mouth opened, ready to refute everything this woman said, but she beat you to it.
“Now, I’m not saying that what he did was right. What I am saying is that before there was you, there was her. She’s all he’d ever known about women and relationships. As wrong as she was for going after a boy like him… honey, scars from claws like that don’t just vanish. He loves you, and he’s never done anything before now to suggest otherwise.” She said, voice stern.
You hated to admit it, but the older lady was right. Michael really didn’t have much experience outside of you and Diana, and anything he did have was short-lived because of her. It was hard not to be upset about it, though.
You’d spent so much time breaking down his walls and showing him what real love looked like, and all it took for that work to crumble was a few words exchanged with the very woman who had broken him. You wanted to hear your mother out, you did, but what he had done wasn’t excusable in your book.
This woman knew you like the back of her hand, which meant she could tell most of what she had said fell on deaf ears. Still, she gave you enough to think about, and before this could drag out any further, she finished her spiel. “Give him some grace. At the very least, talk to him.”
Your lips folded inward, and you gave her a single nod before turning on your heel and leaving her to pick through the discarded treasure.
Twenty-seven more days have passed since that conversation with your mother, and you still haven’t talked to Michael. Haven’t even tried. But when a formal invitation for the twenty-sixth annual Grammy Awards made its way into the mailbox, you accepted, silently, of course.
Your mother tries her hardest not to smile as you tell her. You know that she’s been updating him on what you’ve been doing, so you stress to her that he can not know that you’re coming. She nods and immediately begins planning your outfit. You laugh and tell her you want to do it big, something that catches and keeps eyes on you. Your mother nods excitedly as she finds a pen and paper to jot something down.
“She won’t run her mouth this time. We need to go down to the fabric store so I can start on this dress.”
The last day of February rolls around quickly. You stand in the small living room as the older woman you’ve plagued with your antics adjusts the gown framing your body just one last time. “Mama, the dress is begging you to leave that spot alone.” You jest, trying to get her to let you leave.
She cuts her eyes toward you and huffs with a smile, “Oh, hush! I haven’t gotten to do something like this since your prom, leave me be.”
You giggle as she stands back and grabs her camera. “Mama, seriously? I don’t have time—”
She quirks a brow and cuts you off, “The hell you don’t, much time as I spent on this dress. I’m gon’ get a damn picture. Be still!” You roll your eyes and pose, smile shining bright as the diamonds in your ears. After a few shutters of the lens, and a kiss on your cheek, your mother pushes you out the door with a few parting words, “Don’t you dare come back to this house single, little girl!”
The car sent for you wasn’t from Michael, you made sure of that. One of your mutual friends agreed to keep your secret and have you transported like precious cargo. The ride to the venue rattles your nerves as memories from before seep back in. You wonder if this is a bad idea. If showing up would lead you to the same fate. But the wrath you’d have to face if you turned back now was enough to steel the thoughts. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from your mother's.
In that time, you shift your focus to what you’ll do when you see him. Will you cry? Maybe you’ll yet. Might even jump into his arms at the first chance. As much as you hate it, you miss Michael deeply. He’s been your everything for half a decade, and being without him has been pure torture.
You’re so lost in thought, you don’t realize right away that you’ve arrived. A long, deep breath escapes from your lips as you peer out through the glass. The door opens, only this time, there’s no fiancé to shield your eyes. You step out, and for a moment, the flashes stop. Everyone holds their breath as the woman before them walks forward.
She is elegance personified. A beautiful ball gown, fit for a queen, really, covers her body. Her bodice accentuates her form. It’s all-black, embellished with precious stones, and finely detailed lace. The skirt of the dress is fashioned similarly and reflects the light beautifully. The young woman's shoulders are cloaked with a white shawl. Her arms are exposed up to the elbows, the rest covered by dark, sheer gloves.
Between her breasts rests an eight-carat pendant dangling on a silver chain, and in her ears are smaller gemstones, still blinding as they catch the light. As a final touch, a delicately ornate tiara sits gracefully on the crown of her head, no doubt worth thousands.
Almost as quickly as they stopped, the clicks began again, accompanied by shouting. The paparazzi here nearly topple over one another trying to get to you.
“Y/n! Who are you wearing?”
“Are you here alone tonight?”
All you can spare is a gentle smile as you make your way past them. Inside the building, loud chatter fills the space from wall to wall. As you move through the room, the volume dwindles. Eyes cut toward you from all directions, joined by a few gasps and whispers of who you might be here with.
The tiniest grin forms on your lips, mission accomplished. The men at the event show little shame in offering their company, promising a good time, but you politely decline.
After a bit of searching, the table with your name card comes into view. One of the women there helps you lift the back of your dress so you can sit comfortably. When she moves away, you look around, feeling a little defeated. You haven’t seen Michael at all, which means he hasn’t seen you. The outfit you chose for the night almost feels foolish as you settle further into the chair. Just as you prepare to give up hope and chalk this up to a loss, the namecard resting across from you catches your eye. Fuck’s sake.
You shake your head and stifle a giggle. Of course. Your mother couldn’t hold water, this was no doubt her fault. As you ponder all the ways you absolutely will be chiding her for not following directions, a voice cuts through the air, announcing your ex-fiancé’s arrival. Your eyes find the source of the noise, and meet his producer waving across the room.
“Smelly!” Quincy shouts, beaming as he greets the younger man. They hug briefly and engage in a bit of small talk. While they do, you take advantage of the lack of attention.
Michael is dressed similarly to the way he was the last time you saw him. The only real difference is that his jacket is a deep blue instead of a bright red. A symbol that tonight would be different, that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Even though you aren’t all that happy to see him, you can’t deny that he looks good. That aside, over a month without your lover has left you a bit…needy. Your stare intensifies as you rake over his body. He always looks good, and the way he commands a room without even trying really does something to you. His hands move as he speaks. God, how you missed his touch. Your thighs clench together in an effort to steady yourself.
Mid-drool, Q points a finger in your direction. Your eyes flit away, and you give an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be interested in the fabric of the tablecloth. Someone has to be listening to your prayers, because right then, one of the male attendees slips into Michael’s seat. He offers you a drink, and you take it embarrassingly fast.
As you sip, he tells you all about the ways he could make you happy, what kind of night he can give you, and, of course, how he could spoil you better than any man. You chuckle and look down. Uninterested, sure, but entertained nonetheless. Before you can respond, a set of loafters fall under your gaze.
Michael's words come out pointed and impatient. “Get out of my seat, and stop talking to my fiancé like that.”
The poor man in front of you freezes and turns his head slowly. He stands to his feet fast and utters a series of apologies that Michael certainly doesn’t hear. All he does is tilt his head in some other direction, and the poor fella gets the picture, scurrying off before upsetting Michael any further. Once alone, the American royal turns to you, and a tender smile graces his features.
“Y/n?” He breaths, almost certain you might be a figment of his imagination. “You came?”
You bring your eyes up to meet his, with an unamused look on your face. “Cut it out. I know my mother told you I would.” Michael laughs softly, nodding his head. “Okay, she did. But I couldn’t be too sure, I know how quick you can be to change your mind.”
You assure him that you almost did as he takes his seat. In true Michael fashion, he makes a show of it, scootching the chair across the wood floor so that he is placed right next to you. He holds your stare for a moment, searching for the right words.
“You look…stunning,” He whispers, with admiration shining in his eyes. After being in your absence for six weeks, your ex-fiance is breathless. When all he receives in response is a light hum, he tries a different approach.
“You sent my letters back,” Michael mutters.
You nod, “I did. There wasn’t anything you could say to make up for that night.” The lights dim as the show gets ready to begin.
Memwhile, the man across from you blanches, his mouth feels dry, and his hands are clammy. He sits back and groans. Michael practiced speaking to you in the mirror all night. And now, he can’t think of a single thing to follow up that kind of response. This is uncharted territory; he’s never had to win back a fiancée before, and none of his previous attempts had worked.
There’s only one thing he can think of that he hasn’t tried, and it would be tricky to pull off. Still, he needs to show you just how much you mean to him. Michael glances around a few times, making sure that all eyes, including yours, aren’t trained on him right now. You, along with everybody else, are focused on the presenter speaking. Good
He picks up the namecard resting on the table, and lets it fall from his fingers and onto the ground. His foot finishes the job, kicking it under the table. Michael makes sure you’re still oblivious and slithers under next. He kisses his teeth at your skirt, which is incredibly inconvenient right now. He
You feel the rustle against your skirt. You look over to check and find that your impromptu date is missing. The feel of his hands caressing your calves warms your body. There’s no way. You attempt to push him away with a nudge of your heel, but his grip tightens and holds your legs steady. Your eyes dart around the dark room, hoping no one else has noticed his absence. When you relax, his hands soothe your skin again. They move reverently. Up your shins, and over your knees before coming to rest on your thighs.
Your cheeks burn as warmth settles deep in your belly. His thumbs rub circles into the meaty flesh of your legs under the dress. Your slick forms a damp spot in the center of your panties while he continues to massage your skin. You shift in your seat, hoping to ease some of the pressure. Michael's fingers then find the waistband of the fabric separating you from him. Your ass remains firmly planted in defiance. If he wanted this, he would have to work for it. Your refusal doesn’t deter the man between your legs. He simply rips them off, balling up what’s left of the fabric and stuffing it in his pocket. You jump at the feeling, earning a few puzzled looks. A polite smile is enough to throw everyone off your scent. For now.
Michael’s breath fans against your pussy, leaving your body buzzing with excitement. Your fist finds itself between your teeth as Michael presses featherlight kisses to your clit. He continues teasing until your hand comes down to cradle the back of his head. A sign of surrender. He smiles against your center and sets to work. The first lick is tentative and has you biting back a loud moan. The next few are stronger, applying just the right amount of pressure to that bundle of nerves. Two long fingers prod at your weeping hole next, entering slowly and curving upward.
You cough, trying to appear as if you aren’t falling apart in your seat. Michael pulls your clit into his mouth, sucking hard as he swirls his tongue. Tears from the pleasure form in the corners of your eyes as you try your best to hold on.
As if this couldn’t get any harder, the man from before returns, asking where Michael has gone. Under the table, at the sound of his voice, Michael grunts and presses his fingers into that mushy spot deep in your walls. A choked noise tears from your chest, and the only thing you can do is sputter out a rushed “Bathroom!” The gentleman in front of you asks if you’re okay. You are not, far from it. Still, you nod your head and manage to tell him he should go before Michael gets back. He nods with an incredulous look on his face and walks away. Thank god.
The digits driving into your cunt move faster, and you double over with your hands coming to grip the edge of the table. A low moan leaves your lips before you can stop it. Michael pinches your thigh in response, reminding you where you are. He continues to eat as if this is his last meal, rolling your bud over his tongue, and bullies into you harder. The pleasure builds faster than you could’ve anticipated. The honey on his lips is bountiful, a product of his devotion. His apology is bliss, and with one more harsh suck and a few more strokes, the band snaps. Searing white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine, your body tenses, and your head hits the tabletop as the high consumes you.
Michael doesn’t let up, making sure his redemption is guaranteed. The licks you through the aftershocks, cleaning up the mess he’s made, on both fronts. He only stops when he feels your body slump, letting him know you can’t take any more. He kisses both of your thighs before leaving your heat. A silent promise made to be kept later. When he comes up to face his lover, what he finds makes him giggle. You face down, breathing heavily and twitching, a true sight to see.
By the time you find the strength to pick yourself up and look over at the man who has ruined you, the presenter is calling his name for the first time that night. You give him a once-over, making sure there's no evidence of his penance. His chin shines with your essence, and if you didn’t stop him, he would surely wear it like a badge of honor. You take a napkin and dab it away quickly so you can send him up to the stage. Michael kisses you, slow and deep, before he goes. Cheers erupt around the room. That doesn’t have your focus, though. The taste of yourself on his tongue does. You pull back and plant a kiss there on his cheek, leaving your mark.
When they call his name for the eighth time that night, he walks across the stage on a mission. He arrives back at the podium and grips the edges tightly before speaking. “I know I’ve said most of my ‘thank yous’, but, uh, well, there’s one more person who deserves one. The biggest one, really. My fiance, y/n.” He points you out in the crowd before continuing. “Thank you. You’re the reason I’ve been able to get this far. I can’t think of any other way to repay you than by being by your side and caring for you as your husband for the rest of our lives. I love you, always.”
A tear falls from your eye, but this time, it isn’t because he hid you away.
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