Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Synopsis: Michael an old associate, meets you again…
Tags:, Love, Overstimulation, new flame, One-night stand/ Quicky
TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, sensual, teasing, thirsting, and other sexual orientation.
Requested: No/ Yes By Anonymous
Word count: too lazy to look
The moment he walked in, the air shifted.
You were mid-laugh with your best friend, glass of white wine in your hand, when the door opened — and in he stepped.
Everything about him was striking, but tonight? He was on another level.
He wore a deep burgundy silk button-down, the top few buttons undone, revealing a smooth line of warm, caramel skin and the tease of a gold chain catching the low lights. The fabric clung to his frame like it knew what it was doing — draping off his chest, folding into sharp creases at the waist.
His blazer matched — deep red, slightly oversized, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. But it was the leather pants that made you nearly choke on your drink.
They were a shade darker than the shirt. Wine-colored, high-waisted, tight. Hugging his hips and thighs like a second skin. When he moved, they creaked ever so slightly — subtle, soft, but enough to make your breath catch.
And the boots? Black leather, polished to a quiet shine, pointed toes tapping casually as he stepped further into the room, every movement deliberate, dancer-smooth. The silver accents on the heel gleamed when the light hit just right.
Your best friend noticed your silence. Nudged you gently.
“Girl,” she whispered. “Are you breathing?”
Michael’s eyes found you across the room like he knew — like he felt you before he even looked. When your gazes met, the corners of his lips lifted slowly. That damn smile. The kind that wasn’t just handsome — it was devastating.
And the way his brown eyes crinkled slightly when he smirked? You felt it between your legs.
He made his way through the space slowly, never once breaking eye contact. When he reached you, his voice was soft, like silk over bare skin.
“You always look this good,” he said, eyes dipping down your body, “or is this just for me?”
You gave him a look. “You assume everything’s about you?”
He tilted his head slightly. “No. But I can tell when someone wants to be noticed.”
You felt heat rush through your chest.
Your best friend cleared her throat beside you. “Michael,” she said sweetly, “play nice.”
He looked at her and gave a small bow of his head, polite and gentlemanly.
“I always play nice,” he said, then looked right at you again, “until I’m given permission not to.”
The tension cracked like static in the room. Your best friend blinked between the two of you, eyes wide.
“Okayyy, I’m gonna… grab another drink,” she muttered and slipped away.
You exhaled slowly. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
Michael leaned in slightly, speaking just above a whisper. “Not when it comes to things I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”
The air between you was hot now. Thick. Every time he looked at you, it felt like he was peeling away layers you didn’t realize you were wearing.
You ended up alone with him by the record player. Low vinyl playing some smoky soul track. The lights were warm and dim, the rest of the guests mellow, lost in side conversations.
Your best friend gave you a wink across the room as she disappeared upstairs.
Michael leaned one elbow against the wall beside you. “So,” he said. “Are we gonna keep pretending this is just small talk?”
You swallowed the last of your wine.
“That depends,” you said. “You planning to keep teasing or are you actually going to do something about it?”
He pushed off the wall slowly.
So close you felt his breath on your cheek. One hand came to rest at your waist, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of your lower back — light, not demanding.
“You’re not afraid to push back,” he murmured. “I like that.”
You tilted your head up. “You’re not afraid to test limits.”
“Only yours,” he said, voice low. “Never mine.”
And still — he didn’t kiss you.
He just stayed close. Let the heat build. Let your body start to ache for more. His hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the curve of your ass through your dress, slow, deliberate.
Then he leaned down, whispered in your ear:
“If I kiss you now, I’m not stopping.”
You turned to face him fully. “Then don’t start until you’re ready to finish.”
That slow, sinful, Michael smile.
“Then let’s find somewhere with a door.”
The bedroom door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality — not loud, but absolute.
You stood there for a second, breathing, letting your back rest against the door as you watched him. Michael was only a few steps ahead of you, his profile carved by warm lamplight from the nightstand. He was facing the window, hands in his pockets, that silk shirt clinging to his frame with every slow breath.
And those brown eyes landed on you again — that same heat, but deeper now. Focused. His gaze ran from your face to your collarbone, then slowly down to your hips, the dip of your thighs.
“I’ve imagined this,” he said softly. “For longer than I should probably admit.”
You stayed quiet, heat rising in your cheeks. Your legs squeezed together on instinct.
“And now you’re standing there,” he continued, walking toward you, “with that look in your eye… like you want me to ruin you.”
When he reached you, he didn’t kiss you yet. He just lifted his hand — that same hand that guided you earlier — and gently traced his thumb across your bottom lip. You instinctively parted them, and his smile deepened.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re quiet like this,” he whispered.
His body pressed into yours with full weight, his hips pinning you gently against the door. You could feel the cool leather of his pants against your thighs, the subtle ridge of his belt buckle pressing to your stomach. He kissed like he moved — with rhythm, control, and pure intent. One hand gripped your waist. The other slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers tilting your chin up to keep you right there.
You melted under it. But he didn’t let you slip too far.
His hand slid down, around your thigh, lifting it gently, wrapping it around his waist. You could feel just how hard he was now — thick, pressing into your core, and still holding back.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your neck.
“I’ve been walking around this whole night like that… because of you.”
You whimpered as his hand found your ass — squeezing, grounding, claiming — while his mouth moved back to yours.
But still, he didn’t rush.
Instead, he guided you away from the door, walking you backward slowly toward the bed. He kissed down your neck, pulling at the strap of your dress. The fabric fell easily — off one shoulder, then the other — and he let it slip all the way down your body, leaving you standing there in just your bra and lace-trimmed underwear.
He stepped back, just to look.
His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.
“Turn around for me,” he said, voice firm but calm.
You did — slowly, your back to him, your hands resting on the bed frame. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes, then the creak of leather as he stepped closer.
His hand smoothed down your spine, then slipped between your legs, sliding up the center of your panties. You gasped.
“You’re soaked already,” he whispered. “Just from my mouth. From the way I talk to you.”
You tried to respond — couldn’t.
He kissed your neck, your shoulder, then down your back. Hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed.
And then — without a word — he knelt behind you.
His mouth pressed between your thighs, warm and open, his tongue stroking you in slow, deliberate circles. You grabbed the sheets, knuckles white, as he moaned against your pussy like he was tasting the first sip of something expensive and forbidden.
When you came, it was with your forehead pressed to the mattress, your moan caught between the sheets, thighs trembling around his head.
He stood, kissed the curve of your ass, then your back, then your shoulder again.
“Up,” he said gently. “On the bed.”
You climbed on, laid back, watched as he pulled off his shirt — smooth, slow — and finally those leather pants, revealing the rest of him: long, strong, hard.
He stroked himself once, then crawled over you, pressing the tip to your entrance.
“You ready?” he asked, watching your face.
After he slid inside you — slow and complete — he stayed still, buried deep, your thighs spread wide beneath his hips, his chest hovering just inches over yours.
His arms braced on either side of your head, and his breath kissed your lips with every exhale.
His eyes locked on yours, watching you like he could see inside you. The room was warm, humming with silence and the faint beat of your joined heartbeats.
You shifted — just slightly — needing more.
That slow, sexy, crinkled-eye smile that made your stomach flip and a low pulse throb between your legs.
“Easy,” he whispered. “We’ve got time.”
You whimpered. Your hands reached up, gripping his biceps, the tension in your belly already coiling tight.
He rolled his hips — once.
And you gasped. It was barely a thrust, just enough to make your body pulse and clutch around him, but it made everything worse. You needed more. You needed him to move.
“I want you to feel every second,” he said softly, lips brushing your cheek. “Every inch. Every part of me inside you.”
He pulled back so slowly it was maddening — the long, delicious drag of his cock along your walls, only to stop at the tip… and push all the way in again, deep and steady.
Your head tilted back, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed.
He didn’t let you drift too far.
“Look at me,” he murmured, his hand catching your jaw gently. “I want to see it. Every time I touch you. I want to watch what I do to you.”
He began to move — a torturously slow pace. Not to tease. To claim.
Each thrust was deliberate. Full. Drawing you up and over the edge again and again without letting you fall. His hips rolled with practiced rhythm, his muscles flexing under your hands. You could feel the control in every inch of his body — like he was holding back a storm just beneath the surface.
Instead, his lips met your neck, trailing soft, slow kisses down to your chest. He took your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling with wet heat, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.
He moaned softly into your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he whispered, licking back up to your mouth. “The way you squeeze me like that when I slow down.”
You let out a broken moan, hands gripping his waist.
“I need more,” you begged. “Michael, please—”
He grinned again. “You’ll get it, baby. But not until you feel it first.”
His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit — and still, he didn’t rush.
He rubbed it in slow, perfect circles, the pressure maddening. You writhed beneath him, every part of your body trembling now — from the teasing, from the buildup, from the overwhelming stretch of being filled so perfectly.
He kissed your lips again. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he whispered. “Just from me moving slow. From me not giving it all. You’re gonna lose it without me ever needing to fuck you hard.”
Your orgasm came like a rising tide — slow, steady, pulling you under. Your body shook, clenched, wrapped around him like you were trying to pull him deeper, keep him inside you forever.
He stayed there. Still moving. Still slow.
“You’ve got more,” he murmured. “You’re not done. Let me keep you right here.”
You whimpered, the overstimulation making your thighs twitch, your hands shaking, your mind blank with pleasure.
And then, finally — finally — he started to pick up speed.
His thrusts got sharper, deeper, his breath heavier.
He kissed your neck again and whispered, “Turn over.”
You obeyed — barely thinking — letting him guide you to your stomach. He lifted your hips gently, pulling you back to your knees. You heard the low sound he made when he looked at your body from behind.
“So thick,” he whispered. “So perfect. This ass…”
He grabbed it, spread it, kissed it — and then slid back into you from behind.
You both moaned, the angle deeper now, rougher but still controlled. His hand snaked around your waist, back to your clit, rubbing you in time with his strokes.
Harder. Louder. Your body jerking, the sound of skin against skin filling the room now — wet, loud, real.
“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice low and shaking. “You can take more.”
You wanted more. Needed it.
You let him fuck you like that — slow, then harder, then slow again — until your legs gave out and your voice was gone and you could only feel.
When he finally came, it was with a deep groan, his hands gripping your hips, his body shaking against your back as he buried himself one last time.
He stayed there. Breathless. Pressed to your skin. Kissing the back of your shoulder, your spine, the curve of your neck.
His hand came up to cradle your cheek, pulling your face to his for a soft, slow kiss.
“You’re everything,” he whispered. “Everything.”
Because no one who didn’t mean it could love you like that.
