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Seat Filler Pt. II 🏆 🇪

If you haven't read the first part, you can find that here: Part I

Word count: 9.7k

Warning(s): This imagine contains sexually explicit content.

**MINORS DO NOT INTERACT**

April 18, 1984. Los Angeles, CA.

"And the winner is.. Billie Jean, Michael Jackson!"

The audience roared as Michael stood up from his seat. Billie Jean flowed through the speakers of Shrine Auditorium, Michael smiled as he walked up the steps. When he reached the top, he turned to the audience and gave them a slight wave.

He kissed one of the presenters, Melissa Manchester, on the cheek before adjusting his aviators at the podium.

After he walked off stage, he followed the presenters backstage. His team congratulated him, and he shook their hands before handing his award off to them so he could walk back out to his seat. The smile he once carried, dropped the minute he sat down.

While Lionel Richie, tonight's host for the American Music Awards, carried on with his segment, Brooke Shields shifted in her seat to look at him.

Yes, she was asked to accompany Michael to another award show once again.

"Michael, what's wrong? You should be celebrating." she asked. She'd noticed his mood constantly shifting all night, and she was beginning to get concerned.

She's right. It was his fourth award of the night, and he should be celebrating.

He had everything he wanted— a supportive team, great audience reception toward Thriller, the awards, but something was different, something that kept this night from feeling right.

You.

He simply ignored her and leaned back in his chair, imagining how different the night would've been if you were there with him as his date instead of her.

Nearly two months have passed since you and Michael's first encounter at the Grammy's. Michael had Bill look into you, but to his surprise, not much was found. Nothing substantial, anyway. All he had to go on was what you had told him: your name and that you had a boyfriend.

Did he care that you had a boyfriend? Of course not.

He just knew that he had to see you again.

No matter what.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As the award show carried on, Michael found himself merely going through the motions. He'd smile, then stop. He'd laugh, then stop. But nothing was funny.

After a certain point, the show ultimately became boring for Michael. That is, until the next group of nominees were announced...

Debbie Allen, Deborah Allen, and Charley Pride stood at the podium to announce the nominees for "Favorite Soul/R&B Song".

"Michael Jackson, Billie Jean."

The camera panned to Michael, who hd been sitting stoically until he heard the girls in the balcony; he couldn't help but laugh before licking his lips.

"Lionel Richie, All Night Long (All Night)."

The camera shifted to Lionel, who had just settled into his seat after multiple costume changes throughout the night, given his role as the host. He waved to the camera as the audience applauded.

"Rick James, Cold Blooded."

When the camera panned to Rick, it showed him leaning back in his seat, legs spread out, a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, sending a puff of smoke curling around his head. It was less of a surprise to see Rick but it was who was sitting beside him is what caught Michael's attention.

There you were, sitting at the end of the row next to Rick James. Seconds after seeing you on the screen, Michael turned in his chair to find you. He quickly scanned the room, spotting the camera crew leave that section— finally, he saw you.

You were in the next section over— 7 rows behind him, 7 seats across from him, creating the perfect diagonal line.

Your strapless black velvet mini dress, a striking contrast to the shimmering white gown you wore last time, popped against the mahogany seating. The plunging sweetheart neckline dipped daringly in the center, trimmed with diamonds that made you look even more stunning. Your big, voluminous, tightly coiled curls, parted deeply on the side, framed your face like a halo and cascaded down your shoulders. You crossed your legs, sending Michael's mind into overdrive.

His throat suddenly went dry as you looked his way, acknowledging him with a playful smirk and a head nod.

"Mtume, Juicy Fruit."

Though the camera did pan over to Mtume, Michael's focus remained fixed on you, staring over his shoulder from across the room. His aviators were shielding his eyes, but you knew he was looking, and you found yourself unable to look away.

You kept your smirk and bit your lip when you saw him slowly lick his. You could feel the heat from all the way over there. How ironic it was that both of you were back in the same place where you'd first met, at the same time. Nothing had changed really— except the seats. Yet, the fact still remained: even though you were taken, you'd risk it all for Michael.

"And the winner is..."

The presenter's moment of suspense couldn't hold a candle to the tension building between the two of you.

The moment was cut short by Rick grabbing your thigh and kissed your jawline, causing Michael's jaw to clench.

"Lionel Richie, All Night Long, (All Night)!"

Not long after, Michael felt a nudge, causing him to shift forward in his seat. It was Brooke, clearly irritated that Michael's attention was elsewhere.

Brooke had seen you when they first walked into the auditorium. Michael hadn't. He was too busy talking to Quincy, trying to ensure his family would be seated in the row behind him since he was receiving the Merit of Honor tonight.

She thought if she sat at the end of the row this time, that would eliminate any and all contact with you. Boy, was she wrong and she hated that.

Michael looked at her, his expression mirrored hers, irritation painfully obvious behind his shades.

"Yes?" he asked.

Brooke tried to feign obliviousness to the situation. "Are you paying attention to the show?"

"Of course," he played along. "What else would I be doing?"

Brooke just scoffed and kept her arms folded as she looked ahead. "Whatever."

Michael didn't bother replying as the announcer's voice came over the overhead speakers.

"Please welcome to the stage, Charlie O' Donnell and The Gap Band!"

Charlie Wilson and his brothers, Ronnie and Robert, strolled onstage alongside a grinning Charlie O' Donnell— who was proudly rocking the black-and-white variation of the 'Beat It' jacket. The audience clapped at their arrival.

The brothers all turned toward Charlie O' Donnell, eyeing him posing in the jacket with amused suspicion.

"What's goin' on with this jacket, man?" Ronnie asked.

"Yeah," Robert added, squinting. "I remember watching the Beat It video... I don't remember this jacket being in there."

Charlie O' Donnell popping his collar with a smug grin. "It's limited edition," he declared, before busting out his best impression of Michael's moves from the video.

"It sure is..." Charlie said dryly, his eyes following his brothers' as they watched the man make a spectacle of himself.

The audience laughed at the quip— including Michael, who found the entire bit entertaining. The men onstage broke character for a moment to join in on the laughter. Once it settled, Charlie Wilson stepped forward and spoke into the mic. "The nominees for Favorite Soul Male are..."

He stepped back to let Robert pick up where he left off. "Michael Jackson!" His name alone was enough to earn a wave of claps and high-pitched squeals throughout the auditorium.

"Rick James!" Charlie Wilson announced next.

Then, in unison, All three brothers spoke into the mic. "Prince!" Charlie chuckled and leaned forward one more time. "Lionel Richie!"

Charlie O' Donnell stepped up and opened the envelope. "And the winner is..." He glanced down at the card, then back up. "Michael Jackson!!"

A small smirk crept onto Michael's face as he stood up again and made a beeline toward the podium.

Though the cheers were loud, you could hear a sharp, "Damn it," hissed beside you. Rick sucked his teeth in frustration, throwing an arm behind your chair. With only two nominations tonight and no wins, he was clearly annoyed about going home empty-handed.

But you? You were anything but. A slow, satisfied smile curled your lips as you watched Michael take the stage. You found a private joy in seeing your date lose to the very man who currently had all of your attention. And from the looks of it— so did Michael.

He greeted each of the presenters with handshakes and quick hugs before accepting the award. Then, he stepped up to the microphone.

"Again... I'm uh, deeply moved," he said over the screams, placing the trophy gently on the podium, adjusting it slightly. "This is my seventh award of the night. Not a lot of people can say that and I uh... appreciate it very much," he chuckled, the laughter bubbling up from another round of squeals above him. "The girls in the balcony, I love you and you're wonderful!"

He threw his hand up to wave at them. The very gesture causing the women up there to lose their minds, erupting in a fit of cheers as the audience joins in with their applause.

Michael quickly scans the room, soaking in the moment until his eyes landed on you The second he saw you sitting next to Rick, his jaw clenched tight enough to kiss his teeth. But before anyone could detect the hint of envy in his expression, he masked it with a subtle lick of his bottom lip.

He continued smoothly, "An important chemistry in writin' songs is inspiration... and I'm lookin' at one of 'em right now."

A few faint wolf whistles that escaped the crowd as the jumbotron cut to Brooke.

Brooke smiled, gazing up at him with admiration, believing the compliment was meant for her.

That smile quickly faltered.

The way his face was angled, it wasn't toward her. Slowly, her eyes followed the tilt of his jawline, glancing over her shoulder to see exactly who he was talking about.

You.

Your smirk widened as your eyes dragged from Michael to the jumbotron, then over to Brooke. You threw a taunting wink.

"It's all of you, thank you!" Michael flashed his charming smile, lifted the AMA trophy high and blew a kiss to the crowd before heading backstage.

Brooke's blood boiled. She snapped her head forward and gripped the armrest tightly, forcing herself to maintain her carefully curated "good girl" image before it cracked under the weight of pure bitterness and jealously.

Minutes later, Michael casually returned to his seat. You could feel his eyes on you before you turned your head. When you finally did, it prompted you to shift back in your chair, subtly press your legs together and sweep them to one side— one thigh slightly higher than the other.

Behind his shades, Michael watched every movement with great appreciation. He knew exactly what you were doing— and who you were doing for. The corner of his mouth curled into a smirk as he tucked his bottom lip beneath his teeth.

A loud clearing of the throat cut through the tension, snapping Michael out of the trance you had him under. He turned toward the sound— Brooke, once again. He sank into his seat with a feigned look of surprise. "What?"

Brooke scowled at him, rolled her eyes, and looked away, not bothering to say a word. Again.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Moments were stretching longer than the last with each passing segment, but not all was lost— the end of the show was near. After winning his eighth award of the night, Michael was set to receive the Merit Award, a special honor recognizing his achievements in the music industry thus far.

Kenny Rodgers, last year's recipient, took the stage to present a beautiful video montage. It featured fans from all over the world expressing their love for Michael and the Thriller album.

Following the montage, Kenny welcomed Quincy Jones to the stage. Quincy gave a short, powerful message praising Michael as well as acknowledging his accolades with Off the Wall and Thriller, and everything in between.

Then came a series of videotaped messages from some of Michael's personal friends such as, Liza Minelli, Paul McCartney, Jane Fonda, Yul Brynner, and Katherine Hepburn. Each one extended their congratulations on his success and sent their love, each one heartfelt in their own right.

After the video tributes, Barry Manilow sang a beautiful medley of Michael's favorite songs from the Jackson 5 days: Ben, Never Can Say Goodbye, and I'll Be There. The tribute was tastefully done due to Michael personally requesting Barry to perform. At the end of the performance, Barry was joined by Kenny Rodgers, Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie and Diana Ross who came forward to share a personal message of her own.

Michael then came on stage to say a few words, giving thanks to everyone including Berry Gordy, his family, Suzanne dePasse, Quincy and Diana. He held the microphone gently in one hand, but his eyes were searching.

"I hope I didn't leave anybody out..." he said softly, scanning the room. Then, for a moment, his gaze locked with yours.

You sat there, poised and composed, casually flipping your hair over your shoulders, exposing the your smooth skin of your bare, toned collarbone. His eyes lingered, brushing across your shoulders before trailing lower— to the daring dip of your décolletage. "I just uh... boy." his voice caught slightly. Watching you had thrown him off.

He tore his gaze away, letting out a soft laugh as he gave a small shrug, still visibly flustered. "The American public... and I thank all the disc jockeys and everybody." he continued, finding his rhythm again. "I love you so much and thank you!"

The audience erupted in applause as Michael slowly bowed. On the way back up, he lifted his gloved hand to the ceiling— a subtle but unmistakeable gesture. Right on cue, Billie Jean began to play, filling the auditorium once again, just as it had several times throughout the night.

Michael turned toward Lionel, who was holding his award. He handed him the mic and swapped it for the gleaming trophy, cradling it at his hip. Then, he took a step further closer to the edge of the stage. With one smooth motion, he blew a kiss to the crowd, then quickly tucked his left foot behind his right heel, a graceful move, like it was choreography directly pulled out of a motion picture.

He raised his hand again, this time waving it to the girls in the balcony.

With that, Michael turned and walked off stage, trailing behind the others, except for Lionel.

Lionel stayed rooted on stage, opening his arms. "Well folks, that's the end of the American Music Awards!" he announced, pausing as the crowd erupted once more in applause. "You all drive safe and have a good night!"

He pointed to the main camera, clapped along with the crowd, and stepped back as the ensemble dancers returned to the stage for their closing number, the same routine that opened the show.

✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Backstage, camera flashes went off sporadically as Michael posed with his Merit Award and plaque, standing before the American Music Awards backdrop. The red carpet quite literally had been rolled out for him and he was surrounded by the very people who stood beside him onstage just moments before. He made sure to position himself right between Diana and Brooke as the photos were taken.

A few media personnel blended in with the photographers, trying to ask Michael questions as the busy atmosphere swirled around behind them.

"Michael, how does it feel to receive the Merit Award of Honor?"

"It's incredible." he said with a soft smile, his voice calm. "I'm deeply honored and grateful to receive this award tonight."

His answer triggered the other media personnels and photographers to all speak at once, cameras were steadily flashing, prompting Michael to just stand there and smile, letting the frenzy play out.

Dozens of celebrities were mixed in the frenzy backstage as well. Whether they were talking to reporters or amongst each other, it caused a steady hum of conversations to fill the area. Some celebrities were gossiping, some were potentially networking and others huddled near the emergency exit for a smoke break, clouds of cigarette smoke battled with the clouds of hairspray circulating from the side of last dressing room near the exit— a clear indication some of the women were getting ready for the afterparty.

Amid the noise, Michael's attention snapped toward movement coming from the corner of the backstage entrance. He saw Rick emerge with you by his side, guiding you through the sea of people, heading toward the exit. Dozens of photographers and reporters were trying to get his attention, but it didn't matter. His focus was on you. He was lucky that his shades concealed his expressive eyes, otherwise, he'd be asked a hell of a lot more questions that he didn't have the answers to.

At least... not yet.

"Alright, party's over, folks. No further questions. Thank you." Frank DiLeo stepped in from the side, cigar in one hand, the other held out with his palm up, signaling the press to stop. His voice cut through the chaos with practiced authority.

Though unnoticeable to those around him, Michael was visibly relieved that his manager stepped in. "Thank you, Frank." he muttered quietly.

"Anytime, kid." Frank replied with a wink, sliding the cigar between his lips. He took the plaque from Michael's hands and motioned to the staff to come over. "Let's go fellas, take these awards out and load them in my car."

As Frank and a couple crew members carried the awards out, Michael accepted a few more hugs and congratulations from industry friends as he slowly made his way toward the exit. He knew Rick liked to party. Which meant he'd be at the afterparty and because you were with him, he'd have a better chance of talking to you.

Brooke trailed in behind him until finally she caught up. "Woah, slow down partner," she teased lightly, slipping beside him. "It almost felt like you were gonna get in the car and leave me back there!"

If he was going against his better judgement, he would have. But, Michael would never do something like that.

Michael just let out a soft sigh as Bill Bray opened the limo door.

As he and Brooke slid inside, the door shut with a muffled thud, silencing Michael's busy thoughts, stilling them to only one: seeing you and Rick, leaving together. The single thought was enough to stir up a thousand more.

The drive over to the Beverly Hills Wilshire Hotel was a quick one, but to Michael? It felt like hours due to Brooke's endless chatter about the night.

When they got out, Brooke reached to grab his hand as they were greeted by more media personnel and reporters. He took her hand and walked down the carpet near the sanctioned-off reporters, their questions only growing louder and more frequent.

"Michael, congratulations on the night!" "Michael! Brooke! Over here!" "Michael, is it true that you and Brooke are dating?"

He threw up his gloved hand in a wave on the way inside the hotel lobby. Once they made it inside, Michael dropped their hands instantly, causing Brooke to look at him, her face etched with concern.

"What is going on with you?" she asked under her breath, frustration creeping in her tone as they continued down the cordoned path. "You've been acting different all night."

Michael walked in silence beside her, casting her a quick glance before looking ahead. "Different how?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Brooke scoffed. "You haven't been acting like much of a date. Not just tonight but for the last couple months now. What's changed?"

Michael couldn't bring himself to answer her. He knew her words rang true, but the answer wasn't as simple as Michael would've liked. He couldn't just tell her that the moment he sat down next to you at the Grammy's that faithful February night, the moment you spoke to him, everything changed.

Cutting through the unspoken shift, they arrived in front of the main ballroom where the night's festivities awaited them. The open double doors echoed the exact sentiment of how the evening was meant to feel— lively and carefree.

They passed by the long coat check table, nodding politely to the hotel staff stationed at the door to greet each guest. "Mr. Jackson, Ms. Shields, welcome."

Michael offered a polite smile that didn't reach beneath his shades and gave a small nod in acknowledgment as they walked further inside.

As if the situation couldn't get any worse— there you were, standing by the punch bowl, looking more enticing than anything else on that table.

It felt like God and the universe had a hand in playing a cruel joke on Michael. Time was definitely not on his side right now.

Brooke followed his gaze and grimaced at the sight of what had captured his attention. Her question was now answered, silently but unmistakably.

Michael began walking over, but Brooke reached out, grabbing his sequined sash and yanking him back to face her.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked sharply, her eyes narrowing on her date for the evening.

"Brooke, I'm going to get some punch. Will you relax?" Michael replied, laughing lightly.

"You think I don't know why you're going over there?" she scoffed. "You're going to see that girl."

Michael rolled his eyes and gently moved her hand off of his sash. "Will you stop it? I'm thirsty. I just want to get something to drink."

Without giving her a chance to respond, Michael turned and walked toward the end of the refreshment table. His eyes locked onto as he approached, watching the way your fingers delicately wrapped around your champagne glass, a sharp contrast to the confidence in your stance.

You sipped your drink slowly, watching the vivacious display of released inhibitions roll out in front of you on the dance floor.

"You're a hard one to track down." Michael said from behind, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You glanced over shoulder at him, watching his bare hand trail along the edge of the refreshment table.

"Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want to be found?" you replied, tilting your head slightly, taking in the way he prowled from behind your shoulder to stand beside you.

Michael licked his lips and chuckled lowly. "Then why are you at an award show, sweetheart?"

"I was invited..." you sad, keeping your smirk as you shifted to face him fully. "But you knew that already."

Yes, you were invited, that much was true. But were you invited as a seat filler this time or were you invited as something else entirely?

You intentionally stepped closer, your chest brushing lightly against his. You knew Michael had his date and you had yours. But, you didn't care.

Michael's jaw tightened, the irritation clear in his body language as his gaze darkened behind his aviators. His eyes raked over your figure, every line and curve on display for him. Your dress was sin incarnate, clinging to you like a second skin and leaving very little to the imagination but it was enough to take Michael's head for a spin.

"I hate our seats weren't next to each other this time..." you said, feigning innocence as you watched your reflection in his shades. "We didn't get a chance to play our game. You know, what I'd have to do if you won."

"You're still in debt from last time," Michael replied smoothly, pivoting to stand fully in front of you. "You owe me that dance and that.. number of yours.."

"Boy please..." you laughed softly. "You wouldn't even know what to do with either of those things."

Michael smirked. "You really think that, dontcha?"

A beat passed between you.

Before you could respond, an arm slipped around your waist, tugging you back slightly. "Michael, what's up man?" Rick grinned as he stepped beside you, offering his free hand to dap him up.

Michael's gaze flicked to him. He clapped palms with Rick, the grip tight, more than just a casual gesture. It was a quiet power play, and you caught on instantly.

"Rick," Michael said coolly.

"Congrats on the night," Rick added with a smile, though there was a trace of bitterness in his tone. He casually pulled you closer. "You deserve it all, brotha."

Michael's jaw tensed as his hands dropped to his sides, masking the reaction with a tight smile. "You have no idea."

You held his gaze, lips curved in the faintest smirk. Rick's presence may have interrupted your moment— but the tension between you and Michael remained.

Suddenly, Michael felt a tug on his arm. Brooke appeared at his side, slipping her hand around the underside of his arm, her eyes fixed on him. "There you are, I was wondering if you ever got that drink," she said pointedly, before her gaze flicked over to you with a snarky scowl. "Should've known you'd be conversing with... atmosphere hires."

You were more amused than offended. "Aw Brooke, I missed you too," you said with a smirk, tilting your head. "I knew you'd be thinking of me. So considerate of you to check in on your date. Wouldn't want that 'special friend' of yours getting too far out of reach, now would we?"

Brooke pressed her lips together so hard, you'd think they'd fall off. "Michael, let's go." she snapped, her voice strained.

"Man, already?" you replied smoothly, still calm. "We were just starting to get reacquainted."

Brooke sneered. "The only thing that needs to be reacquainted is you and the rest of the fabric that came with that cheap dress. You look like you're headed to an H.A. meeting."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "H.A.?"

"Yeah." she said sharply. "Hookers Anonymous."

You met her jab with a calm, condescending smile. Of course she'd take shots at your dress, it was the only shot she could reach. Every diamond stitched into it looked better than her entire outfit and god-awful haircut combined. Let her try wearing it, and she'd look like an ostrich.

But instead of throwing the same venom back at her, you chose a different approach.

"I love your suit, Brooke." you said, cool and unbothered.

She blinked, caught off guard. "Really?"

"Yeah. The jacket and the dress together? Real classy." You grinned. "I wouldn't have guessed you were trying to match the tablecloths in here. Then again, it was probably intentional— they were likely bought at the same place you got your dress. Stretching long as drapes. How charming." You chuckled, glancing over at Rick before looking between Michael and Brooke.

Brooke scoffed, one hand landing firmly on her hip. "For your information, this was custom made."

Like that makes it any better.

"Oh, excuse me, Miss Girl." You chuckled, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "First it was that folded-paper fan you called a dress last time, and now this. You make it too easy. You'd think your seamstress would get tired of making the same thing twice. But hey, if America's Sweetheart wants to dress up like furniture décor, then who in their right mind would stop her?"

Brooke's face flushed redder than the stripes on the American flag, her eyes flashing with fury as she stepped forward— but Michael gently pulled her back. "You cocky bi—"

"Easy ladies... no need to fuss." Rick cut in, watching Michael stand in front of Brooke. It wasn't lost on him that Michael had likely pulled Brooke back to prevent a fight, but he was close enough to you to spark questions and raise eyebrows among the surrounding industry bystanders.

Rick slipped your champagne glass from your hand and placed it in Michael's. Keeping his arm around your waist, he slowly pulled you away. "Come on baby, let's go dance."

You held Michael's gaze as Rick led you away. "With pleasure..."

Michael's jaw clenched as he followed your retreating figure, his eyes tracing every curve. The heat behind his gaze could've burned the lenses of his shades to a molten glass.

He hated that Rick was taking you away to do what he should've been his— dancing with you. That was his dance and he was going to get it.

Setting the glass down on the table, Michael took Brooke's hand and led her onto the dance floor in one smooth motion.

"What the hell was that, Michael?" Brooke fussed as he pulled her into a swaay.

"What was what?" Michael asked, a mix of nonchalance and terse in his voice as he turned them both to watch you and Rick from a good angle. The way your bodies moved to the smooth R&B beat of "Say Yes by The Whispers" pushed his mind into treacherous territory.

Brooke huffed a dry laugh. "Don't play coy. This thing between you and... her. The way you bite your lip when you look at her, the way you let her touch you, the way she batts her eyelashes at you and you just stand there, reveling in it like some horny teenager." She paused, realization hitting her. "My god, she's the reason why you've been acting this way, isn't she?"

Michael clenched his jaw but kept dancing, his shielded gaze fixed on you with Rick. "So what if she is?"

Brooke's eyes flared with anger once again, fuming at his casual admission. "So what? So what?! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?" Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You are supposed to be with me. We are good together and for each other! You're wasting your time chasing some other woman who isn't even half of what I am."

Michael's irritation suddenly boiled over. He snapped his head down to glare at her. "Who are you to choose what's 'good' for me, huh?" his voice was low but daring. "You think inviting you to two award shows gives you the right to decide that?

Brooke was nearly shaking with anger and hurt, her voice rising. "She is a goddamn seat filler. She does not belong here, Michael! She does not belong in our world and yet you're entranced by this woman who probably only wants you for your money and fame—"

"Yeah? You mean like you?" Michael cut in, his retort sharp and full.

Brooke's face reddened in fury and embarrassment. She looked like she'd been slapped. "I beg your pardon?"

"If anybody is here for the money and fame, it's you. Out of the goodness of my heart, I invited a friend to come support me on my big night and all you've done is make tonight about you."

"Your friend?" Brooke repeated, her tone dripping in disgust. "After everything I've done for you? The hand holding, the smiles for photo ops, the multiple public appearances together? All that just to be considered your friend?!"

"I've told you on several occasions we were nothing more than friends— long before the Grammys," Michael said evenly.

Brooke narrowed her eyes at him, defiant. "I know you felt something between us, Michael. If she hadn't gotten in the way—"

Michael shook his head. "Don't pretend like you didn't know what this was, Brooke. Your team set this up thinkin' it'd be a good boost for your career, and I went along with it." He exhaled sharply. He didn't want to hurt her, but he was tired of pretending her delusions weren't driving him to his wit's end. "But I'm not anymore."

He dropped his hands from Brooke's waist and hand, leaving her where she stood for the second and final time tonight.

He knew the risks in taking a chance on you, but he didn't care. You are a mystery that he has every intention of solving.

He stalked over toward you, his eyes locked on you and Rick as your bodies moved to the beat. His confident, cool demeanor was unmistakeable.

You didn't notice Michael approaching until a familiar black rhinestoned glove tapped Rick's shoulder, causing him to turn.

"You good?"

"Yeah.." Michael started, eyes flickering between you both. "I'll be better when I get to dance with her."

Rick leaned his head back, amused at his friend's audacity. "I can see why you'd want to, Mike, but that ain't happenin'..." he said casually but he meant every word.

Michael laughed softly. "Are you speaking for her or yourself?"

"I'm speaking for the both of us." Rick snapped. "Get your own girl and get gone."

Michael glanced over at you. You returned the same menacing smirk from earlier, enjoying the hell out of this sparring match between the two men.

"Seems like 'your girl' disagrees with that.." Michael said, nodding toward you.

Rick snatched his head over to look at you. "Y/N?" he asked, expectantly.

You shrugged casually, and before Rick could protest, Michael stepped closer. "Sorry Rick, but this is the last dance." Smoothly, he reached between you and Rick, grabbed your wrist and spun you around to face him. "I'm cutting in."

You stared at Michael, your reflection reappearing in his shades. He held onto your wrist, not too tight but not too loose either, giving you every opportunity to pull away— but you didn't.

Rick grimaced. Michael had stolen his awards, and now, apparently his girl. The only option he has to avoid further public humiliation, was to walk away.

You and Michael watched Rick leave. Michael slipped his arm around your waist. "Hopefully I didn't stir up too much trouble in paradise."

You chuckled, taking his hand and settling into the dance. "Like you give a damn about that."

Michael huffed a laugh, staring down at you. "Maybe you're right..."

A comfortable silence passed before you spoke up again. "He's not my boyfriend," you admitted.

"Oh no?" he challenged, narrowing his eyes with a sly smirk.

"No." you reaffirmed, keeping your gaze on him as you swayed your hips to the beat. Michael hummed thoughtfully.

"You looked pretty comfortable with him though." he teased, spinning you under yourself before bringing you back to him and smoothly placing your hand onto his shoulder.

"Yeah.." you began. "I was just doing him a favor. He'll bounce back before the night's over."

Michael chuckled again, he knew all about doing favors as well as Rick's player reputation. "Touché."

You grinned slightly, continuing to dance. His hands stayed steady on your waist while yours rested over his shoulders.

"But you do have a boyfriend?" Michael pressed, voice low and daringly.

You nodded. "I do."

"Hmm.." he murmured conspiratorially, sliding his hands down to your lower back. "And he's not here?"

"No, he is not."

Michael licked his lips, pulling you closer. "Well, I must say, your boyfriend is not a smart man."

"Why's that?" You knew exactly why— you were testing him.

"He let you come to this award show with some other guy. And if he saw what you're doing right now with me? I don't think he'd like that very much." His tone was playful but edged with challenge.

"Oh, on the contrary..." you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck. "My boyfriend isn't like that. He doesn't get all territorial when men just want to dance."

"How could he tell the difference between men who just wants to dance and men who.. want more?"

"He says it's a feeling." You shrugged casually.

"Has he ever... acted on that feeling?" Michael was studying your face, as if he was memorizing every detail.

"No man's ever given him a reason to." You quipped, arching a brow. "Why does that matter to you anyway?"

"I can't ask a question?" Michael mused with a hint of amusement.

"It's a question you shouldn't be asking. Especially since you have a date of your own."

Michael smirked slightly. "I don't have one now."

You glanced around quickly, not seeing Brooke anywhere. Then you locked eyes with him, smirking. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Michael looked you over, his tone teasing. "Do you think that if I still had Brooke on my arm, I'd be over here, dancing with you?"

"Yes, actually, I do." You tilted your head. "Care to tell me I'm wrong?"

Michael clenched his jaw slightly before tearing his gaze away, his silence saying more than his words could.

"Didn't think so." you sassed.

Michael scoffed, pausing briefly. "Don't act like you wouldn't have enjoyed it more if you knew I came over here while she was still around."

"Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't." you smirked.

Then, without warning, he spun you around, his grip firm but smooth as he pulled your back flush against his chest. Both his gloved and bare hand remained at your waist as you rolled your hips on his. Your bodies were moving in sync not just with the music, but with each other. You could feel his breath on your ear.

"Don't test me, girl." he murmured hotly.

"What's the matter? If you can't take the heat..." You spun around to face him, leaning up to whisper in his ear, "then get out the kitchen."

Michael exhaled sharply—a mix of a growl and frustrated huff. You were impossible. Unpredictable. Maddening. A beat of silence passed as Michael watched you lean back.

"You're trouble." he rasped, eyes tracing the column of your throat and your defined collarbone.

"So I've heard..." you chuckled, your lips curling into that dangerous smirk that ran his blood pressure soaring.

He darted his tongue over his bottom lip. "Maybe I should do something about that."

"Maybe you should," you challenged.

You let that comment linger. The two of you were impossibly close now as the music pulsed around you, chest to chest, hip to hip. Anyone with wandering eyes could tell this was more than just a simple dance. Before Michael could act, you pushed him off of you slightly, turned on your heels, and left the floor quickly.

Michael followed, hot on your heels. You quickened your pace, but he didn't let up. Pushing open the door of the single vacant bathroom, you stepped inside. The music outside muffled as the door snapped shut.

You whipped your head around to see him standing there.

Silence took over the room but your eyes and the tension simmering between you spoke volumes. Both of your chests rose and fell with each heavy breath.

You took in how close he was. The thin mustache above his full lips. The tightness of his luscious Jheri curls, glistening under the dim light. His cologne invaded your personal space making your breath hitch the closer he came.

Michael took your silence as an invitation. He closed the gap between you, staring you down, slowly licking his lips before tucking them in.

"You're all I could think about." He whispered lowly.

"I'm sure that's true." you replied evenly.

Michael let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head at you disbelief. "I searched the world for you, girl." he said with quiet conviction. "And I'd do it again just to watch the way you look at me."

You waved him off dismissively. "That was months ago. You should've just forgotten about me."

"You don't think I tried?" he shot back. "I tried to get you out of my head. I tried to write this..." He gestured between the two of you with his black rhinestoned glove. "Us meeting each other off as a coincidence. Nothing more. But after that dance..." His voice dropped, intense. "I can't deny it any longer."

"Deny what?" you asked sharply.

"That this is more than just coincidence." Michael stepped closer. "More than just innocent flirting between two people."

You couldn't deny the truth in his words. You were like two magnets, drawn to each other by an unmistakeable force.

"Like I told you before, I have a boyfriend." you said pointedly. But the second the words left your lips, even you didn't fully believe them.

Michael paused, then began circling you slowly. "You did say that, didn't you?" he murmured, drinking you in like the champagne you had earlier in the night. He walked away from you, leaving the question to linger.

You turned around to stare down at the sink, forcing yourself to look away from him. The game you were playing, the dance you two shared— the chase is officially over.

A small sigh escaped you when you heard his footsteps get quieter and quieter...

Until you heard a sharp click at the door.

In the mirror's reflection, you saw him. Michael's back was to you, his broad shoulders that red and gold sequined military jacket still standing there, hovering his body over the door.

Then, slowly, he turned over his shoulder— his eyes locking onto yours through the mirror. His stare, dark and blazing beneath his shades. The small space was charged, the air was thick with the same tension as it was when you were both out on the dance floor.

That's when it hit you: Michael locked the door.

Deliberately, he began walking toward you. Each step measured, eyes never leaving yours.

You took a silent breath, watching his every move.

"You have a boyfriend, but you're okay with openly flirting with other men," he said bluntly.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." you replied coolly, turning to face him. "Besides, men do it all the time. But when a woman does it, it's a problem?"

"You shouldn't play with fire if you don't wanna burn in it." He stopped in right front of you, taking you in for what seems like the umpteenth time tonight.

You chuckled, smirking. "I'm too pretty to burn, baby. Rest assured though, when I do play with fire..." you trailed off, grazing your fingers down his gold sequined sash. "I put it out."

Michael's jaw clenched, your retort sending a pit of fire straight down his stomach. And just like that, he crushed his lips onto yours— no warning, his resolve snapped. You threw your arms around him, immediately reciprocating the kiss. He tangled his bare hand in your hair as his gloved one pulled you flush against him, walking you backwards until your ass was pressed up against the bathroom sink.

You let a moan slip out, resulting in one tearing from Michael's throat, the feeling placed a soothing vibration over your lips. Your hands were roaming everywhere, a mix between pulling him closer and feeling him up. Michael could feel the friction building through the fabrics of your clothes, sending another shockwave through his core.

His grip on your curls tightened, yanking your head back hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth, taking full advantage of the moment to plunge his tongue right in. You moaned again while your hands found their way down to the zipper of his pants, unzipping them while his hands outlined the curves of your body. The fervor in the kiss only intensified further when you slipped your hand in the opening of his fastened pants to palm his aching erection through his boxers. Michael let out a guttural groan, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you up on the counter to stand in between your legs without breaking the kiss.

You smoothed your hands across his back, bringing them to his shoulders, gripping onto them tightly. With both his gloved and bare hand, Michael hiked your dress up to your hips while he grinds hard against you. Another muffled moan escaped him, this time, you traced your tongue across his bottom lip before slipping it in his mouth.

While your tongue dueled with his, Michael's hand slid down the curvature of your frame, leaving a trail of heat in his wake to lift one of your legs up and around his waist so the heel of your stiletto dug into his back.

He pressed against you hard once more before he slipped his bare hand between you, feeling the every inch of the heat between your legs after pushing your damp panties to the side. The minute you felt his fingers rub against you, all logic went out the window, earning another moan from you against his lips. He pulled away to look at you as he caught his breath.

"Tell me you want it..." he whispered with a low, velvety rasp, rubbing your folds agonizingly slow.

You held his shielded gaze. "I want it." You breathed out.

"How bad do you want it, baby?" he murmured while continuing to trace over your slick heat.

"I want it just as bad as you do..." You bit back a moan and opted for your lip instead.

Your words sent a thrill through Michael, causing his fingers to slip higher, brushing his thumb over your clit. "And how bad do I want it, Y/N?" he purred daringly.

"Pretty damn bad."

Michael watched your chest heave slowly and leaned in close to you again. "Say it again." he demanded.

"You want it pretty damn bad." you repeated slowly but surely.

"That's right." he murmured, licking his lips before catching the bottom one between his teeth. Without another word, he plunged two fingers deep inside you in one deliberate stroke. He captured your lips in a fierce, feral kiss before you could moan out. You arched your back slightly against him, gripping onto his biceps to stabilize yourself. He curled and scissored his fingers inside you, hitting a spot that made you break the kiss and have your head fall back against the mirror.

"Look at you..." Michael smirked at you. "You look so beautiful like this.."

He watched your eyes rolling back when he curled his fingers again, hitting that spot once more made you to grab him by the front of his jacket and pull him in for another passionate kiss. Michael let out a strangled groan when you brought your one of your hands up to tangle your fingers in his jheri curl and tugging it, catching him off guard. He could feel you grin against his lips in response which only fueled him to move his fingers at a quicker pace.

You pulled away to moan again. "Mmh, Michael."

Michael's body tensed slightly when you moaned his name. It sounded so sexy coming from your lips. That's a sound he wanted to continue hearing, he yearned for it. He looked at your head tilted back, your eyes fluttering shut as he worked you over with skilled precision. Your hands clawed at his back, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket like you couldn't get enough of him.

"You're gonna cum for me right here." he rasped, slipping a third finger inside causing you to get louder. "Tell me how close you are."

You let out a broken moan, very raw and desperate. "I'm so close!"

That was the sweetest sound Michael's ever heard. He felt you clench around his fingers, his pace in tune with your pulsing, wet heat. He bit his lip as he continued to watch you fall apart. He leaned in close to your ear while he continued his relentless assault.

"Then cum for me," he grunted, feeling your hips jerk against him. "let me feel it, mama. Let me hear how much you need this."

With one final curl of his fingers and a sharp brush of his thumb against your clit, you let out a loud moan and shattered against him. Reactively, you threw your head back while your back arched, gripping the edge of the sink counter like it was the only thing to keep you grounded.

Michael slowed his fingers down, feeling every pulse around him. He eyed you down, watching your body twitch as the pleasure took over you. His thumb drew slow, gentle circles around your clit. "Damn.." he murmured reverently as you came down off your high and looked at him directly. He didn't break eye contact as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips, cleaning you off.

Your eyes stayed glued to his lips as he stood before you, calm and collected. It drove you mad.

When he pulled his fingers out of his mouth, you grabbed the sides of his face to kiss him. Both of you groaned as you tasted yourself on his tongue. Michael then broke away from the kiss only to drag his lips down your jaw and along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses in slow succession. He was determined to make you just as desperate for him as he was for you.

"You're gonna ruin me." he growled between kisses, his breath ragged.

You chuckled breathlessly. "Good." you smirked, slipping one of your hands back in his pants, pulling his impressive length out through the slit of his boxers.

Michael sucked in a sharp breath when he felt your hand wrap around him. In one fluid motion, he pulled you off the sink, took hold of your hips, spun you around, and pinned you against the edge of the counter. He pressed himself against you so you feel every bit of his desire. He watched your breath hitch in the mirror before he leaned in close, whispering. "It's only right to return the favor."

"You think you can handle me, superstar?" you asked boldly, like he didn't just give you a mind-boggling orgasm minutes ago.

Superstar. The nickname Michael desperately wanted to hear all night. The name didn't feel right coming out of anybody's mouth but yours. He gripped your chin with his gloved hand, turned you to face him. "I can take whatever you throw at me, babygirl."

"That remains to be seen," you challenged him, taking off his aviators and setting them down on the recessed tray below the mirror.

His dark brown eyes turned nearly black as he glared down at you, wrapping his black gloved hand gently around your neck. "You and that smart ass mouth is gon' get you in a world of trouble." he drawled. His hands slid down to grab your hips again, pulling you flush against him. "Now touch me forreal."

"You want me to touch you?" you repeated, biting your lip as you reached your hand behind you to rub your thumb around his tip.

Michael let out a low, ragged hiss and shut his eyes while his body shudders at your touch. "Yeah baby..."

You turned your head to look in the mirror to watch his reaction intently. You were making thee Michael Jackson fall apart in your hand.

"Look at me." you smirked.

Michael's eyes snapped open, locking it on yours in the mirror. The look in his eyes told the story: He was at your mercy now.

You had him right where you wanted him. Keeping your smirk, you began stroking him hard and fast. He let out a rough, ragged groan. "Shit, Y/N..."

His hands gripped your hips tighter, leaning back to give you some room to work on him. He was on the brink of snapping again and you knew it.

"You like that?" you whispered, squeezing the base of his length, making him curse loudly. His breath was labored, coming so fast like he was struggling for air. Your touch was electric, intoxicating. It made him feel alive in ways he never knew were possible.

"Fuck yes. Don't stop." Michael choked out, "God... don't you dare stop."

You turned your head to the side to kiss him passionately, using your free hand to grip onto the sink while the other continued to stroke him.

Michael melted in the kiss like putty. He pulled away, his resolve crumbling quicker by the second. "I need to be inside you. Now." he breathed out desperately.

Before you could respond, Michael snatched your other hand away from his dick to pin it down on the other side of the sink. He hiked your dress up to your waist, lined himself up, and slowly pushed deep inside of you.

The sensation resulted in a groan tearing out of both of your throats before Michael started thrusting slowly.

You gripped the edge of the sink tightly, letting a moan slip out of you. "Ohhh god..."

Michael groaned at your reaction, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He was hitting your spot so good, you didn't even notice the rhinestones off of his glove on his left hand leaving an indention on your skin.

"You feel so damn good around me, baby." he grunted. "So perfect."

You moaned in agreement, watching him work over you in the mirror. "Mmm, so do you."

Michael pulled back just a little before slamming into you again, his eyes rolling back as he picked up the pace. His bare hand slid up your side toward the front of your dress, hooked his fingers over the edge of the plunging neckline of your dress and tugged the cups down, exposing both of your breasts. He reached under the curve of one of them and brushed his thumb across your dark nipple.

"You feel that?" he whispered, watching it stiffen instantly under his touch through the reflection. "You're so tight for me."

"Mhm..." you let out a seducing sigh that sent a surge of heat straight to Michael's core. His body reacting instantly, his hips jerking forward, grinding hard against you in pure instinct.

He lowered his head down to leave a trail of hot kisses down your jaw, neck, and shoulder. His gloved hand snatched your chin back over to look him in his eyes. "Look at me." he gritted his teeth, grabbing your thigh with his bare hand.

You held his gaze as he maintained this pace but went even deeper, causing your jaw to drop.

All of a sudden, you heard something going off, cutting through the charged room.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

As he kept thrusting, it went off again.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

It was the pager in Michael's back pant pocket. After recognizing the sound, he was conflicted to answer it while slowing down his pace.

"Ignore it." you leaned in to kiss him passionately, trying to reel him back in.

Michael let out a strangled breath into your mouth. He was desperate to keep holding on to the moment at least for another couple minutes before the real world came knocking in. The pager beeped again. He groaned, breaking away from your lips and rested his head in your neck. "It's gonna keep going," he whispered against your skin, "unless I answer it."

"Which would you rather do— get that or get off?" you scoffed.

A husky growl left his lips when he heard your question and for a moment, he almost said to hell with it. He was so close getting both of you to the finish line. Then again, when his pager goes off like this, it has to be something business related. The pager beeped again... then again.

Michael looked at you before grabbing the back of your head, giving you one more hard kiss before reluctantly pulling away. A frustrated sigh slipped out as he stopped mid-thrust, reaching behind him for his pager. He pulled it out of his pocket, his eyes scanning the tiny screen.

121-44-07

"Shit.. I'm sorry, I gotta take this. It's Quincy." Michael said, his tone full of annoyance. "He's got some people he wants me to meet out there." His jaw clenched as he stuffed the pager back in his pocket. He knew better than to ignore any message coming from Quincy Jones. When Quincy called, you answer.

Michael pulled out of you slowly, allowing you to step to the side to adjust your dress. While doing that, he smoothed his jacket out and adjusted his glove, quickly fixing his hair in the mirror. He turned over to watch you pull your dress back over your chest. He was transfixed on the way you adjusted the cups, licking his lips subconsciously. He waited until you looked over at him to give you one last, lingering look— the kind that said 'this isn't over'.

"Wait for me?" he asked softly with a hint of longing.

You thought it over briefly while fixing your panties. "Tell you what..." you started, walking back over to the sink. You pulled your dress back over your ass before leaning your lower back against the counter, loosely crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll stick around the party a little while longer, if you book us a suite upstairs."

Michael let out a deep chuckle and shook his head in disbelief. Damn you, woman.

"Done." He stepped closer to you again, just enough to whisper against your ear as he tucked himself back in and zipped up slowly. "I'll meet you up in Suite 312 within the hour."

A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips as he adjusted his gold sequined sash, one hand brushing yours briefly before letting it go to head toward the door.

Suite 312 is one of the presidential suites in the Beverly Hills Wilshire Hotel, Michael's personal refuge. He rented it whenever he needed an escape from his chaotic reality. No other woman he'd been with had ever been granted such access.

"Countin' on it..." you murmured with a sly smile.

"You better," he trailed off for a moment before his voice dropped low— a velvet promised laced with heat. "Because the second you set foot in that room tonight, I'll make sure those heels never touch the floor again."

He winked at you and unlocked the door, then turned over his shoulder to slip out into the hall and respond to Quincy's page.

You watched Michael close the door behind him, a slight laugh escaping your lips. Turning back to the mirror, staring at your reflection as you fluffed your hair back into place. When you were done, you replayed what just happened in your mind and you couldn't help the slow, victorious smirk that followed.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Michael weaved through the crowd, scanning the room as he searched for that familiar face. After a moment, he spotted Quincy— dressed in a tailored black silk suit, a gold pinky ring, a matching gold Rolex, and a black bowtie. Quincy's warm chuckle carried as he chatted with fellow producers and record executives near his reserved table.

Assessed the scene, Michael figured this was exactly why Quincy wanted to meet. He straightened up and approached the group with a charming, rehearsed smile.

"Hey Q."

"Smelly, what the hell took you so long, man? I was about to send the SWAT team after ya!" Quincy teased, clapping Michael on the shoulder, earning laughs from the others around them.

"Nothing really, just celebratin'." Michael replied with a sheepish laugh, careful not to give anything way.

Quincy gave him a sideways glance but deciding not to press further. "Alright, well, anyway, there are some people here I want you to meet." He gestured toward the others in the conversation.

As Michael began getting to know the new faces, his gaze found yours weaving through the crowd. You flipped your hair over your shoulder and locked eyes with him. Michael blinked, completely stunned to see you wearing his black-tinted Linda Farrow 6031 aviators. You flashed a knowing smirk his way and kept walking.

Quincy and the others were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice Michael's gaze following your retreating figure. "She took my glasses anyway... that woman." he thought, smirking at your cleverness and the potential sleepless night ahead, shaking his head in disbelief once again.

He knew then, he was in too deep with you and whatever the hell this thing was between you...

It was far from over.