Loving You [18+] [An Erotic Collection of Michael Jackson Short Stories]

February 29, 1984

"Boo."

But you heard Michael's heavy feet and phlegmy throat clear when he got out of bed five minutes ago. You've already steeped his tea and sliced his breakfast Honeycrisp.

You've been waiting.

And aside from that, Michael's voice is tired. If he's a ghost, he's the friendly kind who reads haunting rhymes to put you to sleep, not the kind who spooks you. So you laugh, unbothered to turn away from your sink of dirty dishes. You can tell he's disappointed you didn't jump or even pretend to be startled. But you hear Michael chuckling anyway. An easy, exhausted breath that inches closer to your ear as his arms ease around your waist.

"Good afternoon, Michael."

"Good morning, Beautiful," he whispers in sweet ignorance of the hour with a kiss on your neck. "I can't ever scare you."

You shrug a sympathetic acknowledgment and dry the dishwater from your hands as you turn to finally face him. You offer his tea and watch him blow off the steam. His eyes are gracious and loving, appreciative of the small miracles you perform to make his days easier.

You wonder what time he came home. You've both grown accustomed to him creeping into your bed just before dawn. Long nights make most men's eyes grow tired and weary. Not your Michael. A secret werewolf, his eyes are revived by the moonlight.

Michael is warm when you kiss him, noticing last night's makeup still caked in his laugh lines. The sweetness of a ripe apple is fresh on his lips. So you slow, lingering in Michael's "morning" glow in a selfish attempt to further tease him awake. As you shift away, his hands relax lower to hold your hips. You witness an easy smile behind still-closed eyes. A sleepy boy craving endless kisses. So vulnerable, fragile, and human.

You can hardly recognize him from last night.

"Did you sleep okay?"

You feel Michael nod and yawn as he settles his head in the crook of your neck. You welcome him with open arms. After all the stares and applause and camera clicks from strangers, you know he's now craving affection. A love that's real.

A love from you.

So for a moment you let him breathe and reawaken gently. You feel his chest against yours slowly lighten. Apple skin is grinding between his molars and you can hear the faint sounds of the crunch. His t-shirt smells like cigarettes and musk and a ladies perfume.

"The news is still talking about you."

He responds a simple, "hmm?" Nonchalant, but you know Michael can't resist his curiosity. You see the reluctance in his hands as he steps away from your body to float towards the television.

Sure enough, there he is. The voices were muted hours ago but the story is the same. In this segment the scrolling headline reads, "The Jackson 8: A 'Thriller' at the Grammys," as the biggest superstar of your generation stretches his arms around a record number of golden statues.