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

Monday, 1991

"I am so fucking sick of your bullshit!" You yell, but the words seem to fall on deaf ears. Michael's back is to you, his perfect silhouette lit by the setting sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The dust dances in the air like pixie powder. It's magic hour.

"I deserve better than this!"

Still, nothing. He appears to be admiring the view. Or reminiscing of a carousel ride. Escapism. Oh what you would give to be there right now, playing and laughing, but your fury won't grant you that peace.

"This is not how you treat people you love!"

Michael reacts with softened shoulders and a stretch of his neck. He looks away from the window as your voice clouds his thoughts. It seems you've triggered his secret code word. The four letters that remind him to come back to reality.

Michael turns to see you.

"Where have you been?"

A silent showdown has begun in the center of the Neverland Valley library. This room is arguably the most stunning of all the 2,700 acre property. It's perfect in its architecture and aromas of aged paper and cherry wood. No sounds except the crackling of a slow-burning fire and the trees scratching against the windows.

And despite the many days you found yourself here alone, trapped within the paneled walls and moody decor of this room, you were never lonely, as you sought companionship in the 10,000 books that filled these shelves. The friends you made on every page transported you out and away from the loneliness of Neverland. Away from the loneliness of loving a man who's never home.

"Michael, tell me where you were," you demand with more bitterness in your tone than before. Michael could not appear more calm. You find his temperament annoying.

You watch Michael shrug off the sleeves of his perfectly oversized bomber jacket. A classic red shirt, the perfect shade, hides his torso. Tucked perfectly into jet black pants. Tied to his perfectly trim waist with a one-of-a-kind belt that transforms a plain outfit into a Michael Jackson classic. You roll your eyes again, wondering how he's able to maintain this pristine image after a long flight back from God-knows-where.