Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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✰ 1983 New York City Word Count: 11.7k
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The stillness of the suite wrapped itself around you like a comforting shroud, broken only by the faint flicker of a candle across the room. Its soft flame danced on the polished table, casting a warm glow over the rich, dark tones of the space. You lay stretched out on the velvet sofa, your body adorned in a champagne satin nightgown that clung delicately to your curves, the smooth fabric cool against your skin. The scent of cocoa butter and vanilla lingered in the air, a subtle reminder of your evening ritual. Moonlight spilled through the open balcony doors, bathing the room in a pale, ethereal light as it kissed your skin, making the satin shimmer with every subtle movement.
Your journal rested on your thighs, pencil poised between your fingers as you poured your thoughts onto the page, losing yourself in the fantasy of words. "His gaze flickered with a deeper intensity, something raw and unspoken. He sat up slightly, the heat of his body still pressed against yours, hands traveling to the hem of your shirt. With a fluid, practiced motion, he lifted it over your head, the fabric gliding against your skin before it fluttered to the floor. The room's cool air touched your bare skin, but it lasted only a moment before his hands replaced the chill, warm and possessive, cupping your breasts with deliberate tenderness." You wrote, the scene in your mind so vivid, so tantalizingly real that it sent a shiver down your spine.
You often wrote in these quiet moments of solitude, documenting your life and desires through another lens, another version of yourself. Michael had no idea you penned these kinds of stories—journals filled with lustful, uninhibited fantasies that captured the intimacy you craved, yet hadn't fully explored. The pages brimmed with moments you yearned to experience firsthand. Your mind, always a step ahead of reality, danced with ideas too wild to remain unspoken, so you committed them to paper, where they could live freely.
A sigh escaped your lips as you paused, fingers tracing the edge of the journal. Something about tonight's writing wasn't sitting right, the words not flowing the way you had imagined. Frustration tugged at the edges of your thoughts. Closing the journal softly, you leaned forward, the cool satin slipping against the cushions as you stretched to blow out the candle. Darkness reclaimed the room for a brief moment before you padded across the suite, fingertips brushing along the wall as you flicked on the lights. The sudden brightness felt harsh after the warmth of the candlelight.
