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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☾ 2007 Miami, Florida Word Count: 15.3k
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The fresh ocean breeze swept over your skin, cool and salty, carrying with it the faint cries of seabirds riding the wind above. The evening air, heavy with the scent of the sea, swirled around you as you stood on the deck of Mr. Jackson's private yacht. The sensation of the wind teasing through your hair felt like a gentle caress, one you had grown accustomed to during the many secret trips you'd taken on this very boat. It was intimate, almost like the relationship you had shared with him for the past year and a half—hidden beneath the veneer of professionalism, yet undeniable in its intensity.
The yacht's polished wood gleamed under the fading sun, the water below glistening as it caught the dying light, every ripple on the ocean a reminder of the power beneath the surface. You couldn't help but marvel at the view, the horizon stretching endlessly, where the sky met the sea in a perfect blend of blue. But the beauty of the ocean paled in comparison to the allure of your boss, Mr. Jackson—the man who had not only secured your promotion as his personal assistant but had also bound you to him in ways no contract ever could.
It had been obvious from the day you were hired that Mr. Jackson was captivated by you. Usually, you wouldn't have even met the commander-in-chief on your first day, but that afternoon, as you stepped into his office, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that lingered long after you left. He hadn't bothered to hide his interest, coming by your desk every day, leaning in just close enough for his presence to overwhelm you. "Good morning, dollface," he would say, his voice low and smooth, dripping with familiarity. The nickname stuck. That first day, he had mentioned you had a face like a doll—your lips full, perfect, the kind that begged to be kissed.
It wasn't long before those casual interactions spiraled into something more. The affair had started in his office—on his desk, of all places. His wife had been on his mind, her betrayal gnawing at him, after she had spent a week talking to her ex-fiancé. He'd been seething, needing an escape, and you had been there. From that day forward, you were more than just his assistant—you were his confidante, his escape, his 'business wife.' The entire company knew better than to flirt or approach you with anything other than professionalism. The message had been clear: you were off-limits. It was made even more obvious in meetings when you sat perched on his lap, his hand resting possessively on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin, a reminder to everyone that you belonged to him.
