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“Mother asked you a question…” He breaks out in a shit-eating grin, biting his lips in that characteristic way of his. “It’s–a–ah… rude not to answer…”
A big ass smile on his face and eyes sparkling, even though just a minute ago he was up in your ear whining even louder than he did in Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough that’s still whirring on the record player. His hold had tightened to a bruising grip on your hip to stop your grinding, making you huff and puff as Katherine’s presence still lingered at the door.
(This was the third interruption. First, it’d been La Toya: knocking loudly because of course she knew, making Michael nearly throw you off the bed as he panicked. Both of you froze like deer in headlights as her voice rang out. “Just lettin’ you know dinner’s almost ready. Mother’s gonna come knocking soon…”
Then came Tito and Marlon, who didn’t actually knock at all. They just made the hallway their home for almost five whole minutes, laughing loudly and making sure you heard their very special rendition of Michael’s spoken intro of Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.
“Y’know I was, I was wondering, y’know... If y’could keep on…” whined Tito with a shrill voice behind the door, making you contemplate if jumping out the window would be less painful.
That’s when Michael yelled a flushed and whiny, “Get lost!” that made them laugh even louder before finally leaving you be.)
And here’s where you both are now; edged, overstimulated, just on the precipice. The mutual grinding had long turned into a desperately sloppy push-and-pull, sweat dripping down your backs, the dry-humping anything but dry.
“We’ll be down in a few, ma’am!” you answer her, trying to keep your voice steady even though you’re almost heaving.
“What?” whines Michael in a hurried whisper, brows scrunched and lips pursed in a pout. His curls are wet and sticking to his skin. The setting sun peeking from the window makes his skin glow, and he looks real pretty like this. “No, nononono, no, tell her you’re not hungry. Baby, please—”
“But isn’t that rude, Mike?” you smile cloyingly sweet, and his eyes narrow because he knows exactly what the fuck you’re doing.
Your thin linen pants do nothing barrier-wise, and he can feel you pulsing as you’re resting right on top of his own aching bulge. At every interruption, you’d fall down from his large silver belt buckle, instead resting against him. And even though they were technically cock-blocking you, he loved it; he loved feeling you like this. Knowing you needed him as much as he did. Knowing that the longer you’re both denied, the better it’ll feel. The thought makes his head swim.
“Alright, sweetheart,” sighs Katherine from the door. “Don’t you take too long now, or it’ll get cold…”
“We won’t!” you shoot back. It takes a few moments of silence to hear her heels clicking down the staircase, and then it’s on.
Michael’s hands are bringing you onto his belt buckle again, not that you need any encouragement. It’s grown cold again, and you whine as it makes contact with your damp center. Your pants are going to need washing…
“Why’d you say thaaat?” moans Michael, lips searching yours in a messy kiss.
You don’t answer him, at least verbally. You just grind harder, sharper, smiling like a devil when he sweetly gasps and squeals. His feet start kicking under you as you make the buckle squeeze against his sensitive tip; he’s been edged for a while now, you both have. You could drink his sounds right up.
“That’s not fair,” he cries out, his pretty face all scrunched up again. “You’re not bein’ fair, baby…”
He guides your hips suddenly, making you grind at an angle that leaves you keening against his breathless mouth; drenched panties stretching over your clit, right against the ridged motif of the buckle.
You slap his shoulder halfheartedly, and he smiles even wider. “You’re not being fair!”
Your neck burns. Your everything burns. You’re so flushed because it suddenly dawns on you what you’re doing with only his flimsy unlocked door as a barrier. He’d told you to trust him, that actually locking it would’ve been more suspicious. Oh, God…
The feeling hits you sharply. It only takes about half a minute of that particular angle until you’re writhing over his frame, back arching inwards as he whines louder in your ear, your orgasm washing over you in a deep and overstimulating wave. He’s not far behind, either. And, even though you’re real sensitive, you grind harder, desperate to make him feel good too.
His head is thrown back completely, slender neck all in display for you as his hips buck and grind up against you frantically. Arrhythmically, like he’s in a daze. And what are you supposed to do, not pepper kisses over that pretty neck?
He comes, and he’s almost louder than his own vocals on the vinyl. Almost. It has him clutching you so tight against him that it hurts. Your achy and sticky and downright disgusting mess of a state makes you moan as he kisses you, and he doesn’t stop until you’re both left panting and shaking.
The few minutes you promised Katherine surely have trickled by now.
“S–shouldn’t we, um... go now?” you whisper against Michael’s mouth. His arms are wrapped all around your waist, and you feel warm inside them. You could stay like this with him forever.
“We,” he laughs a bit, voice soft, “we should clean up firs—”
“Did you,” you cut him off suddenly, “d’you… like it?” You don’t know why you sound so… meek. Might be because you’re not exactly an experienced femme fatale. He’s no casanova either, yet that knowledge does nothing to calm your racing heart.
He looks at you so brightly it has you flushing all over again. He starts to speak, but it’s like he’s reminded of the situation currently sopping his jeans, and it leaves him stuttering too.
His arms unwrap around your middle to come up and cover his face, mumbling around a smile: “Y’know I did…”
(“Finally,” laughs Marlon as you and Michael trail down the staircase, hands clasped together, both sporting a different pair of pants. You, a spare you’d left in his bottom drawer for emergencies. Him, identical jeans to the ones he wore before so as not to arouse too much attention. “What took y’all so long?”
Janet slaps a fist on his shoulder. “Leave them alone!”
You liked Janet the best. Even though your boyfriend’s fourteen-year-old sister defending you is nothing short of humiliating, it’s appreciated nonetheless. And as you both take your seats to eat Kathrine’s lovely meal, you feel Michael’s hand trailing on your thigh. He squeezes you, and you have to fight the urge of launching your mashed potatoes in that smug face of his.
Dinner is almost over when Katherine calls your name in concern. “Sweetheart, what happened to your pants?”
Tito and Marlon burst into laughter so hard they get breathless. Randy’s giggling too, the little shit, and you spot La Toya hiding a smile behind her fork.
“We spilled the pitcher,” Michael offers. The flush on his cheeks is not really convincing, though.
“I’m sure y’all did!” laughs Tito.
Oh, God…)