𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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🔴 1990 𝚆𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙳𝙲 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.2k
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
You and Michael found yourselves at the grandeur of the White House, basking in the honor bestowed upon him as the 'Artist of the Decade' by none other than George Bush and Barbara Bush. Michael exuded an aura of allure, clad in his striking attire - black and red striped slacks, a sleek black jacket adorned with a red arm band, and those tantalizing red belts cinching his slim waist.
As President Bush delivered his speech, you stood by Michael's side, unable to resist the urge to grasp his hand tightly. Every gesture, every movement of his, even the subtle lick of his lips, sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that you knew had to be contained until you were alone.
"Baby, are you okay?" Michael's warm breath tickled your ear, pulling you back from the brink of distraction.
You nodded, your gaze fixed on him, and he flashed you a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to President Bush. Throughout the ceremony, Michael effortlessly commanded attention, his mere presence suffused with a magnetic charm that required no embellishment.
After the flurry of photographs, you retreated indoors for a respite, indulging in light refreshments and dainty finger foods, though Michael abstained, adamant about preserving his impeccable physique.
"Michael, when can we leave?" you inquired, your voice tinged with a hint of urgency.
"Soon, baby, once we're finished here, we can make our exit, alright? I know you're feeling jittery," he replied, drawing you closer, his fingers tracing the strings of your blouse.
"You're just too stunning, Michael. It's hard to keep my cool," you confessed in a hushed tone.
A mischievous glint danced in Michael's eyes as he bit his lip, lowering his sunglasses. "And what exactly are you saying?" he teased, his voice laced with playful intrigue.
"N-nothing, Michael, I'm just..." Your voice faltered, trailing off into silence.
"You just what, girl?" Michael's smirk deepened, accompanied by a playful chuckle as he pushed his sunglasses back up.
"Nothing, Michael," you replied, attempting to divert his attention as you reached for a mini sandwich, taking a bite.
Michael gently retrieved the sandwich from your grasp, his gaze piercing through his shades, fixed on you. "There's something bothering you that you're not telling me, girl," he observed, his hands casually slipping into his pockets.
"It's nothing, I'm serious," you insisted, feigning nonchalance as you averted your gaze.
With a shrug, Michael turned and sauntered off in the direction of the Oval Office.
