𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙾𝚗 𝙾𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝙾𝚠𝚗

♛
1983
New York City.
Word Count:2.8k

Michael had just returned from a whirlwind of activity-an electrifying press conference announcing the victory tour with his brothers, followed by a jubilant night out with his family. The adrenaline from the night still buzzed faintly in his veins as he approached his hotel suite, but the weight of fatigue was beginning to settle in, a heavy reminder of the long hours behind him.

He fished the keys out of his pocket, the cool metal pressing against his palm as he slid them into the lock. The door clicked open, releasing the familiar, intoxicating scent of your perfume into the hallway. It enveloped him immediately, bringing with it a flood of memories. He inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet aroma that was uniquely yours, and thoughts of you swirled in his mind-your gentle touch, your soothing voice, the way you made everything feel right and grounded.

He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch was almost inaudible, swallowed by the plush silence of the suite. The space was bathed in the soft ambient glow from the city lights outside, casting a serene and almost magical atmosphere. He didn't bother to turn on the lights; the gentle illumination was enough to navigate by. He kicked off his loafers with a sigh of relief, feeling the plush carpet under his feet, the fibers cushioning each step like a tender embrace. Unbuttoning his Monroe jacket, he shrugged it off and tossed it carelessly onto the sofa, the fabric rustling as it settled into a crumpled heap.

Michael moved through the dimly lit suite toward his bedroom, his fingers working methodically to unbutton his shirt. Each movement was deliberate, almost slow-motion, as his thoughts lingered on you. He ached for your presence, wishing you were there to share in his triumph. The shirt slipped from his shoulders and he draped it over a chair, the smell of sweat and cologne mingling with the room's fragrant air.

Reaching the bed, Michael sat down heavily at the headboard, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. He picked up the handset from the cradle, the cold plastic a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin. He dialed your number, his heart pounding with anticipation as he listened to each ring, the sound echoing in the quiet room. When there was no answer, he tried again, his breath hitching slightly when your voicemail picked up. "Sorry we couldn't come to the phone right now. We may be busy or away. Leave your name and we'll get back to you soon. Michael, come here."

Hearing your voice brought a smile to his lips, but also a deep yearning. The sound of your voice was deeply arousing, a mix of longing and desire stirring within him. The voicemail ended with both your voices harmonizing, "Goodbye."

He hung up, the realization that you were visiting family sinking in. Michael sighed deeply and stood, pulling off his white undershirt, his muscles flexing beneath his warm skin. His toned dancer's body was a testament to years of discipline and hard work. Each movement was fluid and graceful, a reflection of his profession.