Book I 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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★ 1977 New York City Word Count:4.8k
The night was alive, the bass from the speakers thumping through the club, the air thick with the mingling scents of cigarettes, liquor, and other intoxicants. Occasional heated exchanges punctuated the murmur of voices-a white man arguing with a black brother, glasses shattering-but none of it mattered to you. You were with Michael. For months now, you'd been going out on dates, and for the past month, you'd been in New York while he filmed The Wiz. Tonight, he wanted to take you to Studio 54, the hottest club in the city.
You sat next to Michael in a plush booth, the disco lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room. You toyed with the chain around his neck, his chest exposed in the dim light. This relaxed side of Michael was a sight you loved. He wrapped his arm around you, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, your dress hugging your curves just right.
James Brown's "Get Up Offa That Thing" boomed from the speakers, and you watched as Michael bobbed his head to the rhythm, his body itching to move.
"Come dance with me," he said, standing and swaying in front of you. You smiled, watching him as he executed a smooth spin.
"Come on, girl, don't leave me hangin' now," he urged.
With a playful roll of your eyes, you stood up. Michael grabbed your hand, pulling you close as the two of you danced to the infectious beat. His moves were smooth and effortless, a testament to his natural talent as a dancer.
"You're too good, Michael," you chuckled.
He laughed, a sound that warmed your heart, and spun you around, pulling you back against him with his arms around your waist. "You look amazing tonight," he murmured.
You grinned, dancing against him. "So do you, mister."
"Don't call me that, baby," he teased.
"I'm playin', Michael, you know that."
As the horn section hit, Michael playfully thrusted his hips to the beat. "Michael, quit it," you said, smacking his arm lightly.
"I had to, the music gets to me," he laughed.
You shook your head, smiling, and leaned back against his shoulder, feeling the coolness of his silk shirt. "It always does," you said.
He kissed your cheek. "Let loose, baby. Just feel the music."
You danced against Michael, rolling your hips, and he couldn't help but smile, his hands squeezing your waist. The music seemed to pulse through your bodies, creating an intimate rhythm between you.
"Get up offa that thang," Michael whispered in your ear, his hand brushing over your behind.
"Quit it, boy," you said, looking back at him with a playful grin.
