The Con Artist (A Michael Jackson fanfiction) (Completed)

Six

FAIR WARNING: There is a very detailed scene so be advised :)

Michael

Was it a crime to be kissing a criminal? Furthermore, was it a crime to be enjoying kissing a criminal? At the rate we were progressing, it definitely should've been.

Everything was such a blur; one minute we were absolutely against each other-she was such a bitch, honestly, and the way she thought so highly of herself made me want to gag- and the next minute she was kissing me as if she had no recollection of how she hated me, and nudged me onto the bed, my hair fanning out upon the cool, white sheets when I lay down. She refused to detach her lips from mine; I wondered how far we could go before one of us realized this was completely indecent, but I soon came to the conclusion that it had to be me.

"No, stop," I gasped, breathless and clearly senseless, "this isn't right."

It wasn't completely a lie; of course it wasn't right, but it's not like I didn't want to fuck her anyway. The fact that she was hovering over me –shirtless, pantless, and smelling of hard liquor- wasn't helping my cause.

To my surprise (and a bit to my disappointment, although it did assure that she was, at least, a lady to an extent), she didn't proceed. She climbed off me and stood on the floor, rubbing the back of her neck. She was, in that moment (and in every moment, but this moment in particular), the most attractive person I had ever laid eyes on: her lips were reddened from our embrace, her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was disheveled in the best way.

"I'm sorry, I just-"I started, praying she wouldn't get upset.

"Why are you sorry?"

"I-well...I don't know."

She sat beside me, the mattress dipping down as she found a comfortable position, and took a deep breath in.

"Don't apologize unless you really need to, Michael," was all she said before she got up and headed off to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

God, she was so hot. And cryptic. She was cool, calm, collected, and clearly unattainable now that I turned her down. Fuck.

I ran my hand through my hair to try and collect my thoughts and get a hold of myself; if I had known how excited I'd be with her on top of me, I would've let her continue, but something told me that she was just drunk and confused.

I decided not to let myself seem too disappointed; I changed into pajamas, pulled back the comforters on the bed, and climbed in. Before long, I found a very good movie playing one of the television stations.

About forty-five minutes later, Stella emerged from a steamy cloud that rose up when the bathroom door opened. Her body donned a sheen of condensation and her hair was swept back on her head as she stepped out into the room. A towel was wrapped around her; I caught myself hoping it would snag on something and fall to the floor, which I promptly scolded myself for thinking about.

"Have you seen my clothes?" she asked, searching through her luggage. She didn't sound intoxicated anymore, and I assumed she forgot where she threw them.

"Couch in the living room," I replied. She didn't so much as glance at me on her way out; it was only safe to think that she snapped out of the daze I was currently trapped in. I buried myself further under the blanket to avoid her stare when she walked in.

Stella came back, still in a towel, and threw her clothes into her bag before pulling out a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt and retreating to the bathroom again. I thought of how she would look with nothing on but her t-shirt showing off her long legs with the bottom of her shirt riding up on her hips-