October's Very Own (The Shape x OC)

4. hurricane - halsey

🍋Mild Smut/Lemon 🍋

*

Michael P.O.V

I wanted to claim her, brand her, take her. I did not know how. The thought of exploring uncharted territory made me feel like a little kid again, wanting to throw a coin into a fountain to make a wish. Wanting to hope.

A dare to dream.

I leaned down and was about to cup her chin gently, when I stumbled onto a loose floorboard and fell upon her by accident. She squeaked and immediately reached a hand out to help break my inevitable fall, but I knew it was pointless.

My face landed squarely between her neck and collarbone, and I could smell lavender.

"This must be heaven." I breathed quietly into her nape. It was barely a whisper, but I knew she could hear me. Marilyn looked at me with tenderness as I lifted my face off her neck.

Marilyn P.O.V

Everything happened in slow motion. I held out my hands to support him but his weight, coupled with my poor timing, did nothing except push me back in bed. In any other light, this would have been romantic.

Truly, I felt like a slasher film actress as I struggled to push Michael off me. His wicked whisper made me blush. We were now seeing eye to eye and chest to chest. He did not move an inch of muscle, that heavy sexy behemoth. Michael's sea blue gaze searched mine, not unlike how a shark scrutinized a guppy.

He looked absolutely ravenous.

I had to tread carefully. I'm no psychic, but I could tell that this god-like man and I were secretly enjoying this new change of pace. One wrong move, and it would all be over.

I wouldn't know why, but I felt some kind of wonderful when he was all up on me like a beast about to grab the scruff of its mate before penetration. Trying to reason, I'm pretty sure we must've looked like a fright. With my pyjamas pulled up, him on top of me, cheek to cheek, in what appeared to be missionary? Oh God.

Why was I even thinking of that?

I blamed my dry spell, his unknown desires and my stupidity for doing the following.

"Let me up, Michael, I can't breathe." I faked an anxious voice, widening my eyes at him in an effort to look vulnerable. Even my voice rose by a few notes.

He hesitated with a sigh, but got up. Just when I was heaving a sigh of relief, he casually flipped me over. Now, he was under me and I was lying on top of him. It was almost funny, but nobody laughed. In fact, humor seemed to be far from my mind. I was straddling a notorious serial killer, who was now gazing at me with a different kind of lust from what he was used to. Lord, the man was a bloody genius.

His hands went to my waist, gripping me through the silk material of my smock playfully. When he narrowly brushed the inside of my thighs, I averted my gaze in mild shock. I tugged on his hands, lamely trying to discipline him.

"Michael...that feels, damn..." I closed my stubborn mouth before I could continue. I was not telling a serial killer that his touch felt good! So good.

Michael, inexperienced but intuitive, knew. His ego was boosted immensely and I could tell just how smug he was when his grip tightened on my waist.

His jumpsuit was partially unbuttoned, revealing a barrel of a chest. He had a light sprinkling of hair that peeked out of his tshirt, and it excited me greatly. It did not help that my hands were brushing each taut plane and grazing his collar bones out of their own accord.

I couldn't deny it, I was hot for Michael. Begging for it, in fact.

Michael P.O.V

Marilyn looked glorious on top of me. She was attracted to me and had unsuccessfully tried to hide it until now. Bold but respectful, she always checked with me for any signs of disapproval.

So far, I liked it.

She leaned close to my neck and lightly nuzzled me there as I groaned abit beneath my mask. Her fingers barely grazed the underside of my jaw and yet, I did not get mad. I knew that if a person was this close to me, I would want to be able to see their face or at least see their features.

Intimacy was news to me, but I felt that I could trust Marilyn enough. She would not run away if I revealed my face. I could pick up her curious vibes now, with a smidge of anticipation as she stroked my stubbled jawline. She smiled at me warmly, as if to encourage me wordlessly.

It was working.

All of a sudden, this mask felt stifling. I wanted to take my mask off. I wanted her to see me, flaws and all. It was not a question. It was a demand. To let us connect, eventhough there were no words involved in our kind of communication. Not that she seemed to mind.

With shaky hands, I lifted my hands on the edge on my mask and pulled it up. The rubber took awhile to leave my skin, the feel of air on my bare skin almost foreign; but it was all worth it.

I wanted to break free.

She seemed to sense it too, but waited for me to complete the simple yet tedious action. When my hands finally dropped the Star Trek mask on the floor, I braced myself for insults, perhaps a gasp? The only reason I wore masks was to hide my ugliness. I knew that I was not considered as conventionally attractive. I couldn't even remember the last time I looked in the mirror.

What I saw when my eyes found hers surprised me. Marilyn was gazing at me with such unreadable heat in her eyes (not in an angry way, negatively, or temper-wise). I hoped that meant she was okay with how I looked. When she came closer to hold me in her arms, I got my answer.

*