The Boss (A Michael Jackson FanFiction)

The Boss..42..

When my eyes finally open the next morning, I'm lying all alone on my stomach in Michael's bed.

Just after realizing he's not in bed with me, I frown because I'm missing the feel of his body next to mine.

I fell asleep wrapped in the warm embrace of his naked body and now I'm alone?

Where is he?

The sound of an enigmatic grunt makes me look over my shoulder and I immediately spot him.

At least he didn't leave me all alone.

"Ninety-seven." Michael counts as he does a push up and his nose touches the floor between his hands. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Wooo!" He breathes as he rises to his feet and shakes his hands.

He's shirtless in only a pair of blue pajama pants. Hmmm. I stare at his back and the flexing muscles as he starts stretching his arms.

He bends to grab a Fiji water bottle and takes a quick swig before putting it back on the floor.

He starts doing jumping jacks, this time, and I just tilt my head, watching beguiled, as he starts counting again.

I watch silently as Michael finishes his exercises.

He sighs loudly as he grabs a remote and increases the volume of the television.

He pats his forehead dry with a towel before sitting down on the floor in front of the fireplace.

A smile casts upon my lips at the sight of this man--Michael Jackson--sitting on the floor before a TV, criss-cross applesauce, like a child.

This man is such an anomaly.

I chuckle to myself as he stands, still staring up at the TV, which is on Bloomberg News.

Hmmm. I hum to myself. He looks good from behind.

He has a cute little booty.

I giggle to myself as I sit up and scratch at my curly messy bun.

My hair is still in a bun therefore I must have slept well.

If I hadn't, my hair would be all over the place with no hair tie in sight.

I pull the hair tie from my curly hair before gathering it back up into the same messy bun.

I rub at my temples then at the back of my head where I was struck.

No headache or dizziness.

Can I presume my concussion is gone?

Who the hell would hit me?

Before I can try to analyze and answer my own question, I stretch, yawning, and Michael looks over his shoulder at me.

"Well, good afternoon, baby." He smiles wide, turning around he places his hands on his hips. "Aren't you just an alluring sight to behold early in the afternoon?"

I bite my lower lip without thinking as I stare at his torso.

His muscular, glistening, sweating torso.

Stop gaping at his body, Tamera! Get a grip!

"Good afternoon?" I ask, confused, tearing my eyes from his body to look at his face. "What do you mean good afternoon?"

"As in "good afternoon"." He jests, speaking slowly. "You know the time after twelve p.m that ends at six p.m? Afternoon, babe? Ring any bells?"

"What?"

"It's 2:34 p.m, Tamera." Michael replies, walking over to the bed.

"It is?" I frown, blinking fast. "Why didn't you wake me? I've never slept in that long."