- 1989.

As the evening draws to a close, my eyes flit to the side; being sat in the audience at the 1989 American Music Awards, my gaze perfectly lands on none other than George Michael — a handsome English singer-songwriter, known for his fresh, bubbly persona while he was part of the pop duo Wham! — but also for his enormous success with his newest and first major solo effort, Faith. The latter, of course, is the reason he is here tonight — he has won more than one award to celebrate his extraordinary achievements, and he seems incredibly pleased with this. As I observe him, I note his appearance — precise designer stubble adorns the bottom half of his chiselled Greek face; his hair, a cedar brown shade with wisps of blonde streaked through the top, is styled up into a loose quiff; and he wears a stunning black suit complete with a crisp white button-up beneath. He is the true picture of perfection.

As the various celebrities, icons and audience members begin to spill out from the vast space we're accumulated in, I dare to approach the man to create small talk. Having been nominated for an award myself, I feel reassurance that I won't be stopped from getting closer to him by his security; we are part of the same crowd, after all. As I get nearer, I see other artists congratulating him; he takes this with grace, smiling to his peers and accepting any hugs and handshakes he is given. Among the commotion, he averts his eyes up to fix his gaze nowhere in particular; this, however, causes him to make eye contact with me unintentionally. We exchange casual smiles, until I finally reach him.

"You did really well tonight," I compliment him through the noise of the room. "You really deserved those awards you got."

"Thank you very much," he returns politely, inviting me in for a friendly hug; upon withdrawing, he keeps his hands on my upper arms. "I think you definitely should have won your category, though."

"I'm not annoyed about it. There was no competition with some of the artists I was up against," I explain, nodding in acknowledgement of his kind words. "But thank you. It means a lot coming from you."

"I just say it how it is," he chuckles, using a moment of his time to take a look around at everyone. "There's a lot of people in here, and all of them are fantastic in their own rights. But some of them didn't deserve to win in the way you deserved to. I've seen your interviews. You're a lovely person."

"You're a bit of a charmer, aren't you?" I joke, sliding some of my hair back nervously. "It's a shame these awards aren't about personality, I guess. It's the music that counts."

"Ah, but I've also heard your music — and let me say, that's just as good." He grins, exposing his flawlessly pearlescent teeth. "I've wanted to meet you for a while, actually. And I don't regret that now that I have."

"If you weren't such a busy man, I'd ask to spend a bit more time with you. Get to know you a little better," I respond. "You seem like the kind of person I'd enjoy being friends with."

"Who says I'm busy?" He rolls his suit jacket sleeve back a touch, checking his wrist watch. "It's only eleven o'clock, and we have the whole evening. There's an after-party, but I don't think I can be doing with all the arrogant ones getting in my face for four hours solid." He shakes his head, shuddering at the thought. "Perhaps I could interest you in going back to my dressing room. We can share a few quiet drinks if you like."

"Sounds wonderful," I accept, beaming widely. "And a much better use of my time than the after-party."

"So that settles it, then." He takes a hold of my hand, slipping us through the crowds of people to get backstage; we both see a series of flashes, and evaluate that it's cameras getting photos of us escaping the bustling venue together. Once we arrive backstage, we realise just how quiet it actually is; it's a great contradiction to how loud it is where the others are.

"You realise we'll probably be on the front of every newspaper tomorrow," I frown at him. "They caught us leaving together."

"They can't prove a single thing," George dismisses, swatting the air with his hand. "All we're doing is spending some time together, to get to know one another. Nothing harmful."

"This is the media we're talking about," I remind him. "They like to twist everything."

"You have a point, I suppose." He leads me to the door of his dressing room, before turning the knob to open it. "Excuse the mess. They were rushing me before the show started. I had to throw my clothes on the floor to find my suit jacket."

"Fine by me." With a laugh, we enter the dressing room together. "Well, yours is certainly bigger than mine was."

"That doesn't seem fair," George answers, heading to the dressing table to grab a bottle of champagne. "I saved this for afterwards. I was going to call Andrew and meet him at my hotel to use it, but he's probably out having sex with every girl he can find in America, anyway."

"Living the dream," I tease. "Well, I hope I'm a good enough replacement for your lifelong best friend."

"More than good enough." He pops the cork from the bottle, startling the pair of us, before pouring some of the contents into two glasses. "I'll probably be having a few of these, so I hope you can handle a tipsy singing Greek."

"I'd love to see it," I challenge, taking one of the glasses. "You have the voice of an angel."

"I wouldn't go that far. I prefer the writing side," he explains. "I want to die knowing my words changed the world, not my voice."

"What a beautiful way to look at it," I smile, sipping the champagne. "But if you ever needed the reassurance, your voice is just as good as the words it sings."

"You're very sweet." He quickly swallows back the entire glass of champagne he's holding, before pouring himself another. "This stuff is brilliant. I won't go with any other kind."

"It's very good. You have great taste," I assure him. "Although, the hangover you'll have tomorrow won't be so great for you, with the way you're going."

"I'm not a lightweight," he snickers, raising his glass. "Here's to making new connections and achieving great things."

"I'll drink to that," I reply, lifting my beverage up to clink our glasses together. "To new connections and achieving great things." We both simultaneously take another sip; his, of course, is larger than mine — so much so, that he concludes another glass before I've even finished my first. "My goodness, Mr Michael! You sure can get through this stuff."

"Please tell me you're aware that Michael isn't my real surname," he pleads, amused. "It's just a stage name. I thought that was common knowledge."

"I'm not stupid. I just can't say your real one." We share a light laugh, as I watch him pour another glass. "Maybe ease up a little, though. I don't want to be carrying a megastar home."

"I'm starting to believe that you just don't want to hear my drunk singing," he jibes, raising a brow. "Is that what it is?"

"Of course not. But put it this way — it would certainly make headlines if you started singing I Want Your Sex to the random celebrity you escaped with after an awards show." Shaking my head, I finally finish my champagne; I set the glass down on the dressing table, before looking back at him. "You know what I'm saying?"

"What if I did sing that?" he demands with a mischievous smile. "Would you think I was singing the words to you seriously?"

"Of course not. But try and tell the paparazzi that." To make myself a little more comfortable, I cross one leg over the other in my chair. "It's not as if you would ever sing that seriously to me anyway. Even if you thought you were serious, you're already tipsy. It would be meaningless."

"Being tipsy doesn't stop me from being self-aware," he corrects me. "I know an attractive person when I see one." He pours a third glass, before hovering it to his mouth ready to sip again after he's concluded his sentence. "And you're very attractive."

"Goodness me," I gasp, finding joy in his lighthearted attitude. "You really do need to slow down with that champagne."

"Is a man not allowed to compliment somebody they think looks good, anymore?" he interrogates, not for a single moment becoming irate with me. "If I were going to sing that song to anyone, it would be you."

Despite feeling immensely flattered by his words, I try to hide this — of course, he is arguably the most gorgeous man I have ever had the pleasure of making eye contact with, but I also believe that the drinks are getting to his head. "You're very charming."

"Well, my song is purely about wanting to sleep with somebody and explore," he elaborates. "I know the video refers to monogamy, but I think in some cases it's okay not to follow that."

"I've heard about your so-called 'unselectiveness'," I answer. "You're blessed with an appearance that allows you to sleep with anybody your heart desires."

"It has its advantages," he evaluates. "But sometimes meaningless sex has, too. No strings attached means no obligations after the fun is over."

"That's true." Hearing him discuss something so mature is strangely attractive to me; his openness to admit that he enjoys casual sex is pretty admirable — in this day and age, it's seen as something rather taboo. I dare to ask, "If I told you to have sex with me right here, right now — what would you say?"

He gives a low chuckle, taking his bottom lip into his mouth a moment. "I'd say, as long as you don't expect anything from me after it—" He gives a seductive smile, raising his brow again. "—Let's do it."

"You're a very busy man. I wouldn't dream of invading too much after tonight," I assure him. "Like you said, no strings attached."

His charismatic expression transforms to one of full seriousness, as he sets his glass down on the dressing table with mine. He stands up, pulling me by my hand out of my chair; before placing his large hand to my waist. His lips remain slightly parted to breathe as he keeps his eyes on my own; this allows me the opportunity to observe his soft, doe-like amber eyes. After a moment of silence between us, he advances forward, pressing his body to mine as he closes the gap between our lips in a lust-fuelled kiss. The immediate ecstasy overshadows all else; my arms move up to coil around his neck loosely. The only sound audible is our long, drawn-out make-out session, mingled with the shuffling of our clothing as our hands roam to previously-forbidden places. Shaky palms start to grab onto sweat-drenched skin as we slowly undress one another, piece by piece. Eventually, all that remains are the areas that were formerly left to the imagination; we finally part from one another, but only so that George can push me against the wall of the small room we're in.

"You are so fucking gorgeous," he groans softly, allowing his lower torso to touch to mine; it's easy to feel his growing arousal throbbing against me. "And you caused this. It's all your fault."

His physical reaction to me evokes a certain type of feeling within myself. "That's impressive, I must say," I dare to whisper back. "How about you show me what you can do?"

"Trust me when I say, I can give you an award-winning performance tonight," he utters, using his fingers to slightly part my legs. "I promise you."

With these words spoken, he grants himself permission to enter me; the largeness is overwhelming at first, but I manage to tolerate it. He bites harshly against his lower lip as he begins to move into me — he goes slowly at first, to establish a smooth rhythm. Just the sensation from this simple action is magical; my head tosses back against the wall as I let out a soft moan. My response seems to motivate him further, as he starts to quicken his pace, until both of us are filling the room with sounds of pleasure.

"Fuck," he mutters, before expelling a loud groan from the back of his throat. "You feel fucking amazing."

"Go faster," I whimper, needing to be satisfied even more intensely. "Give me all you have, George ... please."

He obliges to my request, going even quicker than he has been doing; with this, he moves even deeper into me, too. "I'm trying to hold out, but you're too fucking good. You feel too good. I can't last much longer."

"Then don't," I invite breathlessly. "Do what you have to do. I want to feel everything ... "

"You asked for it," he grunts; after a few more of the same motions, I feel him start to quiver against me; the erotic pleasure shocks him to the core, provoking him to reach his climax aggressively. "Fuck!" he moans, as he begins to pulsate inside of me. He takes some time to catch his breath, then continues to move within me some more to allow me to achieve the same high as him; after a minute or two, I feel the beautiful sensation of my own peak. My lower half shivers as I attempt to regain my usual breathing pattern; then, I look up to him.

"I can see why you're so popular," I exhale shakily. "That was intense."

"You may just be the best I've ever had," he compliments. "I'm glad we could do this."

"Me too," I return. "And I promise I won't go to the press and tell them I fucked Mr I Want Your Sex."

"It wouldn't bother me if you did." He grabs his white shirt from the floor, sliding it onto his body. "It would be an honour for people to know I was lucky enough to do that with someone as wonderful as yourself." He closes the buttons of his shirt, before taking his suit trousers from the back of the chair; after slipping them on both legs, he does the zipper on them.

"Full of compliments," I comment, grabbing my own attire to put back on. "I'll tell them that, too."

"I dare you to give them all the gory details." He finally reaches for his suit jacket, neatly replacing it back over his body. "But you're too classy for that."

"I'm sure I'll bring it up in an interview in ten years," I tease. "Just as long as you back me up if people doubt me over it."

"Of course." He grins, using his hands to neaten his clothing a little. "If you ever fancy doing this again, I'm sure that can be arranged."

"And that's coming from Mr No-Strings," I gasp, doing the zip up on my clothing.

"Well you're just that good, y'see." He laughs, lifting my head by my chin, to brush another kiss upon my lips. "And as long as you're down for it, I'm happy to sort out another awards show after-party with you." He takes the cork from the champagne from off the table, placing it back in the bottle. "But for tonight, I think going back to my hotel could be a wise idea. I just realised I never locked the dressing room door. Anybody could've walked in."

"So risky," I joke, following him as he heads to the door to leave. "And what will we do at the hotel?"

"Some more of the same, if you like." He side glances at me, as if awaiting my approval. When I nod my head, he chuckles. "That's decided then. Let's go, now. I'm sure everybody else will have gone."

He grabs my hand once more, before opening the door to exit the room; when we are happy that we're alone, we dart out to head outside — where his security have been waiting patiently to take him back to his hotel. Once we're inside his chauffeur's car, we exchange expressions of anticipation for what's to come when we arrive. If it's anything like our intimate experience just now, it'll certainly go down as my favourite of all the AMAs I've attended in my career.

~~

Hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! Was quite apprehensive about posting but ah well. xx