AN: This fic is meant for entertainment purposes only. I do not intend any offense toward anyone working in the sex industry, whether it be my perceived ignorance of the details or the depiction of the characters herein.

Daryl's a tad OOC (a little more Reedus than Dixon), but I like him, so he stays. :D This is the first of probably three or four chapters. Let me know what you think?

Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

It was my first night at The Top in Gainesville, and things were already vastly different than they had been at Follies in the city, but the girls were all helping me get up to speed. One major difference between Gainesville and Atlanta: the number of patrons and amount of expendable income. I was worried I wouldn't make as much money at The Top, but my cousin Haley and her boyfriend were letting me stay with them until I got back on my feet. If it weren't for family, I'd be up Shit Creek without a paddle—like my daddy used to say.

Jessie Dell, one of the girls who'd been at The Top the longest, had warned me not to expect much on my first night, but it was payday at the Wrigley manufacturing company in town and, apparently, some redneck's birthday. When I peeked out from behind the curtain, I saw a ridiculous party hat on the head of a guy wearing a good amount of leather and causing a commotion. Then Jessie Dell pushed her way past me and through the door into our dressing area.

"Fuckin' Merle Dixon," she said with an eye roll and a flounce into a chair in front of the mirror before freshening her makeup. "I tell you what, if he even thinks about gettin' another hand job in the bathroom without paying, I will kick his ugly ass right out on the lawn."

"It's Daryl's birthday," Cheri said, as she puckered and pressed her lips together, evenly spreading her lipstick. "But, either of 'em best keep their hands t'themselves, if ya ask me."

"Daryl's here?" Madison piped up, peering through the curtain out onto the floor.

"Madison, unless you're a deer or a huntin' bow, that man ain't gonna pay you one bit of attention." Jessie Dell scoffed, then went back to preening. "Cheri and y'all just wish he'd try half the shtuff his brother tries."

It was weird to me that Jessie Dell talked about turning tricks with customers like it was something to enjoy. Whether I found a client attractive, or not, didn't weigh into my decision to take things into a private room; his money did. I wondered if the Dixons were particularly exceptional in some way, or if hooking up with customers was a common occurrence at The Top.

I joined Madison at the door and looked out with her. "Who's who?" I asked. She pointed to two men off to the side of the stage. "Merle's the one standin' over there in the party hat, waving his arms like a lunatic? And Daryl's sittin' down there at that same table." Her voice trailed off, dreamy and wistful, and I peered through the crowd where she indicated.

I couldn't see Daryl right off, but I saw Merle, the guy I'd noticed earlier, reach out and smack one of the waitresses on the ass then bellow in laughter before she turned around and smacked him back. Just as he lunged for her, I heard an unfamiliar voice from the crowd shout his name; then Booker, our doorman, was at the waitress's side in an instant. She waved Booker off, though, implying she'd handled it on her own.

The crowd shifted, and I finally saw the Birthday Boy, slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette and paying an undue amount of attention to his sweating beer bottle. He barely seemed to acknowledge his brother's apparent rant over the waitress's reaction to his grabby hands, but I could tell he muttered something to his brother. Whatever it was had Merle leaning across the table and in his face before finally sitting down in a huff.

I couldn't make out much about either of them, but what I could see was certainly not spectacular in the least. Merle came off as your typical methhead/drunk/asshole/redneck, and his brother… well, he seemed like the typical younger brother of such a man. I idly wondered if either of them worked for Wrigley and was up for laying down some cash for a birthday celebration.

"Married?" I asked Madison, speculating about how much of the hypothetical paycheck would be spent at The Top that night.

"Are you kidding?" Madison laughed. "No—neither a them Dixons is married."

"Merle was a long time ago before he went to Desert Storm," Jessie Dell said. "But she took her kid and left just 10 days after."

"Can you even imagine Daryl Dixon married?" Cheri laughed, and the other two girls who knew him cackled along. "I mean… ya kinda have to talk to get to know someone well enough to marry 'em, don't ya?"

"Doesn't talk, huh?" I asked, vying for a better look at the guy they all seemed so interested in discussing, as he accepted a beer from the waitress, swatting his brother's hand away from where she bent over to clear their table, before he lit another cigarette. Each of his movements were fluid and unhurried, precise and deliberate.

"Darlin', don't be gettin' any ideas on your first night, okay?" Jessie Dell said, like she was reading where my mind was headed. She stood up from the mirror and crossed the room to meet me, lowering her voice. I had the idea the other girls had all received the same lecture from her at one point, and may or may not have heeded her advice. "Daryl Dixon ain't some amusement park ride or a dare in a child's game. Those Dixons are for real. Take your time and get up to speed 'fore you go out and try to prove yourself in one night." She smiled and handed me a piece of gum.

I looked into her eyes, and it was clear that she believed the importance of her warning. I didn't know what the Dixons' story was, but I did take what she was saying into consideration. I glanced down and the Trident White pellet and grinned. "Tryna tell me somethin', Jessie Dell?" I joked about bad breath rather than calling her out on calling me out, then popped the gum into my mouth. "Thanks."

"Please give a warm welcome to the new girl, our very own American Woman, Miss Savannah Lynn!"

I'd chosen a pretty standard song for my first dance, but it was also one of my favorites and it matched my sequined, patriotic bikini and skirt, so I felt a little more comfortable. I stuck mostly to the pole, but about halfway through the song, I decided I wanted a closer look at the Dixon Brothers. Right about when Lenny Kravitz was growling about "getting away" I took a waltz across the front of the stage.

When I got to the edge without the glare of the spotlight in my eyes, I shot a quick glance at the table where Daryl and Merle sat just 20 feet in front of me. There were two new men at the table, laughing with each other and with the waitress, Merle had his lap full of Jessie Dell, and Daryl had his eyes trained on my every move. Then he suddenly caught my gaze with his, and I almost tripped over my white, vinyl platform boots.

I'd seen that look before; he looked like he wanted me for supper. It was a hot stare—bright blue eyes, and something pure and untamed underneath it all. Suddenly Jessie Dell's words came rushing back to me, and I started to see what she meant about the girls wanting Daryl's attention and her warnings about being cautious of the outcome.

As my song wound down, the DJ called out, cueing my exit from the stage and Madison's entrance. Her song started up, and I scurried behind the curtain to make room for her.

"Good job, girl," Cheri said, handing me a towel and sliding into place to head out just after Madison. "How was it? How d'ya feel?"

"Good," I said, accepting the towel from her and patting down my forehead and chest. "It was… good."

"But…?" She ducked to catch my eye. "Somethin' happen, darlin'?"

I shook my head, but it was time for her to head out, anyway. "Nothin'—just gettin' in the groove, I guess."

She nodded, distracted by her call, but squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Grab a soda. I'll be right back." Then Cheri disappeared, only to be replaced by Madison's chattering.

"Sarah, I'm so glad you're here," Madison hugged me, calling me by my given name. "Sometimes I just feel like nobody gets me, ya know? This is a great crowd, though, isn't it? We're gonna tear it up tonight, girl!"

We stood and watched Cheri's extended set before I shimmied out of my skirt and went out for another American-themed song. That time, I stuck entirely to the pole, but my eyes kept straying to Daryl where he sat stock still in his chair, swirling his bottle, spinning his Zippo, lipping his cigarette, watching me closely. I could almost feel his eyes touching my skin—his gaze was so intense.

After a few more songs, I asked Jessie Dell if she thought I should try going out onto to the floor. She stared at me for a few beats. "That's up to you, I guess," she said. "But don't be gettin' any ideas about them Dixons, like I said. I can handle Merle, but… just…" Jessie Dell heaved a sigh then rolled her eyes. "Ask Madison what happened last time she tried to go anywhere near Daryl Dixon, okay?"

I felt my eyebrows shoot to the ceiling, because I could only imagine what Madison would have to say. My heart started to race a little, thinking I'd come into this small town to be safe again and walked right into to Psychoville, instead. I turned to look at Madison and she shrugged.

"The boy don't like to be touched, Jessie Dell, it's that simple," she said, then turned to me. "It was last fall for Merle's Birthday, and they had the Champagne Room. I just wanted him to loosen up…"

"He shoved you off his lap and onto the floor, Madison Kaye," Jessie Dell huffed. "When are you gonna stop stickin' up for that redneck and his violent outbursts?"

"I ain't stickin' up for him, it is the plain truth," Madison enunciated succinctly. "I shoulda known better'n to put myself in his lap like that—'specially after he didn't even ask. I know he don't like attention. And then I tried unbuttonin' his shirt-"

"Good lord…" Cheri groaned from the mirror, where she was adjusting a platinum wig over her own darker blonde head. "Can we please talk about something other than Daryl Dixon's sexual dysfunction?"

"He is not dysfunctional; he's shy!" Madison defended.

"Let's forget I said anythin', a'right?" Jessie Dell waved her hands in surrender, then turned an arched brow to me. "Just think first, Miss Savannah, 'fore you go sittin' in Daryl Dixon's lap, okay?"

"Point taken," I said with a quick nod to convey my understanding, but I was dumfounded. The impression I got from Daryl Dixon was not that he was shy or dysfunctional, but the expertly contained ferocity hovering behind his eyes and humming under every slight of his hand was apparent. With the new information in mind, I was even more intrigued—and cautious.

I liked to think I was a good judge of character. One of the reasons I left Atlanta was because of the quality of people I was working and dealing with. I wanted to come back to my roots. While I didn't grow up in Gainesville, rural Georgia was where I felt most comfortable—with the people and the environment.

I shrugged off any lingering nagging feelings about making a mistake by coming to Gainesville, and pushed my long, honey-blonde hair up into a short, pink bob wig, then switched out my American flag bikini for a black sequined Hello Kitty set. I kept my favorite knee-high platform boots on, though. The song changed to that Milkshake song that I hated, and I drew a deep breath before walking out onto the floor.

"Well, lookie here, bro," Merle Dixon's voice bounced through the air. "We got us some pretty, new pussy."

I internally rolled my eyes at his predictable Hello Kitty pun then flashed him a blinding smile. No matter how naked you got in the club, if you didn't establish some significant personality trait, you'd be a flash in the pan. In Atlanta, I was known for my natural smile, natural tits, and natural blonde hair; I kind of wanted to keep that reputation.

"Hi there, boys," I purred, right along with the act. "I heard it's somebody's birthday." My eyes zeroed in on Daryl's. He didn't say a word, but he didn't shy away, either. The supposed dysfunctional freak wasn't anywhere in sight at that point.

Merle leaned conspiratorially into my side. "That's my sweet baby brother you're talkin' 'bout, darlin." I feigned surprise and excitement—well, not so much feigning the excitement, since the closer I got to Daryl Dixon, the more I liked what I saw—and I gasped.

"Is that so?" I asked.

Merle nodded enthusiastically and went on and on about showing his brother a good time on his birthday if it killed him. "Boy's got a stick up his ass, if you know what I'm sayin', girl." Merle laughed some more, and I looked down at the table where there were several twenties and fifties in a pile. It was pretty clear that Merle Dixon had just gotten paid, and he seemed hell-bent on giving his brother a happy birthday.

"Aww, he doesn't seem so bad," I cooed, and adjusted Merle's party hat, while giving Daryl an up-close view of my backside, keeping him in my periphery. He really didn't seem so bad. He seemed quiet and sharp-eyed, and like he had to constantly balance his overbearing, drug-addict brother's antics. I amused myself thinking about what those two would have been like in school as kids and it was a lot like what I was seeing happen right at that moment.

Daryl watched me curiously, as I played with his drunkass brother. He smirked at the few jokes I made, and the way I deftly avoided Merle's grabby hands but accepted the tips he offered. When Jessie Dell came on the stage, Merle whooped and hollered and told everyone to "shut the hell up" so he could watch "his girl." Jessie ignored Merle, more or less, and gave a great performance.

I walked the floor and met several other customers, telling them a little bit about myself, which was customary—made some good tips, too. The whole time I felt Daryl's eyes on me. I looked up once or twice, and he didn't even pretend to look away—just kept on drinking his beer and smoking his cigarettes, like it was performance art. I started to feel like I should be tipping him for sitting there, looking so damn good.

"You make some rounds?" Jessie Dell asked when I came backstage. "Meet some folks?"

"I did," I said, contemplating a costume change for my last song. I decided on the black wig and leopard print bikini, and even changed my boots to black vinyl. "I'ma do one more song, and then… I thought about asking the Dixons back to a private room."

My last comment was met with silence, and I turned to see Jessie Dell, Cheri, and Madison all gaping at me with open mouths. "What?" I asked. "I just thought for Daryl's Bbirthday…"

"Girl, have you sustained a recent head injury?" Jessie Dell asked, shaking her head. "What did I tell you about them Dixons?"

"You told me to proceed with caution," I answered, shrugging and switching out my wig. "And they seem harmless to me. 'Sides, I was thinking we could make it a party—me, you, and Madison. Cheri, you said you had to go, right?"

Cheri nodded then looked to Jessie Dell. "Y'all took Merle back for his Birthday, Jess."

"I know it, but…" Jessie sighed and looked to Madison. "You a'right with this, darlin'?"

"'Course I am," Madison replied, fluffing her shiny, auburn hair. "Sarah seems to have a re-par-tee with 'im, anyway… I'm fine."

I worried my lower lip. The last thing I wanted to do was to alienate a new friend in town, and a co-worker to boot. And I liked Madison; I didn't want to hurt her. "You sure, Madison? I never wanted to get'n the way or anything."

"No, no, darlin', you're fine," Madison said, waving me off. "Don't even give it a second thought. But if y'all don't mind, I'ma bow outta here early, too. Can I get a ride home with you, Cheri?"

"'Course you can, hon," Cheri replied.

I looked at Jessie Dell. The mood in the room felt resolved, but Jessie still looked a sight tense. "Ya sure about this?" I asked. "I guess maybe I misunderstood, but I saw all that money on their table, and… I just thought it was a good idea."

Jessie shook her head and smiled. "You're right," she said. "It is a good idea. If Merle Dixon's gonna dump a buncha money, it'll be on that brother a his. You wanna ask 'im, or should I?"

I shrugged. I was fine dealing with Merle, but he seemed to be a regular of Jessie's, and I'd already stepped on Madison's toes, since she clearly liked Daryl, so I decided to let Jessie take the lead. "Dunno—whadda you think?"

"I think you should," she answered, straightening my new black wig. "Further assert yourself and drive that ol' dog up a tree." She laughed, then pulled my hands out to the sides and looked me up and down. "You're to die for, darlin'."

I grinned and got ready for my cue. My last song was Closer, another standard, another attempt at making me feel comfortable in my new place, and another chance to feel Daryl Dixon watch me, ready to pounce like a hungry wolf.

I felt invigorated by the new atmosphere and by the quick camaraderie with the girls, and, if I was being honest, by Daryl's attention. The girls had said he was distant at best, but I was getting a whole different vibe off of him. His eyes on me were like a live wire.

Once the song was over, I hopped down onto the floor, grabbed a towel from the side bar, and headed for the Dixons' table one last time. Before I could reach them, Merle was out of his seat and coming at me. "How much?" he asked, his nostrils flaring and beads of sweat dotting his upper lip.

I didn't know how much coke he'd done, but he looked like he was about to pop, and I wanted to keep him calm. I wasn't entirely surprised by his question, because his intent was written on his face, but I did want a little more detail before I answered definitively. "Can you be more specific, Merle? For what, exactly, are we talkin' about?"

Merle's grin split his face in what some might describe as a grimace, and I felt Daryl's eyes sliding over my skin. "You, me, and my brother in a private room." Merle advanced on me once more, but I was already like a butterfly on a pin from his stare alone, and the heat from Daryl's gaze burned me.

"Two-hundred—private dances from me and Candy Queen," I told Merle, referring to Jessie's stage name.

Merle moved in closer, crowding my space, his grimacing grin turning crooked and one single finger ran the edge of my low rise bikini bottoms; but I stood my ground.

"Don't recall sayin' anythin' 'bout Candy Queen or private dances, girl." He licked his teeth and smacked his lips, raking his eyes over me. "If I'm payin' two-hundred bucks, somebody's bustin' a nut."

"Merle." At some point, Daryl had moved from his seat, and I hadn't even noticed it. Merle's finger dropped away from my skin like I was a lightning rod, but he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Where is that Candy girl, anyhow?" Merle mused, as Daryl and I silently sized each other up.

Standing straight and strong, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, arms and hands rough and sculpted from a hard day's work, hanging loosely at his sides—Daryl Dixon was the kind of man who knew how to use every inch of his body with the power, precision, and grace that can't be learned. Not even the best athletes in the world looked and moved that way, unless it was born to them. Right then I knew that not only were we going to the Champagne Room, but it was going to be a long fucking night—in every sense of the word.

"She's comin'," I answered Merle, my eyes traveling back up to Daryl's gaze, feeling it pour over me like warm, blueberry filling from my grandma's prized pie. I very nearly groaned out loud at the promises that were whispering from behind those eyes.

"Got the bubbly!" Jessie Dell sang out as she approached us, cheerfully redirecting Merle's quickly souring mood.

The other two guys, who I hadn't had a chance to never meet during my rounds, stayed behind as the four of us headed toward the back of the club. Daryl was next to me, and the heat of his body radiated from him as his hand brushed against my bare thigh to tap Merle on the shoulder before jutting his thumb to the side. "I'ma take a piss." His eyes dropped to mine once again. "Don't sneak off."

I shivered at the edge of warning in his tone, and took a moment to really analyze exactly what the fuck I was getting myself into. I was trying for a fresh start. I wanted to save money, maybe go back to school. I didn't know this guy from Dick, yet there I was, already planning ways to get him outside the club and inside my body as soon as possible.

"Here we are," Jessie Dell's cheerful voice was back, as she opened the door to the Champagne Room and waltzed through the door.

I turned my head to see if Daryl was coming and gasped when I found him right on my heels. His fingertips pressed hotly into the small of my back, and he propelled me forward. I'd seen the room earlier, but it all looked so different in candlelight and through my increasingly lust-filled haze. I watched Jessie Dell set up the bottles and glasses as best she could with Merle pawing at her. She finally handed him one of the bottles in a challenge, which he took on "like a man."

I turned to Daryl then and he was staring a hole through me, as he had been all night—cigarette in one hand, and beer bottle in the other. "Sit down, Birthday Boy." I waved to a chair in the corner with the most candlelight, right under one of the speakers. "I wanna give you a present." I smiled.

Daryl gnawed at his lower lip and shuffled his feet, took a sip of his beer, then turned and walked toward the chair as he finished his cigarette. Once he'd stubbed out his smoke and settled into the plush armchair, I let out a sigh of relief—but that was brief.

It was the look in his eyes that made me shiver again. Being a stripper means not getting turned on at work, not getting involved with your clients—even in the Champagne Room—but his eyes were making me forget where I was and that anyone else was there with us.

"Bring the bottle, too," he said, shaking another cigarette from his pack and catching it between his teeth. I swallowed a mouthful of Spumante and tried to blink away the spell he was casting. The room was so dimly lit that when his lighter struck, his face was a burst of light and shade, adding a whole new dimension to the colors in his eyes.

I grabbed the bottle of sugary bubbles and leisurely sauntered across the floor to where he sat sprawled in his chair, appearing relaxed but clearly not—one leg extended in front of him and the other bent, foot flat on the floor, fingers curled around the arm of the chair and his cigarette, respectively. He looked like he could bolt at any minute, but his face told a different story.

He followed my steps with his cool gaze for three beats, then slowly dragged it upward. I could feel his eyes, as I had from the first second he looked at me hours before, heavy and hot—full of rage and want—and I was endlessly intrigued by it; it excited me.

"You don't have a glass, darlin'," I said, coming to a full stop in front of his chair, the bottle swinging gently in my hand. I was used to standing over men in chairs; I felt comfortable there, empowered, even. I fed off the energy rolling off of him, and at that moment I felt high.

"Don't need no glass," he said, like I was new to the game of drinking. "Gimme that bottle, darlin'." He sneered on the term of endearment, and it made me laugh that a southern man would be annoyed by such phrases. I'd never known one who didn't call every woman he met "darlin'", or "sweetheart", or "baby girl."

I extended my arm and he snatched the bottle immediately, then put his lips to the mouth of it, without breaking eye contact. His eyes were like sapphires in that candlelight, and I was mesmerized, couldn't remove myself from the moment enough to remain professional. He had barely touched me with his fingertips, yet I felt every pull he took from that bottle, from my chest to my gut, and it slowly spread across my hips, as his Adam's Apple bobbed with each gulp.

Daryl set the bottle on the side table with a clunk and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, watching me breathe. "How much he pay ya?" He gestured toward Merle, who was in the opposite corner with Jessie Dell. I didn't look to see what they were up to, but judging by the words coming out of Merle's foul mouth, Jessie was doing her job right.

"Does it matter?" I asked, slowly inching closer to his lap. Something told me I wasn't going to wind up on my ass like Madison, but I couldn't be too careful. "You're inside the room now."

"Yeah, it fuckin' matters." Daryl shifted in his seat and shot me a hard look. "I wanna know if I'm gettin' my brother's money's worth."

I leaned forward, slowly, resting my hands on the arms of the chair. "Darlin'…" I let the pet name sink in, and he all but snarled at me. "I promise that you will get your money's worth—both a ya." Then I took one last step, and slowly planted my knee beside his hip in the chair. My hips jutted forward ever so slightly, and that was the first time I could recall seeing him pull his eyes from mine.

He watched my hips and licked his lips. His hands stayed steady, elbows planted in the arms of the chair just inches from my hands, as he smoked and spun his lighter. He silently watched as I gave him a bona fide lap dance—one of my very best.

He didn't touch me, and I didn't touch him—except the occasional knee or thigh to his leg—and it was the single hottest experience of my entire life. I'd given hundreds of lap dances; I'd had boyfriends and plenty of sex; but I'd never sensed from just a look or feeling that someone wanted me as much as Daryl Dixon wanted me right then.

On one downward sweep, I could feel how hard he was, and he flinched. I snatched one of his constantly burning cigarettes from his fingers and took a drag, then arched my neck and exhaled, handing his cigarette back to him. Three songs in, and I was burning up. I knew I couldn't fuck him while we were still in the club, but I'd be damned if I let a client get me this riled up without any release at all.

"Touch me," I said, dropping my gaze to his. He stared for a few beats before pocketing his Zippo, then his calloused fingers wrapped around my knee and tentatively slid up toward my hip. The outside of my thigh sizzled under his simple touch. I sighed and settled firmly in his lap, and he groaned.

"More," I breathed, moving my hands from the arm of the chair to the back, right over his shoulders—and my God, his shoulders. I could spend hours this close to him and never get used to his body and his heat and his eyes riveting me in place—and his hands, once he'd abandoned his cigarette, as they finally, finally, encased my hips. "Yes."

I ground over him, where he was so fucking hard, and I felt the friction from my bottoms slipping and sliding between my legs. He kept his hands steady, guiding me over him in a rhythm all his own, and I let him. I never touched him, though, not once with my hands, but I could feel his breath on my neck and his fingers bruising my hips. My own breaths started coming in short puffs of air.

"Baby…" I breathed in his ear. "You're gonna make me come." I whined on that last word, because he swiveled my hips a little wider and I felt a blast of pleasure from between my thighs shoot straight up and out across my belly and chest. I gripped the back of the chair and dropped my forehead to his, as my fingertips tingled and my hips shook.

I came to full awareness with Merle shouting his own gratification from across the room, and Daryl's fingers loosening from my skin. I'd come in his lap, fully clothed, and he'd barely touched me. And he was still hard between my legs.

"Damn, boy, where you been all my life?" I whispered in Daryl's ear, then pulled back slowly, contemplating how to get his pants undone before our hour was up—that's what he was there for after all, but he was tricky. I was good at my job, though, so I knew I could do it; it would just take some finessing.

"Tell me what ya want," I said, risking the venture of willfully touching him—first his shoulders, then his chest, then my fingers slowly ran down over his stomach and into his lap. He closed his eyes while I did it, tilted his head back, and relaxed into the chair—his arms thrown wide. He wasn't just letting me touch him; he was loving it.

"Tell me, baby," I whispered, because something told me he didn't want to be loud like his brother across the room. "Tell me what you want. I'll do it—anything." I placed a small, light kiss to broad, distinct collarbone, and he shivered.

"Yeah?" he asked, his fingers trailing up my thighs and lightly tracing the leg openings and the low waist of my bottoms. "Anythin', huh?"

"Yes," I hissed, beginning to move again, feeling him hard and hot between my thighs. He let me kiss his skin, but I didn't try to kiss his lips. And then he started talking.

"Don't know if I can have anythin' I want, seein's how what I want isn't really on the menu, now is it, baby?" His hands traveled over my hips and ass and gripped me tight, thumbs curling around my cheeks and slipping under the fabric that covered me. A shudder rooted in my chest vibrated outward at his tone, the soft rumble of his voice, and his words. There was very little that wasn't on the menu in the Champagne Room at The Top, and most of it was unspoken rule.

"Maybe I got a birthday special," I said, pulling his ear lobe between my lips, and feeling his fingertips slip through my wetness, then backward between my ass cheeks. Daryl Dixon didn't mince words or waste time—that was for damn sure. "Fuck," I gasped, when his fingers pressed harder against my back opening, alternating from where I was soaking through my bottoms to where he wanted to be.

"Gonna gimme my special here?" he asked, putting his lips against my skin for the first time that night. They burned me and distracted me, and pushed me so far outside my mind that all I could think about was giving him everything and anything right fucking now. His wet fingers continued to nudge and slide around inside my bikini bottoms. Then Merle shouted again, and I came back to my senses.

"Not here," I said, bucking back against his hand and whining. "But… shit, baby, I don't know where, but I want you. So bad."

He turned his head and ran his lips over the thin skin of my throat, licking and nipping. "I know where." He slowly pulled his fingers out of my bottoms and settled his hands on my hips, pushing me back on my haunches. Then he reached up and pulled my wig from my head and dropped it to the floor. "Leave that, and let's go."

Daryl turned the knob then stepped aside, letting me walk across the threshold first. I felt his eyes on my backside as I walked through the door. We passed the staircase and walked down the hall. Just before the great room at the back of the house, there was a kitchen to the left. His hand gripped my shoulder and guided me through the doorway. I reveled under the warmth and strength in just his hand. I wanted both of his hands on me—everywhere.

When I decided back at the club that I wanted Daryl—not just professionally, and not just for his birthday, but really wanted him—it wasn't the most rational decision I'd ever made. But I felt safe with him, even alone, 10 miles outside of town, in a stranger's kitchen. My body hummed with excitement from that little edge of danger, but I knew the difference between feeling in fear for my life and feeling stimulated by something new and different.

The kitchen looked like a disaster area. Daryl had told me that he was a carpenter and was working on this guy's countertops, and that the guy was a total dick about it. I could see the evidence of Daryl leaving all kinds of shit lying around on the counters just to annoy his client.

"Is anybody here?" I asked, as he dragged his hand from my shoulder to my hip, and his other hand rested on the opposite side. "I mean…" He pulled my hips back into his and kissed my neck and shoulder where my shirt had slid to one side. "Obviously not right now, but…"

"Darlin'," he said, a smile apparent in his voice, asking for my attention.

"Yeah?" I was breathless, but I chuckled at his use of the term.

"We're all alone," he mumbled against my skin, and a shiver ran down my spine. "'S just you and me."

I had a bottle of the Asti Spumante and a bottle of lube in my bag and they thumped against each other and the wooden base of the kitchen island, when he pushed me forward. Judging by the buzz in the air and as fast as I came at the club, I knew we didn't need a lot of foreplay to get where either of us needed to be, but damn he was persistent. I mused to myself that his brand of persistence was actually a huge turn on, a kind of foreplay, in and of itself. His quiet, hands-off confidence and determination was what got us there in the first place—that and his eyes.

I braced my hands on the granite countertop in front of me and dropped my chin to my chest, loving his lips and teeth on my neck and shoulders, and his rough hands as they slowly slipped up under the hem of my shirt.

That was what I'd missed in Atlanta—the good ol' boys, the self-made men who worked with their hands and backs, who didn't fuck around with words that didn't matter, who didn't play like they wanted to buy you diamonds and furs, when all they really wanted was your ass. I missed those hands on me, strong and unyielding, unapologetic in their roughness and insistence, and wanting it all. I missed the smell of a man like Daryl Dixon—ever-present diesel and something like the outdoors.

"Get that bottle out," he muttered then bit into the shell of my ear. "We need t'celebrate." I pushed back into him. Even with my boots on, Daryl was taller than me. His cock, hard beneath his fly, brushed against the small of my back.

I reached inside my bag and grabbed both bottles, because they were both tools for celebration in my opinion, before dropping my bag to the floor. Then Daryl pulled my shirt up and my arms over my head. He let my shirt fall where my bag sat and immediately unfastened my bra and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Fuck, I been wantin' to do this all night, girl." His hands cupped my breasts more gently than I would have expected, until he pulled my nipples between the big knuckle on each of his forefingers and the pads of his thumbs. The pleasing pain was excruciating, and I couldn't contain my voice. "Tha's right," he whispered in my ear and pulled harder at my nipples. "Get loud. Ain't nobody 'round for miles."

And, damn, he was a talker once I got him alone. He was going to spend his time doing exactly what he wanted to me and telling me all about it.

He used one hand to work my tits, his mouth was at my neck, and his other hand traveled down my belly and between my legs. He didn't waste time pulling my panties down from under my skirt, just past my ass, just enough to get access to everything he wanted. Then his fingers were sliding down the front of my wet slit.

"God," I moaned. I was still wet from the very first time I saw him up close, and I was still swollen from our dry hump at the club. He hooked two fingers up inside me and squeezed, pressing the heel of his hand over my clit then circling it. "Jesus Christ, Daryl."

"I want ya good and ready for me, darlin'." He nuzzled into my neck then nipped at my skin. "Gonna need t'be for what I got planned." He slipped those two curled fingers in and out of me in time with his hard-pressing palm over my clit, all while licking and biting at my skin, and pulling my nipples tight. I gripped the counter and tried not to collapse when my knees started to shake and my gut quaked. Daryl was breathing hard in my ear and I was yelling about him being a son of a bitch, when my pussy clenched hard around his fingers.

I was out of breath again, bracing myself on the counter as he took his fingers and mouth away from my body, but he didn't go far, reaching for the bottle of bubbly on the counter next to us. I hazarded a glance over my shoulder. He stood upright, licked the fingers of his right hand, then deftly popped the cork of the cheap Italian wine. The bottle exploded and sprayed between us, down my bare back and splashing on my ass.

"Ah, now, look a'that," Daryl made a mockery of a sympathetic voice. We both knew he wasn't sorry for getting me so wet and sticky. "Gotta clean you up, girl. You're a mess." He held the bottle in one hand, then bent forward to pull a sip of the wine that had pooled in the arch of my back. "Damn, tha's good," he muttered, and then he was on his knees.

I heard the bottle hit the floor with a soft thud, then felt his hands on the backs of my thighs, pushing upward, squeezing, his thumbs slipping between my cheeks. Before I could say a word I felt his tongue swipe along one cheek and over my tailbone to the other cheek, then his teeth slowly sank into my flesh. I swore out loud and dropped my head to the counter, my hands splaying out in front of me, knocking papers and plans and pens and tiny plastic wrappers to the floor.

Daryl pushed my skirt up higher, tucking it into its own waistband. Then I felt more wine, and that time it wasn't an accident; it slowly trickled from my tailbone, over my cheeks and everywhere in between. "That is the prettiest waterfall I ever seen," he said, before taking another mouthful of my skin, swirling his tongue around the area he'd abused with his teeth. "And tha's the best tastin' Georgia peach I ever had."

"Wastin' all that wine," I gasped and bucked back against him again.

"Fuck that." He kissed my hip and bit me. "Ain't a waste."

His fingers were back—three of them—slipping from my clit, curling and swirling, gathering all that wetness, and pulling it back, as he stood. Then he slid just the tips, one at a time, slow and patient, inside my back opening. I laid still, letting him work me. I had nothing left to give; I just wanted to receive. I widened my stance when I felt him slip his forefinger in past the tip to the first knuckle then twist.

"This's one fine ass, girl," he said, his voice sounding soft and lazy, but undeniably determined.

"What're you gonna do with it?" I teased, pushing back, feeling his finger sink deeper, then pull out.

"'S my birthday," he said with a loud, hard smack to one ass cheek, and I yelped. "Reckon I'ma do just about anythin' I want." Then he landed a backhand smack to my other ass cheek before gripping both my hips in his hands. "Gimme the other bottle."

He was pushing all of my buttons, and it felt like a dream. I pushed myself up and turned to hand him the lube. He was as efficient as always with popping the top and squeezing the liquid out and down between my cheeks. I felt the cool slide and then his fingers, two that time, push inside. It was tight and it stung and I fucking loved it.

"Daryl," I breathed, pushing back on instinct.

"Nuh-uh, darlin', we ain't going back now." He pushed his fingers further and slowly twisted them again. His other hand swiped my hair to the side, and over my shoulder, then slid down my back, over my bunched up skirt and grabbed my hip.

"I don't… fuck, no—I don't wanna go back." My voice shook. "I want you. Now."

I heard him chuckle lightly and his hand tightened on my hip before his other hand pulled away from me. He crouched behind me again while I rested my head and cleared my mind and prepared myself for what was to come. I listened to him rummage through my bag, tear open a condom package, then stand again and fumble with his belt and pants. The cold metal of his buckle bumped against my thigh and I hissed. Then his hands were on me again and I was being lifted up and draped over the counter.

"Tha's a good girl." His hand smoothed over my ass and my legs dangled toward the floor. I pushed my palms into the countertop and re-situated myself, my body quickly heating the cool granite under me, but not before my abused nipples tightened against it.

Daryl used a foot to drag a saddle-style stool over underneath the overhang of the counter and encouraged me to step on the rungs. "You're gonna need that." His hands never left me, though, and soon I felt his cock nudging between my cheeks.

I squirmed and tried to gain some kind of leverage, planting my booted feet on the lowest rung of the stool, straddling it, keeping my legs spread, and propping myself up onto my forearms. Then he was pushing slowly inside, stretching and burning, forcing the air from my lungs and every sound I could imagine over my tongue and lips.

"Fuck," he swore quietly, once he was all the way inside. His hands laid still and calm on the small of my back, thumbs drawing small, light circles at the base of my spine. We both just breathed for a minute, and I could feel every inch of him inside me. "Ya good?" he asked.

I took two more breaths, then nodded.

When he pulled back I couldn't breathe again; it felt like he was drawing everything out of me with that smooth, slow motion. Then he pushed back in again and I let go of a long, hot, breathy sigh. "Oh, my fuck..." I said a lot of things as he pushed and pulled, and his hands kept me in place. I didn't even recognize my own voice when he sped up—long, hard thrusts, my palms skidding against the cluttered granite counter. "I need... Daryl... please—I can't..."

He must've read my mind, because within seconds, he slid one hand around in front of where we were joined and slipped two fingers in a V over my clit and just held them there, letting his thrusts guide the rhythm. I was out of my fucking mind. Then he curved his middle finger down and inside my cunt, keeping pressure on my clit with his palm, holding me steady with his other hand, and taking me hard. Seconds later, I came again—loud and long.

I don't remember much after that, except his fingers digging into my hip and him thrusting three more times, harder than I thought was possible for me to take. And his voice—rapt and breathless, calling out my name.

End notes: I am LMAO at how Rhanon Brodie and I are obsessing over Daryl's eye color with a thesaurus. Many thanks to Brodie for the feedback and support—and to MsKathy for the red pen and for being awesome.