This is just a one-shot I wrote while I was really bored, and listening to lots of techno music (gotta love my base-heavy music phases), hence the title which is a song by Daft Punk. Anyway, it's rated M for a reason, so proceed with caution.

Reviews are always welcome and much loved. Enjoy!

The beat was pumping through her, loud, fast, hard. She wasn't normally a fan of music with this much base, but at this moment she didn't care. Because she didn't want to care. She wanted to forget everything: Paris, Henri-Michel, her mother, him. She just wanted it all to go away, and the music was doing it. The pulse went through her, driving away all of the problems. And for once she didn't know exactly how she looked. Normally everything she did was carefully coordinated. Every blink, every smile, every arch of an eyebrow was perfectly executed to make people react the way she wanted. But tonight, she was just dancing.

She felt hands on her hips, and was slightly annoyed. Guys were way too complicated, and tonight was about simplicity. It was about this beat, and the way it made her body pulse. So she took his hands and detached them from her body, ignoring the 'bitch' comment he threw at her. Oh yeah, he would have been a keeper, she thought.

She continued to dance, not thinking about time or anything else. A slight sheen of sweat coated her body as she moved to the beat, and her hair was disheveled. But something was making her uncomfortable. She didn't know what it was- a sense. Like someone was staring at her. She got annoyed again. Men were so stupid. But whoever it was wasn't going away, so she needed to put a stop to this. She turned in the direction of the stare and was shocked at who it was.

He was sitting in the corner of the club, sipping a bottle of clear liquid and watching her. Even when she looked back at him, he kept on. Most guys would have turned away, embarrassed about being caught, but not him. He matched her, stare for stare, and she found herself uncomfortable in a whole other way.

She was moving again, swaying her body to the beat, but this time it was for him. She put all of her energy into the dance, breathing heavier at both the effort and the thought of him watching. Electricity was rolling all over her skin, and she felt like if she touched someone, she would shock them.

(work it harder)

Another pair of hands. She bit back an angry groan. Didn't men learn? But the guy in the corner had gotten stiff, a jealous look coming over him. She lowered her gaze and smiled. Then she threw her head back onto the stranger's shoulder, swaying her hips into him. The man behind her obviously enjoyed it, and his hands roamed from her hips, onto her stomach, then down to her thighs. She looked at the man in the corner through hooded eyes, and watched his reaction.

He stood still, that ice blue stare piercing through her, making her shiver. She could tell his jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched, the right one around the bottle of liquor. His eyes flashed a warning: 'you're mine', but she ignored it, closing her eyes.

They continued to dance like that, the stranger getting bolder with where his hands were. If she weren't so focused, she would have stopped his progress. His hand had just reached her breast when his entire body was wrenched away from hers. She turned around to see what happened, and ran straight into his torso.

She didn't even have time to look up at him before he was pulling her off the dance floor. It was all she could do to keep up with him, her heels making it hard to match his pace. Then they were outside in an alleyway, and she was up against the wall.

His mouth was hot and hard against hers, and his hands blazed trails of fire across her body. They were on her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. He hooked a hand under her knee and brought it up, the angle letting him shift closer between her legs. His hardness ground against her center, and she couldn't help but moan at the contact.

This was all too much. Too many sensations at once - his mouth, his hands, his hips grinding into her. She broke the kiss, needing air, needing to not feel so much. It didn't work because his mouth was running down her neck, over her collarbone, to the edge of her dress. His lips followed the fabric down into the valley of her breasts, and the hand not on the wall for support drifted up her skirt.

Her head rolled back and she let out a long moan as his fingers brushed against the fabric over her slick cunt. She was so wet, and he must know already. He pushed the cloth aside, and slipped a finger inside her. She was panting hard. The cold of the brick against her back, and the fact that she could still hear the beat and noise from inside only added to the sensation.

She was writhing against his hand as he added another finger into her, bringing his thumb in to rub her clit. She rolled her hips onto him, wanting him to go deeper. She was moaning so loud they could probably hear her in the club. But she didn't care, because she could hear him pulling the zipper on his jeans down. Oh, God, she wanted it so badly. She was sure she had never wanted anything like this. If he wasn't inside her soon, she might actually die.

And then she could feel it: the tip of his cock pressing itself to her entrance, and she lifted her leg higher to let him know she wanted it. God, did she want it. He thrust into her, and she has to stop herself from screaming at the feel of it. It's like she's never been so full in her life, and it's almost a little painful. She had to bite hard on her lip to keep from screaming on the next thrust, and the next. He was fucking her into the wall, the rough brick scratching her skin.

The pain against her back and in her cunt was exquisite. He was hitting that spot inside her that made her whole body spasm, and she lifted her leg higher. He let out a groan at the sensation of her walls tightening around him as she spread her legs further. He was fucking her with such intensity, staring her in the eyes the entire time, and forcing her to look back. It was so erotic, seeing his eyes dark with lust, his jaw clenched to stop himself from making the same noises that she was.

That was how she climaxed: pressed against the cold brick of an alley, dress pushed up around her waist, staring into the eyes of a man she hadn't said one word to that entire night. Her body arched out as she came, tightening like a vice around his thick cock, mouth falling open, eyes wide and disbelieving that anything could feel like this.

He was still pounding into her when she came down, and he reached between their bodies to press his thumb against her clit. She came again, whipping her head back and forth, unable to process the feelings. It was too much. She couldn't stand it anymore. But he was still going, pumping, harder, harder, harder. She wanted to beg him, but she didn't know if it was for him to stop, or keep going. She couldn't tell anymore, couldn't discern between pleasure and pain.

He captured her mouth and kissed her hard, his entire body tightening up. He bit her bottom lip hard, drawing blood as he thrust his hips into her one last time. She could feel his come inside her, hot and liquid.

He put his hands on either side of her body, and rested his head on her shoulder, still pumping slightly, riding out his orgasm. She let her head fall back onto the wall and just enjoyed the feeling of it. She knew she would never forget this, even if she never saw him again. She would never forget the feel of him. His hands, his arms, his mouth, his hard body. It would be forever ingrained into her, and she knew that any man she slept with from now on, she would compare to him. The thought made her a little sad, but also gave her a little thrill. At least she would always have a little piece of him- if only a distant flicker of memory, of sensation.

He removed himself from her, pulling up his pants and tucking himself back in. She groaned at the loss of contact, at the loss of him. She felt empty and cold all of the sudden. But she forced herself to pull her skirt down, and the top of the dress up. She managed to rearrange her hair so that when she went back inside, everyone wouldn't know how big of a whore she was.

He surprised her by actually speaking. She assumed he would leave and avoid her later on.

"Are you ok?" It was confusing. She couldn't tell if he was actually concerned for her, or if his manners were just kicking in. She could only nod, afraid to trust her voice. "Well, I'm still sorry," he whispered, running his thumb along her swollen bottom lip. It was sore, but it had stopped bleeding.

"Ryan…" she finally managed to gasp out, but he stopped her from talking by kissing her again. This time it was long and slow, making her insides melt and her legs give way. He looped his arm around her waist to keep her from falling to the dirty street below. She managed somehow to break the kiss. "Ryan, we decided not to do this." She wanted to cry. Why was she saying this? All she wanted was for him to keep kissing her forever.

"How can we not?" he asked against her lips, giving her little kisses while he talked. "I can't see you and not."

"But it didn't work out, and I can't - I won't - go through that again." Why was he so strong? Why couldn't she push him off of her? He was pressing her body harder into the wall, running his hands all over her.

"It didn't work out because you were in Paris, and I was here. But now you're here." He was nuzzling her neck, and it all sounded so sensible.

No.

"You broke up with me, Ryan. You were the one who said this couldn't work. Do you know how bad that hurt?" She had finally broken contact with him, clarity rushing back into her. "I was such a wreck, for so long." She was on the verge of tears again. This wasn't fair.

"Taylor," his tone was pleading, and he caught her up in his arms again, holding her to him so tightly she could barely breathe. Maybe this is how she would die. It would be beautiful. She would just slowly lose consciousness, and her dying thoughts would be of the way his arms felt around her. Fate wasn't with her on that plan, it seemed, because he let her go. "Taylor, you have to believe me. It was torture not seeing you. I couldn't handle being with you, but not getting to see you every day. To touch you every day," he added, running his hands down her sides and onto her hips.

"I can't do this again," it came out half whisper, half choked back sob. "Do you know what I had to do to get over you?" She finally broke out into sobs as he fell to his knees in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and resting his head against her stomach. She forced herself to stop crying. "I went back to Henri-Michel." His grip tightened painfully, fingers bruising her waist. "He proposed to me again." He let go of her, leaning back on his knees and looking up at her. He looked so sad, so lost. She had never seen him like this. Normally he went all brooding and quiet when something was bothering him. Seeing him on his knees in an alleyway, begging for her forgiveness… "I said yes…." it made her heart break.

(make it better)

"You said yes." His voice echoing around the alley seemed disjointed. Like it wasn't really him saying it. It wasn't even a question, just a statement of numb disbelief. The look in his eyes was dead, like she had seen when he ran away from the Cohens'. His gaze settled on her left hand, where the diamond ring gleamed in the faint moonlight.

"What was I supposed to do, Ryan? Wait for you? Ache for you every day until you decided you were ready to have me back?"

"You don't love him."

"But he loves me. And he's stable, Ryan, and he really loves me. He would never give me up without a fight." Her voice had taken on a hard edge, like she was trying to convince herself.

Ryan surged to his feet and grabbed her arm hard. He swung her around, back into her original position against the wall. The kiss was open and dirty. She felt their combined juices run down her thigh, and it made her feel like a whore. His words weren't helping either. "You're engaged. How could you fuck me? You're engaged, you're fucking engaged."

She was crying, and he was thrusting his tongue in and out of her mouth, mirroring their previous actions. She turned her head from him. "Ryan, please…"

"Please what, Taylor? What do you want me to do? Stop?" He was licking and biting her neck.

"I…" she couldn't tell him no. But this was so wrong in so many ways. The first time had been wrong, and this was wrong. He was angry and taking it out on her.

This was all his fault. It was all his fault that she was here, that she was unhappy. She had come to California to 'visit her mother'. Well, that's what she told Henri-Michel, but the truth was, she needed to think. Because she didn't love him and - after Ryan - the sex wasn't even that good anymore.

Her train of thought was disrupted by Ryan's hand on her thigh. "Tell me to stop…" his fingers were back inside her. Wasn't this how it started last time? "Make me stop…" his voice and his touch were all blending together. He had three of his fingers inside her, and they were fucking her hard… "tell me to stop…" she gasped as his fingers curled and hit a place that made her head swim…. "you don't love him…" he hit the spot again… "you're fucking engaged…" again, again, and she was moaning harshly. "You don't fucking.love.him." Each word was punctuated by a thrust, and by 'him', she was coming. The last thing she heard before her climax overtook her was "how could you?". Ryan. Oh God, Ryan.

(do it faster)

When she came out of her daze, she was slumped on the ground, and he was on the other side of the alley, turned away from her, forehead resting against the wall. She could tell he was struggling with himself. She could see his cock straining against his pants. It would be so easy just to take him back. Just say, 'sure, Ryan'. Just say, 'I love you'. Just phone Henri-Michel, 'it's over'.

It would be so easy.

But her sensible head brought her back to three years ago when he told her, 'this isn't working' and 'I don't love you anymore'. She'd known it was a lie, but it still hurt all the same.

How did she know that he wouldn't panic this time? How did she know that he would be able to handle any strain in their relationship? If she got a job in France, would he come with her? If she got a job here, could he handle her staying? Back before college, when she had mentioned going to Berkeley, he had freaked. What if he was that same person? What if she stayed and he decided he didn't love her?

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Tonight was supposed to be about simplicity. Guys were too complicated.

"Do you think you could ever love him?" His voice was gruff, and it startled her out of her reverie. His anger had died down, and now he sounded like a shell.

"Well, I'm figuring that since it hasn't happened in the five years that I've known him, it's not likely that I'll wake up ten years from now and feel it." She found that she, too, felt worn and hollow. It was the first time she'd been truly honest with herself about her engagement to Henri-Michel.

He laughed at her response, a disapproving laugh, full of spite. "This is all so fucking ridiculous." He was still facing away from her.

"You were the one who panicked about me staying in Berkeley, but then couldn't handle me being in France. Where do you get off being the angry one?" She forced herself up, and began to pace. "Marriage is about more than love, Ryan Atwood. It's about commitment, something you're severely lacking. It's about… it's about communication, and understanding, and patience…"

This earned another laugh for him, and he finally turned around. "Right, so when you wake up in ten years, only to find that you still don't love your husband, you can be content in the fact that he's fucking committed."

"What do you want from me, Ryan?" She just wanted this to be over. She hadn't been this emotionally and physically drained since he first broke up with her.

"I want you to fucking leave him." He was staring at her full force, as if he thought that staring at her would make her do what he wanted.

"Ok."

His gaze faltered, and he looked completely taken aback. "What?"

"I said ok. I'll break up with him. Now what?" He stood there for a while, shell-shocked. "See, this is what I meant. You only want me because I'm with someone else. I knew you would-" she was cut off mid-sentence by his kiss. Either he really loved her, or she was about to have back alley sex for the third time.

"Now you stay here." He was running his hands through her hair, whispering in her ear. "You move back here, and you find a job. Or… or I'll move to France. I still remember some French, though none of it useful unless I want to tell people how much I want to fuck them or how fantastic their breasts look…" Taylor giggled helplessly. She had tutored Ryan in French dirty talk. She was getting lightheaded. This couldn't be real. "They have architects in Paris. Although they'll probably think my designs are barbaric…"

"I'll stay here." There was a rising hope within her and it took her breath away. "I'll stay here, and… and I'll do something. And I'll find an apartment in Berkeley that's far from my mother…"

"Seth and Summer are back in Berkeley…"

"And we can try dating again, Ryan…"

"Sandy and Kirsten always liked you. You'll get to meet Sophie…"

"But you're on probation…"

"I'll do anything you want…"

"If you do anything wrong…"

"I won't." And they were kissing each other again, soft and slow.

"Will Henri-Michel take it badly?" He asked in between kisses.

"I don't think so. I think he always knew I'd go back to you."

(makes us stronger)

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