The heels of Michonne's shoes clicked hollowly on the cement floors as she walked leisurely between the rows of barrels. Rick did his best to keep his eyes somewhere appropriate and not on the way that the fabric of her pencil skirt was stretched tight around her waist and thighs. He only succeeded in taking in the shape and length of her legs before he decided there was no part of her he could look upon without feeling that strange sensation of butterflies in his stomach.

"This is impressive," She turned, looking over her shoulder at him. The crimson shade of her lipstick made her teeth look brilliantly white. "I didn't realize it was so...involved."

"That's because you ain't from here," Rick couldn't resist the urge to tease, not when she made it so easy. "You're probably used to fancy cocktails, IPAs…"

She laughed, the sound gathering between them like a secret before splashing out into the cellar. "I'm more of a wine woman, actually."

"Thought you might be," Rick grinned. "Whisky can be just as fancy. In fact, some of this here is worth a helluva lot more than a little bottle of wine."

"Really?"

"Really. Bottle of Old Pappy goes for 5 grand if you know where to sell it."

"And do you?" Her long locs slapped at her back as she tilted her head at him.

"That ain't my job," he answered. "I work in here, making the stuff. Selling's for the folks in suits."

She made a low hum in her throat, her eyes darting towards the rows. For a moment, Rick wondered if she knew, wondered how much Aaron had disclosed. Rick hadn't lied to her, not technically. Still, that technicality was like a stone in the base of his shoe, digging in deeper and deeper the more he was around her. She was whisky in human form, sophisticated and alluring. "Well," she laid one hand on the aged-wooden barrel. "Selling isn't too hard. Making the stuff…" She caught his eye. "That seems tough."

She was flattering him and Rick didn't mind in the slightest. "Interested in learning?" He offered, walking closer to her. He looked underdressed compared to her, but even in his jeans and cotton Henley, he couldn't help but feel they matched.

"Why did you think I came?" she laughed again, stepping towards him.

"I was kinda hoping it was to see me," the words were out before Rick could stop them.

Michonne's dark eyes widened for a beat, but quickly creased in a smile. "Maybe I did," she admitted.

"Well then, who am I to disappoint a lady?" Rick offered his arm. Her laughter escalated. Her hand was warm as she took his elbow, joining him at his side.

"Alright, Rick Grimes," the sound of his name in her mouth was enough to send his stomach swimming again. "Tell me what you know."

He led her through the distillery, picking his way through the most important places. "We triple distil in these here," he reached out his free hand, drumming his fingers along the smooth copper surfaces. "You gotta have patience to make good whisky. This ain't beer, or even your wine. You rush it, it's done."

"I thought you made bourbon," Michonne squeezed his arm as they maneuvered around the tight space.

"Bourbon is whisky," Rick chuckled. "But all whisky ain't bourbon."

"So it's...fancy whisky?" She grinned at the look on his face.

"Only place that makes bourbon is the United States. And the best bourbon gets made up here in Kentucky."

"I thought your people were from Georgia."

"That's why my parents moved. Wasn't a lot of work in Kings County, but there's always work up here. Selling, brewing, packaging, moving... Both of them used to work here." Rick looked around, pointing towards the store room. "Some of them barrels in there probably got my mama and pop's fingerprints on them."

"It's in your blood." Her smile warmed him to the tips of his toes. Rick straightened up a bit, eager to share more.

"It's in the water out here. It's why the bourbon is so good. Ain't just that. There's rye, scotch, Irish…"

"I didn't know any of this. Figured whisky was for rednecks." Michonne paused a beat. "No offense."

Rick laughed. "Whisky makes a lot of southerners into rednecks, no doubt. But some of the bougie folks love a good bourbon."

"Might have to try it one day," she mused, her eyes on the drums.

"Then you're in luck, Michonne." Rick grinned. "That I can help you with."

The tasting room was empty, locked up tight for the night. Michonne held onto his arm as Rick flicked on a light, illuminating the corner they were in. He guided her to a barstool, leaving her for a moment while he dug out two glasses. He set them on the bar, pausing only to grapple for a lighter for the candle in between.

"Fancy," Michonne observed. She leaned forward, cradling her chin in her hand as she watched him work.

"Want to give you the full experience." He winked and was rewarded with another giggle. There was a definite flush to her smooth dark cheeks. Rick lifted out the open bottles, lining them up for her inspection. "We've got a bourbon, a rye, an irish, and a scotch." He tapped each, listening to the faint musical ring of the glass.

Michonne examined each one. "Didn't realize I was going to be getting drunk," she teased.

"You're only getting a taste," he promised her. "Can't have any friend of mine out here not knowing the difference between good whisky. And if you're going to be out here rubbing elbows with these big wigs, you better know the basics."

"Very considerate of you."

"I'm a considerate kind of man." He took the first bottle, opening it and handing it to her. "This is rye. It ain't as sweet as some of the others."

Michonne leaned in, wrinkling her nose. "Smells spicy."

"You ain't the only one who thinks so." Rick took the bottle back, pouring a bit into the bottom of the two empty glasses. "Really should have this over ice…"

"Next time," Michonne gingerly received her glass, lifting it towards him. "Cheers." He saluted her, leaning in for a sip. He'd just managed to swallow when Michonne choked around her mouthful, setting him laughing. "Whew," she exhaled. "I don't think this is going to make me quit wine."

"I've got three more chances," Rick reminded her. He reached beneath the bar for a bottle of water. "Rinse that taste out while I tell you about the Irish."

"Yes sir," Michonne busied herself with prying the lid open. Rick ignored the clench in his stomach at that, looking away from her lips and back to the bottle.

"Irish might be a little easier to stomach. Hint of spice, little bit of sweetness. I like it in an Old Fashioned." He poured them both a measure.

"It is better," Michonne pursed her lips, managing to get it all down without incident. "I think I've had this before."

"Be surprised if you hadn't," he grinned. "It ain't bad, but it's nothing special, not in these parts. Now scotch-"

"That's for old men," Michonne interrupted.

"And hipsters," Rick confirmed. "They might be onto something though." He poured some out. "This time, you tell me what you taste. Pretend it's wine."

Michonne swirled it around the glass, making a show of sniffing and spinning it in her hand. Rick watched as she took a curious inhale. "There's something fruity. Maybe citrus…" she paused, licking at her lips. "But it's a little smoky too. It'd go nice with chocolate."

"Look at that," Rick took a pull of his own. "Looks like you know about whisky afterall."

She beamed at him. "Which one is your favorite?"

"This one," Rick nudged the last bottle.

"The bourbon?"

"Uh-huh. This is the year we moved out here, my family. Been aging all that time."

"God, so it's ancient," Michonne pulled a face, but could only hold it so long when Rick scowled at her. "I'm joking. You aren't that old."

"Har-har," Rick deadpanned. "Remind me to start dyeing my hair."

"Don't," Michonne protested. She reached out, wrapping one of the loose curls at his nape around her finger. "Salt and pepper looks good on you."

It was his turn to blush. He reached up, catching her hand and holding it against his face. "Want to taste the last one?"

She nodded, swallowing thickly. Rick dolled out to each of them a healthy pour. "Take your time with this one," he instructed. He crossed around from behind the bar, pulling up a seat next to hers. "This one is meant to be savored."

"Is that so?" Michonne asked. She turned on the stool, her bare knees bumping against his jean-clad legs.

Rick reached for her seat, pulling it even closer. "That's so," he confirmed. "Bourbon is for good conversation, good dinners, and beautiful women."

She leaned closer, tucking one leg around the back of his. "Smooth," she complimented, hiding her smile behind her glass.

The bourbon was as sweet as Rick remembered, warm and rich, spreading down his body like wildfire. He could scarcely register the taste as he watched Michonne enjoy hers. She hummed again, a sound of appreciation.

"It's good," she told him. "It's really good."

Rick sat his glass down, the alcohol forgotten in lieu of cupping her face in one rough palm. She met him, nearly falling off the stool in her haste. Rick caught her, drawing her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were plush, warm, flavored with the taste of Kentucky bourbon. Her hum became an outright moan, her hands clawing for a hold on his forearms. Rick came to his feet, catching her around the waist. She leaned into him, arching her back to press against his wandering hand. She twisted an arm around his neck, pulling him closer still.

The marble bartop dug into the back of Rick's hand, but he couldn't care less. Michonne was like putty against him. Her chest was flush to his, her breathless gasps jolting him. In moments, he was blissfully drunker than he'd ever been in his life.

"Think we can blame this on the whisky?" Michonne's question danced off her lips. She threaded her hands in his hair, tugging him closer.

"I hope it ain't just the whisky," Rick answered her, giving her ass a tentative squeeze. Her resulting smile made him try again, coaxing a broken moan out of her.

"It's not," she assured him. Rick gripped her harder still, acquainting himself with the slope of her curves and the places that made her gasp delightedly. A hundred stories flooded the foggy recesses of his brain, coworkers' tales of workspace trysts. The tasting room did not have cameras, a convenient reality as Michonne's skirt began to ride higher on her thighs.

Rick dropped to his knees, careful to kiss her everywhere he could on his descent. He backed her up to brace her against the bar, trailing his thumbs up the silky smooth skin of her calves. "You ok with this, darling?" He glanced up at her, grinning at the way her breath hitched.

"Yes." Her fingers crept into his hair, pulling.

Rick lifted her leg, settling it over his shoulder. Her skirt bunched unceremoniously around her waist as he looped his fingers into the lace of her panties, easing them down. She stepped out of them with trembling legs, tightening her hold on him. Rick steadied her, looping his arms beneath to get his mouth on her.

"Rick, shit-" his name and the curse word thrilled him. He pulled her closer, doubling down. The unforgiving tile beneath him stung at his knees, but he couldn't care less. Michonne was moaning his name, legs shaking as he did his best to take her apart. She began to slump against the counter, yanking at his hair. His senses filled with her all at once as she moaned loud enough to echo, trapping him against her. Her hands settled on his shoulders and she went boneless, sliding down to the floor to join him. Rick chuckled, settling her against him, content for the moment to let her catch her breath. He reached up, drawing down a glass of bourbon, and offered her a sip before draining the cup.

"That was better than the whisky," she laughed, leaning in to kiss him again.

"Good," he drew her into his lap, balancing her. "I was hoping to make a good impression."

She rolled her hips shamelessly, laughing at Rick's answering groan. His hands tightened around her waist, his hips working to press against her. Michonne coaxed Rick's shirt over his head. He just managed to get it off when she began tugging at his belt, flinging the heavy buckle open. "I have a condom in my purse," she told him nonchalantly, jerking his zipper down.

Rick grinned, reaching to help her. "You always keep one with you?"

"Only when I'm getting a private tour," she smiled right back.

She stood, reaching over the bar. The sight of her, still bare beneath the pencil skirt tangled at her waist, made his mind run blank. Heat flooded him and he followed, leaning over her as she fiddled with opening the thin foil package. She arched back into him, pressing her ass against him. He ran his hands over her stomach and under her shirt, cupping her just to hear her moan for him again.

"Rick…" her tone was just shy of begging. He pressed harder, teasing her.

"Got something for me?" He asked.

She only nodded, handing it back as she braced herself on the flat top. Rick shed his jeans, rolling the protection down with shaky hands, eyes locked on the view in front of him. He returned to her as quickly as he was able, grinding against the heat of her. Michonne reached back with one hand, speeding him along his way.

It took everything in his power not to collapse against her as he bottomed out, listening as her groans melded with his. In no time, they found their rhythm, Michonne clinging to the counter for dear life while Rick gripped her hips tight enough to bruise. The bottles on the bar rattled in time, a faint reminder of what had gotten them here in the first place. Michonne's locs slapped at her back, her skirt riding so high it couldn't possibly be comfortable. She didn't seem to mind at all, urging him on.

"Oh god," her head lulled forward, her legs shaking again. Rick reached one hand around her, determined to send her spiraling at least once more. It didn't take long until she was tightening around him, screaming his name so loudly that Rick had to wonder if anyone was still around to hear it. She pushed him over the edge, her fingers gripping backwards at his thighs as she rode him until they collapsed against the bar.

Rick laid panting against her, pausing only to press a kiss to the back of her neck. He reached around for her hand, lacing their fingers together. "You ok?"

She laughed, turning her face enough to give him an incredulous look. "Doing great."

He straightened up reluctantly, helping her put herself to rights. Even with her skirt pulled down and her shirt straightened, Michonne looked distinctly ruffled. If that wasn't enough, the shit-eating grin on her face would be enough to let any adult with half a brain know that Rick had her ruined panties in his pants pocket.

"If you keep smiling that big, everyone's going to know," Michonne read his mind, doing her best to push his hair back into some semblance of normalcy.

"Lucky me." He buttoned his jeans, shaking out his shirt before pulling it over his head. He bent to kiss her. "Don't suppose you'd want to get dinner with me," he suggested.

"Looking like this?" Michonne laughed.

"We can do takeout," Rick chuckled. "And next time, something fancy."

"Next time, huh?" Michonne flushed, pleased as punch.

Rick took her hand, reaching over the bar for the bottle of bourbon with the other. "Next time," he confirmed. "We can even get wine."

Michonne coaxed the bottle from his hand, her eyes on his. "Whisky's fine too," she said.

Rick pulled her under his arm, pressing his forehead against hers. "Glad to hear you say it."