Summertime in Atlanta is good for trouble.
And trouble is good for business – at least, in Rick Grimes' world.
There is just something about the summer.
When the energy of the city starts to feel electric.
The humidity in the air gets thicker as the heat grows ever more persistent.
The skies darken much later in the evening during summer, so when the city comes alive to greet the night, things feel just a hair's breadth more unpredictable.
For some, the intensity of the change in season makes loneliness feel somehow lonelier. So much so that a man's thirst for pleasure – if only for a temporary escape from the discomfort of the heat – can become unhinged should the temperature climb a fraction too high.
It's the city. There is just something about it.
Rick Grimes has spent six years getting used to the electric charge that the burgeoning Atlanta summer generates in his bones. It makes him restless; turns him feral. In his past, whenever this feeling would arise, it caused Rick to make choices he regretted. He was afraid of this feeling back then – so he buried it under his duty, his small-town values, and the dogged pursuit of what he naively thought was actual "justice".
His regretted choices led him here, where he lets that feeling be. Like it or not, he can't change his past. All he can do is accept. Stay putting one foot in front of the other. From sun up to sundown, this solitary life in search of some redemption for his regrets is Rick's reality now.
These days, "one foot in front of the other" is performing the clandestine duties of a private investigator.
Tonight, at half past eleven on a Thursday, he's up for a new job.
The woman looking to hire him, divorce attorney Andrea Harrison, comes off as a little paranoid. Maybe even in denial. Rick understands he's looking at someone who refuses to give in to grief despite it likely being a good idea. It takes one to know one. Plus, the money she's offering is too good to say no to. Fifty thousand upfront; fifty more once he finds what she wants him to find. Then there's the case, itself. He has to admit, it's riveting from the start. He knows he'll take it when she starts telling her story. He also knows why.
There's a feeling in his gut pulling him toward this case. It's identical to the feeling that pulled him toward the case that drove him off the force years ago.
The case he never solved.
"Glenn says you have a particular skill set. Says no one is better at hunting down traffickers," Andrea speaks against the blues music that thrums at the cigarette smoke-filled air from the jukebox behind her. They sit in the dive bar across the street from her office, bathed in red light. There is a serious, insistent gleam in her pale blue eyes. "Bringing them to justice. Bringing girls home.
"The police won't take me seriously. As far as they're concerned, the case is cold. But I know my sister is alive, Mr. Grimes. Possibly suffering through unspeakable shit. Please. Help me find her."
"He mention the other thing I'm good at?"
She nods.
He sighs, eyeing the serious blonde woman for a long time. "If this is what you think it is . . . and I find 'em . . ."
He means the traffickers. Rick doesn't break eye contact.
After a long while of listening to the crooning from the jukebox behind them, she finally nods in answer to the unspoken question on the table between them.
You know that I'm gonna kill 'em, right?
Rick tilts his head at her, making certain.
Andrea nods again.
He takes the money.
Summertime in Atlanta.
Always good for trouble.
And trouble in Rick Grimes' world is always good for business.
Rick pulls his aging black Ford Bronco into the driveway of his modest, modern single-family home.
He's been making enough doing this soulless gig to buy a place in a nice neighborhood, the still-developing suburb of Reece Park. He still doesn't have a lot of furniture or many belongings, but that suits him just fine. He likes to keep things simple. He works. He sleeps. He saves.
Rick isn't a guy who needs to be in a hurry. Not anymore. He doesn't care much for material things anymore, either, if he ever truly did, to begin with. He keeps his focus on his job. By doing so, he's been able to slowly, steadily get his shit together. Step by laborious step. One foot in front of the other.
He won't be short of clients any time soon, for certain.
The electric charge in the air brings out the good and the bad with equal fervor.
As he pulls into his driveway, he notices a party going on at the identical two-story loft home next door.
Rick frowns, feeling a headache coming.
It's a surprise to find a party in this particular neighbor's place on a weeknight — or any night.
He slips his eyes shut and cuts the engine on the truck, willing his encroaching headache away.
This is how it starts.
First the headaches. Then the need to self-medicate. Then . . . wherever the night takes him.
Before he created his life here from practically nothing, that would've been either spiraling down a tunnel of booze and unbearable sorrow or he would lose his mind for a bit. Or both. There were times — when things were at their worst — when he would wake up not knowing where he was or how he got there. Back then, his whole town started looking at him differently. Rick became the drunk, grieving former deputy who lost his family.
Unhinged. Hopeless. Pretty much a pariah.
In the present, Rick tries to force himself to stop thinking. Of course, it won't do any good.
Very few things will. Work. A few swigs of whiskey. And a good, long look at her.
Climbing stiffly out of the Bronco, Rick takes the thumb drive with the stolen case files Andrea gave him from tucked into the driver's seat sun visor and shuts the door behind him. His thoughts are already starting to turn dark. He's already thinking of Lori and Carl — the state they were in the day they were killed — and the iron grip of grief is back before he makes it up the drive to his front door.
The music and talking from next door persist but barely register. Movement in the windows distracts him enough to turn from his dark, chaotic thoughts. Rick glances over at his neighbor's house, his eyes doing a quick sweep to discern her location, but she isn't anywhere he can see her.
Michonne Hawthorne.
He knows a lot more than her last name, even though they've only actually spoken a few times since he moved into the neighborhood six months ago. He knows she has a cat. He knows she's a nurse and takes the bus into the city to work every morning.
He knows she's single.
He knows that just like him, she keeps late hours and doesn't get out much unless she's working.
He knows all of this because he's been watching her since moving here.
Michonne is, in a word, captivating.
The moment he saw her that day he moved in — squinting at him curiously, her hand shielding her eyes from the blaring sun — he was instantly attracted to her. Drawn to her, more like.
Utterly transfixed by the unanswered question of her.
She was picking up her mail as he was transferring his modest collection of belongings from his small U-Haul truck into his new house. Many things took his breath away about her, but the first were her eyes and how they latched onto his, stopping him in his tracks that day.
He hasn't been able to get her out of his mind ever since.
Now the former sheriff's deputy saunters up his front walkway, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He makes it to the door and takes one more glance up at what he can see of Michonne's house through her large windows over his fence and hedges. He sees lights on and silhouettes moving around upstairs, but no obvious signs of her. He doesn't know what he expects to do if he catches sight of her, anyway. Stand there watching her in full view of the rest of the neighborhood? No. He has a much better spot for that.
Rick gets himself inside, closing and locking his front door.
He walks through the house without bothering to turn on any of the lights, knowing his way by memory.
Preferring the darkness, Rick keeps his blinds closed pretty much at all times.
Unless he's watching.
Sometimes he sees things in the shadows, but that's usually curable with a good few rounds of Black Label.
Speaking of which.
Rick tosses the thumb drive on his coffee table and heads to his kitchen. He feels the memories threatening to invade his brain, creeping into his bloodstream, forcing their way into his consciousness like bile rising inside his throat.
He sloshes a huge helping of whiskey into a glass and drinks it down like lemonade.
Feeling microscopically better for that last swig, Rick takes the bottle along with his glass out of the kitchen over to his couch. He sits down and puts his booze on the table in front of him. Pulling his laptop from under the couch, he boots it up and sticks the thumb drive into it. There are about a dozen folders copied onto it, none of them labeled. Rick clicks the first file at the top of the list. It contains pages of notes and several images of the girl, Amy Harrison, Andrea's younger sister. Some of them official, from schools and papers regarding her disappearance, some from her social media accounts, selfies, and photos with friends or acquaintances he assumes were all ruled out as suspects. The local police had very few leads and eventually, the case went cold.
He looks through the photos, stopping on a high school senior yearbook picture. The one Andrea showed him at the bar. Amy is pretty. Blonde. Her expression is sweet and relatively unassuming. A good student, a popular girl; works hard, doesn't bother anybody. The same story you hear from every family member whose daughter or sister is cruelly snatched from them with little to no hope of a safe return. Checking her Instagram with his phone, he sees that she had just turned twenty a couple of weeks before she disappeared eighteen months ago. The second to last photo she took was of herself and Andrea, celebrating at a fancy restaurant. Andrea said they were very close. So close that her gut feelings about her baby sister are usually right. Her gut says the girl's alive. When he pauses to listen, Rick can feel that his gut agrees with hers.
So, who took Amy Harrison, rather than just flat-out kill and rob her?
She was leaving her job at a highway gas station when she was run off a back road around two in the morning. She was shot, the forensic and ballistics reports said.
No body was ever found, though. No weapon. No second car, either. Just hers.
Familiar. Too familiar. Like you know what.
Rick has to be careful. If he goes too far, he'll end up pushing himself further into a dark place, and he'll go a little mad again. It's always a risk, but going to a shrink isn't an option. They might probe too far into what he does; his methods; how he really lets off steam . . . the rest of it isn't worth sharing. Things were rough, even downright hell for him when he first came here. But with Herculean effort, Rick has managed to keep a somewhat consistent, if not exactly airtight, handle on himself for three years now. Keeping his house dark, his lifestyle simple, and his days and nights focused on his work (especially those occasions when the shit he has to do allows him some form of release) usually keeps the demons at bay. Usually.
Tonight, however, even as he tries to drown out the memories with the liquor, he knows he's going to listen to the voicemail again.
Just this once. He has to.
Operating on autopilot, the hardened widower pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolls through all of his saved voicemail messages until he comes upon the last one his late wife Lori ever left him. He's listened to it so many times over the last three years, he's lost count.
Her voice in that message . . . so full of urgency . . . there's something about it that haunts him. He can never shake it for long. He never found out what she wanted to tell him. He guessed at everything under the sun but now settled on the uneasy truth that it will always remain a thorny, painful mystery.
Rick presses play and holds his phone up to his ear, a single tear finding its way to the surface of his right eye before falling down his stubbled cheek. He listens. The first thing he hears is the thing that always kills him. That deep, impatient sigh she lets out when her call is picked up by his voicemail. He was unavailable, yet again, of course. He was working on the case that killed their marriage long before someone came along and killed her and their son.
"Damn it. Rick? Look, I know you're working, but I've got somethin' to tell you. I need us to talk in person, okay? As soon as possible. Can you do that for me? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really important. It's gonna sound crazy but you have to listen. I'm gonna drop Carl off and come up there. Please, Rick."
Then Carl's voice interrupts. "Mom – the light!"
Some honking and then Lori cursing again. And finally the dial tone.
Rick chuckles sadly, more tears falling down his cheeks like shadows. He always hated it when Lori used her cell phone while she was driving. Where Rick took to lecturing her about it, Carl was always trying to act as an extra pair of eyes and ears. He was a good, sweet kid.
Rick feels like the floor will open up and swallow him whole if he lets another thought enter his head of his beautiful, dead son. Those little thoughts of Carl's personality that came from him or his father are all he has now. Hearing it again so clearly in the background reminds Rick painfully that his son's voice faded a long time ago. He can't bear to look at photos these days, so his face has faded as well.
The weight of his grief threatens to suffocate him, so he forces himself to move. He puts his cell phone down, wipes his face with his hands, and reaches for the bottle of whiskey.
He pours another helping and swallows it down, sighing raggedly as the harsh liquid does its job. Eventually, he'll pass out and he won't feel his headache or hear any voices. Problem solved.
Before that . . . you know what you want, Grimes.
What you've been itchin' to get back here and do all day since you did it this mornin'.
Rick gives one last, thoughtful look at Amy's yearbook photo. If someone took her, and she is going through the 'unspeakable shit' Lori is afraid of, then he will keep his unspoken promise. He doesn't even need the other fifty grand. He'll do it, gladly. The other thing I'm good at.
He'll kill whoever has her. All of them.
Maybe make them watch him beat their leader to death.
Maybe torture them until they're bloody and breathless first.
Maybe just execute them on sight.
He'll know when he knows.
That's how it works. When his beast comes out, Rick goes away and the cards fall where they may.
He closes his laptop and heads upstairs to call it a night.
He splashes cold water on his face before he heads to his bedroom.
Crossing the room in the dark, Rick opens the blinds at his favorite window just enough to see without being seen.
He stands there . . . watching.
He always tries to resist the urge to do this for as long as possible when he gets home, because he knows it makes him a creep and a hypocrite. The guilt is an inescapable part of the experience.
Sometimes he resists doing it for days at a time, but he can never resist for longer than a few.
She's always there, in the back of his mind. Either fantasies of her or memories of the latest thing he saw her doing. He's always wondering what she's thinking or feeling any time he lays eyes on her. He has a million questions.
He mentally kicks himself all the time for not just finding the nerve to talk to her.
Try to get to know her. Try to be normal again.
But the more he's been watching her over these last six months, the more he convinces himself it's safer this way. Easier to get to know her this way, rather than taking the risk of her discovering the exposed nerve of his past.
She is one of the sexiest, most intriguing women he's ever seen. The more he watches, the deeper he falls. And the more he talks himself out of stepping forward, into the light where she can see him. Nah, she won't want anything to do with someone like me, he tells himself all the time. Not if she could see how dark his world gets. And especially not if she ever discovers that he stands here night after night in the dark . . . watching.
From this vantage point, he can see through her big windows into her kitchen downstairs, most of the hall upstairs including her bedroom, and down into her backyard.
Rick knows her home as if he's walked inside it. He knows her routine; he can predict down to the minute when he'll catch sight of her on which particular day. It makes him feel like he knows her. And what he knows, he finds just as captivating as she is. He wants to know more.
On the surface, she is a normal, single mother. She does normal things. She has a cat; an orange and gold furball with a huge tail. She seems to love it like family and gives it a lot of affection. She has a son about ten or eleven as far as Rick can tell. Rick has only seen the kid a scant few times. He seems to live part-time with a slightly older woman resembling Michonne who stops by and takes him away for months at a time before bringing him back again for short visits.
Sister, likely. She never stays long. They don't seem particularly warm with each other. Interesting mystery there.
Michonne loves to eat, and she usually does so standing up. She loves wine. He sees her walking around her house carrying a glass of red wine at least three times a week, sometimes more. She's an avid reader. She likes to do that in her backyard, usually with wine. She laughs a lot when she's with her son, or the only other person he's seen coming around; a shorter, spritely Black woman, usually dressed in paramedic scrubs. A friend, not a lover, judging by the way they behave when he watches them together.
Michonne's laughter is not timid. It's rather boisterous, lighting up her face so beautifully that whenever he is fortunate enough to catch a glimpse, the sight makes his heart pound in his chest.
She exercises a lot. Cardio. Yoga. Usually in a corner facing the patio attached to her bedroom that overlooks her front lawn. He can only stand to watch her doing that for a few minutes before his dick gets hard and he has to close the blinds to go take care of it.
What truly draws him to her — and this window, day after day, night after night — is the mesmerizing darkness and deep melancholy that shows up as soon as she's alone. He can see it, even from over here in the shadows, cloaking her like an invisible cape. That darkness she succumbs to in solitude reminds him of his own.
He never watches her undress. He's drawn to her, attracted to her, but there is some chaste respect lingering inside him. Some slim, tattered vestige of his old self keeps him from going there.
He tells himself he's just checking up on her.
She doesn't have anyone else aside from the paramedic, her young son, and a cold relative who only shows up to fulfill some visitation agreement.
Even though it's the suburbs, Rick knows all too well that a woman alone in this world is a magnet for danger. Sometimes her signal is weaker than others, but her burden is never knowing when she's in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Rick stands at his window peering over into Michonne's backyard in search of her.
There's a bass-heavy R&B song playing now. Something kinda intense. He can almost feel the vibration of the subwoofers they're using. There's a gentle glow emanating from string lights hanging from lantern poles positioned all around the yard, which is pretty well-groomed (his yard is a mess). Party guests are talking, laughing and dancing, eating and joking around. The most people he's ever seen there. She never entertains. Maybe these are coworkers from the hospital.
Finally, Rick spots her, talking animatedly with some guy.
He feels an instant pang of jealousy, but he decides to focus solely on her.
He tries to discern how she feels about the guy from way over here. If he's just a friend or more.
She looks stunning, as usual. She's dressed in a short white sundress, her body a smooth valley of dark, glowing skin and toned curves. Her locs are loose and falling across her eyes. He can't see her eyes in detail from his viewpoint in his practically empty, dark house, but he has a feeling they're sparkling. Her body language is carefree in a way that makes it hard to tell if she's just being polite or if she's really into the guy.
Heat develops in Rick's chest and begins a slow, steady journey downward.
His breath gets shallow as he watches Michonne smile and laugh at the guy's jokes. He wishes, with searing longing, that he could swap places with that guy. Or steal her attention away from that guy and keep it all for himself.
He begins to let this fantasy take hold of his mind, imagining what it could be like to be down there in the warm, crowded backyard on this late summer evening.
Flirting with his neighbor, Michonne.
Instead of standing in his window, he is now standing in the middle of her backyard, watching her.
Michonne is right across from him, pouring herself a glass of water to cool off. Atlanta can get downright sweltering at night in the summer. Tonight is one of those nights.
Her dress is low cut with spaghetti straps. She isn't wearing a bra. He can see perspiration making her skin look dewy all along her collarbones, trickling down to find a dark, warm home out of sight between her breasts. He can just make out her nipples, pushing against the soft fabric.
Rick's dick begins to awaken in his jeans as he watches her drink the water. The rim of the cup pressed against her thick, soft-looking lips makes him desperate to feel them against his own.
She finally spots him, her eyes locking onto his as she finishes the last few swallows of her water.
Rick feels as if his body is on fire under her gaze as she makes her way toward him, that same curiosity in her expression as she had the first day they saw each other. He's mesmerized by the way her hips sway in her white sundress.
Michonne stops just in front of him, causing him to unconsciously lean forward. She smiles hesitantly, her eyes sparkling under the lights hanging from the lantern poles.
"Hi . . . you're the guy from next door, right?" her smooth, sexy voice floats toward him.
He stands there holding his beer tightly, feeling so physically drawn to her that it's all he can do to keep himself from leaning even further into her personal space. "That's right. I'm Rick . . . Grimes."
He is unable, however, to stop his roving blue eyes from roaming across her amazing body, cataloging every detail of her up close.
"I guess I'm crashin' your party. Sorry." He isn't.
Michonne runs a hand through her hair, moving a waterfall of wayward locs back behind her shoulder so they are no longer obscuring her gorgeous face. He remembers (and adores), that she has half of her head shaved, giving her looks an edge that most of the people around them don't have. She hardly belongs in suburbia, he thinks all the time. But she is here. He is not complaining.
"It's okay, Rick. It's a party. I've been meaning to extend an invitation since you moved in. New meat on the Reece Park chopping block, and all . . . "
Her eyes are slightly mischievous as she steals his beer (well, technically hers since he crashed the beer cooler, too) and takes a swallow. The way she utters 'new meat' makes his dick twitch in his pants. He watches as the liquid goes down her elegant throat. Her lips are perched on the rim, just so. He fights against his body. He wants to move closer to her. He wants her away from these lights, these people's prying eyes. He wants her in the dark.
"I'm Michonne," she says as she hands him the beer back. "Hawthorne. Welcome to the neighborhood."
He takes it and tips it in her direction as a thank you before taking a swallow himself. He feels warmth on the rim from where her lips were, just before the cold, frothy liquid invades his mouth and throat. He licks his lips when he's done, in search of some way to expel the restless energy roiling through his body. There is only one way.
"Do you like it? The neighborhood, I mean?" She gestures with her long, slender fingers. "It's still pretty new, but it's coming along."
"It's not bad," Rick offers, taking an obligatory lap around the party scene with his eyes before they land back on her, where he likes them. She is a vision. The white dress is simple, but it makes her figure call out to him. He takes a marginal step closer, pretending to make sure she can hear him over the music. "I like the people."
Rick is decidedly pointed in his statement, allowing her a glimpse of the stormy lust hidden inside his polite expression.
"Oh yeah?" She challenges, recovering from the effect of his voice. "Who've you met so far?"
He sees that she recognizes his focus is on no one else here but her. He decides to be honest and see where it gets him. Smiling with slight embarrassment, Rick scratches his chin.
"Well, actually . . . just you . . . "
"Ahhh, okay," Michonne returns his smile, brushing her hand against his shoulder, causing yearning to shoot through him from the slight contact. "We have to introduce you to some folks here, then."
"Do we?" Rick counters, staring at her.
Michonne pauses, finally picking up on what he's no longer trying to hide. He takes another step closer while she tries to think of a response. He's close enough to smell her, now. He has no idea what she smells like in real life, outside this fantasy. He imagines it's something elusive, intoxicating. Feminine but not in any traditional sense. Something rich and layered, with unexpected notes you don't come across every day. He longs to find out for himself. And he is desperate to know what she tastes like.
"I was kinda hopin' I could just get to know you better, Michonne."
Michonne looks up into his eyes fully for the first time since they started talking. He can feel almost identical energy wafting from her body, crashing into his. The heat oppressing the modest backyard area makes their proximity seem charged, almost like the air between them is filled with static electricity. He's pulling her into his orbit, and she isn't resisting.
"What did you have in mind, Rick?" She utters quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the hypnotizing bassline and enigmatic synths pulsing out from the music playing over their heads.
The voices of the party guests surround them like a cocoon as they stand there, staring at each other, sparks gathering in their mingling physical energy. He heard her. He's been waiting for this from the moment he laid eyes on her months ago.
Silently, Rick leans over and deposits his half-finished beer onto a table set up with snacks, turns back, and grabs her hand.
He leads her through the crowd of people—all of them thankfully oblivious to their departure—out of the gate in her fence, and around the side of her house. It's darker out here, and instantly cooler, though still a Georgia summer's version of "cool".
He spots a gap in the bushes lining the house, just under her kitchen window, where (unbeknownst to her of course) he's watched her eat standing up dozens of times.
Rick pulls Michonne from behind him and pushes her roughly against the paneled exterior of her house. She breathes heavily, her large, round eyes never leaving him in the faint light barely illuminating them from the street and the backyard. His heart is pounding in his chest, his dick so hard that it's visible even in the dark.
Rick presses himself into her body. She's a valley of soft, plush curves mingling with firm, toned muscles. Her breasts push into his broad chest, their heartbeats crashing into each other. Exhaling long and hard, Rick angles his face up to hers as he sinks somewhat into a supportive stance, his hands reaching under her skirt to caress her skin.
She watches him with anticipation, waiting for him to do what he wants. The intense desire in her eyes emboldens him.
Their lips brush against each other's as he runs his hands up her smooth thighs and grabs hold of her. She gasps faintly when he lifts her, positioning himself between her legs, pushing his engorged erection into her hidden, pulsing heat. His hands slide further along until he's gripping her pronounced ass in both strong hands, discovering that she's wearing a thong.
Rick closes the minuscule space between them finally, grinding himself into her, pressing her into the wall of her house as he kisses her. Michonne opens her mouth and lets him slip his tongue inside, continuing to grind into him. His right hand inches closer to her sex, his other still gripping her ass as he gradually moves his kisses from her mouth to her neck.
She wraps her legs around him, pulling him even closer to her, and seconds later she's got her fingers laced into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, causing a shiver to shoot up his spine. Rick's thumb finds its way underneath the front of her thong, and he finally feels how wet she is, indulging in the sensation of her slick heat against his fingers. He massages her clit for a few tender strokes before sliding two fingers inside her. She is very wet already, very warm, and instantly gripping onto him as soon as he invades her.
"Mmm—shit!" Michonne tugs Rick's hair tightly while his kisses make their way toward her breasts, still hidden from him by the thin fabric of her dress.
Rick begins to fuck her slowly with his fingers, his tongue slithering underneath her top, finding one of her nipples, and circling it intensely to the rhythm of his thrusts. He sucks her nipple into his mouth and she thrusts her chest into his face, writhing around against him, barely able to stand the pleasure.
He works her with fingers and tongue for a short while, getting her wetter, taking pride in the sound of her faint gasps and quiet moaning. Her voice gets lost in the music once it makes it past his ears, but it's enough to drive him crazy. He's ravenous.
When he feels her tug on his hair impatiently again, he pulls his soaked fingers from her heated sex and lifts his head. They stare into each other's eyes as he prepares her silently for what's coming next. Michonne's grip around his waist with her legs tightens before she reaches her free hand down and begins to hastily unbuckle his belt.
By the time she gets it undone, and his zipper seconds later, they are both practically panting with the impatience to join. Rick's thick, long, pink dick springs free from his pants, falling to rest, heated and twitching, against her stomach. He is so hard that the champaign-pink tip is tinged with purplish-blue and leaking precum profusely.
Michonne wraps her cool, soft hand around him and his knees almost buckle at the contact. She guides him toward her opening, and once he finds it, he thrusts—hard—his powerful entrance driving her into the wall again. Michonne lets out a loud whimper that blends into the intense music still pulsating from the backyard, cradling Rick's head against her breasts.
She feels like a dream inside. She is a dream. She is perfect and all-consuming. He is pulled into her slick, tight pussy and begins to fuck her against the hardwood paneling. Her plump ass vibrates in his hands as his knuckles brush against the unforgiving wood through the fabric of her dress.
They find each other's mouths, trying to devour each other, and Rick fucks Michonne harder, bouncing her on his hips against the wall. He rolls his body into hers, plunging into her over and over.
Her fingers in his hair, her legs around him, her ass in his hands, his dick buried to the hilt and then easing out again . . . then going in for more, sheathing himself deep inside . . . ugh, fuck . . . yes . . . he needs to feel her coming all over him, desperately. He fucks her harder. Faster. More urgently.
Finally, she moans into his mouth as her tight pussy begins to quiver and quake around his thrusting dick, her breasts heaving against his chest, sticking to his damp shirt before peeling away again. Rick quickly follows, grunting her name like a prayer into her warm neck, his voice muffled by her locs, " . . . Mmmmm'chonne . . . my god . . . ugh!"
He doesn't want it to be over. He wants to keep going. He wants her against this wall until the sun comes up. Michonne rides him slowly, twisting her hips to the beat of the music, crashing them into his, making him come even harder. When he finally calms down and begins to reluctantly pull out of her, they stare at each other for a long while, letting the music fade and change.
"Nice to meet you, Rick Grimes . . . " she whispers, her eyes glazed with languid satisfaction.
"Pleasure's all mine, Michonne . . . " is all he can think to utter.
It is the truth.