Chapter 20 (Epilogue) – Rick

"When we fuck
When we fuck
When we fuck
When we fuck
I could be aggressive (I could be aggressive)
I can be a savage (I can be a savage)
I just need your blessin (I just need your blessin)
Say that I can have it, yeah
When we fuck
When we fuck…"

"Chonne…gotdamn it, pretty girl…"

"Rick, what are you doing in here? You're supposed to be getting ready for the wedding."

"I was, then I heard you in here playing this song, and I assumed you wanted me to come in here instead."

"Why would you assume that?"

"Isn't this the 'Rick, come fuck me' song? It was last week."

"Rick! It's not." She shakes her head, attempting to convince me of something that we both know isn't true. It's absolutely the come fuck me song, as I clearly remember her playing it when I came upstairs for bed last week. Laid across the gray comforter on our king sized bed, on her back, in a completely sheer, red negligee, with only a very tiny G-string covering her pussy, Michonne lured me into bed, and ravaged me. There's no way that I could ever forget that. Or the song that was the soundtrack to a night of delicious and carnal lovemaking.

"What? Yeah it is. Come here. What do you have on under this little robe? Let me see."

Backing away from the door, clutching her white silk, knee length robe to her body, trying to keep it closed, Michonne is giggling, and smiling as I push through the entrance to her old bedroom at her parents' house. "Don't you dare! We are supposed to be dressed, and walking down the aisle in one hour."

"I only need thirty minutes."

"That's a lie. When have you ever only needed thirty minutes?" She asks knowingly, tilting her head to the side, with a bend of her neck and a sassy purse of her lips. And, she's right. But, sometimes, on a rare occasion, her loving is so good, that I can barely last five minutes, let alone thirty. That actually only happened once, I had been drinking, and she gave me porn levels of theatrical head for like fifteen minutes straight. Making eye contact, tossing her long dreads back over her shoulder after tickling my groin with the ends, caressing my balls in her hand, moaning as she glided her wet mouth sloppily up and down on my dick. Dear God! There was no way after that dizzying performance that I was going to actually last inside of her tight little pussy for more than a few minutes. There was literally no way.

Right now, thinking of that moment, and looking at her standing in front of me in a robe that is barely covering her womanhood, clinging to every peak and valley of her body, I'm experiencing the well known blaze of heat rushing in my veins, encouraged by the vulgar lyrics of the song pulsing through the room's speakers.

"You love it when I lose it
You love it when I go there
You love the way I use it
You love that I don't play fair
You end up callin me master (master) 
Say this universe is mine
When we're done it's a disaster
End up like this every time…"

Yeah, I think this might be one of those times. The stark, virginal white of the robe is so striking against her beautiful dark skin, I'm ready for the talking to cease so we can get to the good part. The part where I get my pretty girl dirty. Wet. Where I fuck her so good that my scent will be oozing from her. Marking her as mine. Even if I know that I might not make it a full thirty minutes. Honestly, either way, her loving is so decadent, I'm willing to risk it as long as I can last long enough to take care of her, make her scream, make sure she cums first. I'm confident I can do it. I've made her cum in less than five minutes before. Today, when I finally get everything that I've ever wanted, on my wedding day, I'm feeling invincible, like I can do anything.

Advancing on her, predatorily stalking my prey, Michonne continues to retreat, to slowly walk backwards. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she's forced to stop. With nowhere left to run, a little shocking start animates her features, and her lips part in anticipation of my next move. Never breaking contact with the warm fudge of her seductively lowered eyes, I reach for the tie to her robe, and slowly pull, watching as each half falls open. Through the dangling split of the soft silk, it's revealed that Michonne is completely nude underneath.

Hissing, sucking in a tight breath, I confess to my love, "You're perfect." Stepping back to admire my lady, I run my hand over my lips and beard, then slide my hands into my pockets, taking a moment to gather myself. Every time I see her like this, nude, open, vulnerable to my greedy gaze, it's like our very first time all over again. Once again, she's an innocent, sexy 18-year-old, and I'm the smitten man who has fallen hopelessly in love with her. Even now, after nearly ten years together, and watching her body bloom and transform through the miracles of womanhood, there is still a feeling of shock and awe that this goddess chose me.

Bashfully she looks down at herself, responding to my proclamation of her perfection. "You're just saying that, Rick. I still need to lose about ten pounds left over from Nina. Your babies keep making me fat." Rubbing her hand across the stretch marks covering her belly, she frowns.

"Nah. Every bit of you is perfection." Inching my hands from my pockets, no longer able to keep them from touching her, I slide them inside her robe. Gliding them over the soft velvet like swell of her wide hips, I can feel my cock stiffening inside of my black tuxedo pants. Rolling my hands further back to get a hold of her by the jiggle of her fat ass, I pull my lady closer to me, wanting her to feel the steel of my dick, aroused and hungry for her. "Feel that? Let me have a little taste?"

"Rick…" she whines, but I know that the sensation of her heat against my hard dick, tenting the expensive material of my pants, throbbing against the zipper, is a clear indicator that she's not going to be turning me away. "You can't mess up my hair." She directs, pointing a finger at me. A finger that I proceed to capture with my lips and pull in to my mouth, sucking, laving her slender digit. "Oh god…"

Drawing back, I release her finger from my mouth, and agree with her terms. Kind of. "Ok. I'll try not to mess up your hair. I like it up by the way. It's like a crown for my beautiful, sexy, queen."

"Don't try to butter me up. You only have thirty minutes, Rick."

"I can make you come in three, and still have time left over." I cockily promise, a confident smirk twisting my lips. Lowering to her, I place a series of wet kisses to the rounds of her cheeks, then down to nip at her jaw and throat.

"Whatever." She moans in response to my mouth on her. "And we have to get cleaned up right after, because we can't get married smelling like sex."

"Why not? We already have three kids. You think anyone coming to this wedding believes that we don't have sex?" I raise my head from the quickening pulse of her throat, and quirk an eyebrow at her in question.

"You may have a point, but we still have to shower after. You're finally making an honest woman out of me and I don't wanna smell like a hooker when you do it." She huffs. Teasing me. I have been trying to get this woman down the aisle for the last nine years. Between unexpected babies, deaths, issues with my father's will, school, a new city, then moving back, a legal wedding ceremony never seemed to be a priority for either of us. Michonne has been wearing my ring, loving, and raising a family with me so long that we are common law married anyway. But, she's kind of right. It has taken a long time for this technicality to be taken care. And whether either of us needed it or not, the pageantry involved in us finally sealing the deal with a big wedding, in front of our friends and family, does incite a serious bout of emotion and love to swell inside of me.

"We are already married, and you know it. And, I love the smell of you on me. Nothing better than the sweaty scent of sex with my lady." Wagging my eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner, I squeeze a handful of her ass, delighting in the plump feel of her.

"Ew, Rick, you're so gross sometimes. No one wants to smell that but your nasty behind."

Turning me, switching our positions so that I'm now seated on the bed, Michonne begins unbuttoning the crisp white tuxedo shirt I'm wearing. Helping her with the buttons, starting at the bottom, we meet in the middle and get it open. I hurriedly remove it from my body, and try to toss it onto the floor. Being the orderly person that she is, she takes it from my hand before I have the chance, and gently lays it across the chair next to the bed. As she's doing that, I carelessly kick my trousers and underwear to the floor. An action that is immediately met with a scowl from my wife. "Rick! I don't want your clothes to get wrinkled."

"Come back over here, and stop fussing. You're cutting into my thirty minutes, woman." I mutter, pulling her back to me once she's within arm's reach. Standing in between my widespread legs, Michonne looks like an innocent, but equally naughty angel. With her large breasts and body exposed by the slowly drooping silk of her robe, the image of her is both erotic and sobering. My eyes scan across the beauty of her. To her satiny red lips, pouty and ready for my ravishment. Over her rounded breasts, full and swelling with milk. Down her flat abdomen, anchored by the dark line of a C-section scar that has made it possible for all but one of my three children to safely enter this world. One of whom is only a few months old.

Pulling her even closer to me, I grip the wide set of her pillowed hips, and slowly rub my face across the dusky, dark plum skin of her stomach. Kissing the lines that bring her so much grief, and unnecessarily cause her to doubt her own perfection, I'm thankful. Reverant. I love every one of those lines that streak, and stretch, mapping a course across the expanse of her abdomen and hips. Rubbing my bearded face there, Michonne giggles at the tickle it creates. With her hands on my shoulders, I can feel the pressure from where she is pushing me down on to the bed.

Now on my back, her warm, lithe body, dainty in its weight on top of me, one of my hands is cupping the back of her neck, pulling her lips to mine, while the other is riding the jiggle of her ass, grabbing and massaging the warm cushions. Kissing her, sucking that sweet bottom lip into my mouth, I can feel a rush of inflamed heat dancing in my veins. It's burning me up like an addict taking his first hit, and enraging a need to dominate her. Still holding Michonne close, excited by the moans our kiss is eliciting from her, the beast in me can no longer tolerate her being on top. I roll her over to her back, and ease my way in between her thick thighs.

Pressing my groin against her, I'm grinding the roughness of my pubic area into the smooth flesh of her puffy, hairless pussy lips. With her head now tossed back, cradled in my open palm, I latch my lips on to the column of her neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. "Mmmm, pretty girl, you smell so damn good…"

"Rick, don't mess up my hair, ok?" She huffs, breathing heavily, repeating her request. Chest heaving against mine, puffs of her sweet breath escape over the tufts of her kiss swollen, and slightly parted lips.

Traveling my hand from the back of her head, and down to the warm apex of her thighs, I find my wife damp, her petals already slick, awaiting my touch. Running my fingers through her wetness, from her pussy lips to her ass, a widespread tingle is gripping my stomach, stirring a need to simply be inside of her. I shouldn't waste any more time than necessary, even though my favorite thing in the world is to take my time with Michonne. To work my way around her body, licking, sucking, stroking, tasting, arousing every inch of her until she's dripping, and begging for me. But right now, there is a crowd of our closest friends and family gathered on the grounds of her parents' farm, waiting to witness our nuptials.

When my father died nearly ten years ago, and my mother contested every part of his will, Michonne and I were forced to come clean about the impromptu marriage ceremony that we he asked Father Gabriel to perform. It helped to strengthen the validity of my father's will, his reason behind leaving her such lavish and expensive jewelry. But it also helped to maintain and strengthen the bond between us, as spiritual husband and wife. It served as a reminder of who we truly are to each other, during a dramatically difficult period in our lives.

It was a rough for us then, and there was simply too much going on at once. Our son Carl had just been born on the same day my father died, and just a few months later Michonne and Carl left, without me, to head to Boston, and Harvard. It was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do, encouraging my life partner, my lover, my wife, and my son to go ahead and embark on that journey without me. But, I felt like I had no choice. I needed to be in King County to work through my mother's challenge to my father's will. Even my brother and his wife temporarily relocated back home to assist in the fight. And, though Michonne wanted to work with the school to see if they could postpone her entrance into law school, at least until things were settled with my mother, I felt like it would do her good, give her some space to succeed instead of worrying about the legal wrangling involving my mother and my father's estate.

Michonne and I fought unceasingly about my decision, but in the end, her and Carl did leave. Momentarily. Her parents and I got her and Carl settled in Boston in a nice, fully furnished condo, and even identified a school sponsored daycare for him. Us being apart, my family being broken up, just didn't work though. Not for her, and definitely not for me. I couldn't sleep, she couldn't focus, Carl was constantly fussy.

We were a mess. I was too stubborn to ask her to come home though. To ask her to postpone her life and her dreams for me, again. And, if I'm honest, there was a small part of me that loathed the fact that her being home with me might drag her down, away from her dreams. We'd been here before, when she returned to Spelman last year. And I told her then that she was special, and I meant it. She is the kind of person who deserves only the best in life, the finest of everything. Because of that, a tiny, self-pitying part of me believed that she was still too special for me. That a small town guy like me didn't deserve a unique and wonderful woman like her.

Michonne called daily, always reassuring me with loving patience that thinking like that was crazy, but it was an uncharacteristically dark time, and I couldn't shake the anguish of it all. I was also attempting to deal with a creeping feeling of being adrift, like a part of me that anchored the core of who I was, went missing when my dad died. My mother was clinging with every opportunistic breath to the title of widow, playing it for all that it was worth. But, no one had a title for me. A label for who my father's death left me as. What do you call a person who has lost their parent? The only real parent I ever had. Estranged and no longer claiming my mother, who was Rick Grimes if he was no longer a son? Who was I without the man whose image I was made in? And now, with my pretty girl, and my son gone, I wasn't even a husband, boyfriend, fiancé, or a father. Not anymore.

My head constantly tussled and fought with this jumble of dreary thoughts, along with a few others. Michonne and Carl being so far away from me felt like the perfect trinity of loss. The father, the son, and the pure mother. A spiritually cleansing emptiness that I somehow deserved for daring to allow my own hubris to get me to fly so high to perfection, to the purity of Michonne's love, the birth of my first child, on the same day that my father was snatched from this world. What kind of man was I to deserve such happiness on such a somber day?

At the end of the day, it took a very unlikely deliveryman to end my little family's suffering. On a remarkably hot October day, my girl's brand new, white Volvo that she had traded her cute little Jeep in for, pulled up to her parents' house, with her ex-boyfriend Mike behind the steering wheel, and a sleeping Michonne and Carl as his passengers. Once the instant flash of shock and virulent, blinding, rage at seeing him with my family subsided, I rushed the car, whipping open Mike's door to crush my fist into the flesh of his usually smug face. Instead of a smirk, some kind of look of victory, Mike held up his hands and offered me an explanation that has since won over my grudging respect.

With him also in Boston, attending MIT, Mike took it upon himself to check in on Michonne and Carl one weekend. Finding her clearly depressed, and Carl a whimpering, whiny mess of baby cuteness, Mike said he told Michonne to grab some things for her and the baby because he was going to take them out for the day. Instead of taking them to dinner, or to a park, as she must have suspected, he jumped on the highway and drove all day and night to get them here. To get them home. To me. It was an almost eighteen-hour drive, that took him nearly a full day to make, what with ducking and dodging Michonne's heated initial accusations that he tricked and kidnapped her, and with taking restroom and eating breaks for themselves and for Carl.

Looking at the safe, tired faces of my wife and son, wiped away and paid for every moment of acrimony or dislike I ever held for that guy. And though I wanted to pay him for bringing her, to pay for his ticket back to Boston, something to show my gratitude, all he would accept was my thanks. Noting that he was simply a friend, who saw his best friend suffering, he just wanted to get her back where she belonged, where she would be happy. And that was with me.

To this day, though Mike is still not my favorite person in the world, I do consider him, still begrudgingly so, a friend.

About six months after Michonne returned home to me, I knew what I needed to do to keep my family together and I settled my father's estate with my mother, allowing her to live in the house I grew up in, and giving her a monthly stipend to live off of. Though my brother was unhappy with the settlement, as was my mother, it was the fairest I could be. Ellen and Rance Grimes were married for over 30 years. She deserved something, and giving her just that, a little something, freed my family and I up to leave for Boston, and for Jeff and I to finally put the drama with her to rest. Michonne was able to attend Harvard law the following fall, I was accepted to Boston College to obtain a Masters degree in Criminal Justice, and I began to see a therapist to work through the lingering grief left behind by father's death, and my mother's much needed isolation from my life.

Remembering that time, a painful time that seems so long ago now, I'm smiling down into the face of the woman whose return snatched me back from the chasm of pity and grief. My heart is beating erratic, near bursting with the fullness of love and affection I have for her. All of her. Her intelligence, her heart, her looks. Everything. But in this moment, pinned beneath me, I am so enamored with her visage that I am nearly transported away by my thoughts and my feelings for her. Such blinding joy.

"Hey. Rick, where are you? Where did you go?" Taking a hold of both sides of my face, Michonne's slender fingers rub through my beard, pulling my attention back from the trance her beauty, and my memories, has me in.

"I'm here. I just, uh… I love you. I want you to always know that I love you. That you, and the kids, are the most special thing in the world to me. That I need you more than I need air to breathe. You are my life, Michonne." Not giving her a chance to respond, I lean in and kiss her. It's a smothering, consuming, and needy kiss. Pushing my tongue between her lips, I'm welcomed by the equally voracious swipe and twist of her eager tongue. With my cock now fisted in my hand, I angle it towards her entrance, and with a strong firm thrust, I embed myself, slowly and fully, connecting to the deepest part of her.

A rush of air escapes her, and against the passionate twist of our lips, she mutters softly, a sound that I can barely make out. "Rick."

The sound of my name on her lips has always found a way to undo me, and this time is no exception. Pulling back, resting most of my weight on my knees, I lift her long legs, glistening with the coconut oil that lightly fragrances her limbs. Bending over the joints at my elbows, I push both of her legs up, folding them until her thighs are pressed against her breasts. Still immersed inside of her, I lower myself onto my lover once more, and begin a slow winding thrust, making sure to continuously apply pressure with my pelvis to her clit. Tilted up this way, her canal welcomes me, snuggly fitting like a glove.

"Ahhhh… Rick, oh shit…"

"Yeah…" Biting and licking at her chin and neck, the smell of her sweet and crisp perfume, Be Delicious, is driving me crazy. Her pussy is almost unbearably hot. The tight grip of it around my dick, almost vise-like, is causing my thrusting pummel to create a near vulgar sloshing sound. Add that to the rhythmic slap of my balls against her ass, and the soft panting of my name as she anxiously likes her lips, and I'm nearly ready to explode. But, remembering her teasing toss of a sarcastic 'whatever' when I told her I could make her come in three minutes, I steel myself against the glorious creep of my pending orgasm, and instead settle in to give my lady the promised three-minute orgasm.

"Rick…oh God, baby… oh God… I'm gonna-"

Fucking her, thrusting and rolling my gyrating hips, I whisper over her lips. "Yeah, what was that shit you were talking before, Chonne? Hm?"

"I…I…"

"You what? Hm? What do you want, pretty girl? Tell your man what you need."

"I… please?" She breathes. So soft, so pretty. I have to close my eyes to the vision of her begging for me to take care of her. To send her body soaring high, fucking her like only I can.

Flushed, sweating, a tight grip on her hips, I'm crashing my hips down, driving deep into my wife. With just a tiny hint of her little pink tongue peeking from between her luscious lips, a long, high pitched hum emits from her, and I know she's about to cum. I can feel it. Her pussy is squeezing the life out of my dick. Gripping and pulling, trying to suck the cum from the recesses of my balls, and up through the shaft and head. But I hold on, keeping a firm steady grab of her wildly winding hips. Licking my thumb, then sucking it into my mouth, ensuring that it's nice and wet, I lower it underneath Michonne. Slowing the pounding of dick into her, to a nice and easy grind, I ease my thumb between the cheeks of her ass. Finding her hole already saturated with the evidence of her slick arousal that has dripped lower from her pussy, I rub and massage my thumb in a circular motion around the rosette of her ass.

"Ahhh!"

"That's it, pretty girl, I know how much you like that. Relax. Let me make you cum." Easing my thumb through the tight cinch of her hole, I begin to work it in and out, a steady carnal rhythm. Hearing the erotic gasp that I love to hear escape her lips, and seeing the backwards roll of her eyes, I know Michonne is there.

"Mmmm… Rick, fuck!" Swiping her tongue hastily across her lips, I join her, and lick at her lips and tongue as well, tasting the remains of her smeared red lipstick. A low, throaty rumble begins to erupt from her, ending on an open mouth gasp of ecstasy, that I eagerly swallow by fixing my open mouth to hers, sloppily kissing away her orgasmic cries.

Feeling the tension in her body dissipate, I remove my thumb from her ass, and release her mouth from my kiss. Pulling back to my knees again, to catch my breath, needing to gather my wits about me, I notice that the song has changed to Jeremih's "All the Time".

"Early in the mornings when I think about you
Yeah - I hit you like 'what you sayin'?'
In the mornings when I wanna fuck you
Yeah - I hit you like 'what you sayin'?'
I could fuck you all the time
I could fuck you all the time…"

Wiping the sweat from my brow, tossing my now wet hair back off my forehead, I'm looking down at my Michonne, watching the play of emotions and sensations over her beautiful face. The goose bumps and sweat, glistening and brushed across her pretty skin, pooling between the valley of her breasts. The concentrated frown between her eyebrows, and the satisfied smirk of her sexy lips. Fuck.

Her legs are no longer pressed tightly to her chest and abdomen. Instead they are held high by the firm grip I have on her ankles, holding her open to me. Watching her pussy swallow my dick, over and over again, coating it with with her arousal, I'm only mildly pumping into her. Just enough, a small shallow bit to help her ride out the wave of her forceful climax. Witnessing her drift down from that blissful cloud is making me want to join her.

Finally opening her eyes, focusing the chocolate depths of their wide set on me, my heart begins a wild beat against my ribcage, constricting my breath. Her own breaths now steadied, Michonne leans up, resting on the elbow of her left arm. With red tipped nails, she teasingly grazes her fingers over the hair on my chest, then rests her heated palm flat over the cursive words, permanently etched carefully in ink over my heart.

Michonne 

Carl

Andre 

Nina

Wincing at the softness of her feathery touch, followed by the tight stinging pinch of my nipple, I bite down on my bottom lip. "Michonne, baby…"

"Rick… Don't you want to cum too, baby?"

"Oh, pretty girl, you know I do."

"Then fuck me like it." Challenging me, Michonne knows the words to say to bring the beast in me back out to play, and I drop her legs. With a twinkle in her eyes, she lifts them on her own, hitching them around my waist, hooking them at the ankles. Encircled by the tight cinch of her lovely legs, I run my palms up and down her thighs, as I drop my weight on her once more.

Prepared to finish what I've started, with each of my hands pushing into the mattress on the sides of her head, I'm fucking my wife with a quickened pace of fast, steady thrusts, each punctuated with a wind of my hips. The pace is hard, almost punishing, causing Michonne's breasts to bob and bounce. Reaching to grasp a hold of the globes of each of her breasts, Michonne begins massaging herself. Pulling, tweaking her own perky, blackberry tinged nipples. With a naughty, seductively inviting smile on her lips, she raises one towards her mouth, and laves the peak with her tongue. Recognizing the flirtatious and welcoming glint in her alluring eyes, I lower myself, lapping my tongue out to join hers.

"You're so beautiful, pretty girl. I love you, baby. I do…" I mumble into the comfort of her bosom, tasting the sweetness of the few drops of breast milk leaking from her stiffened, pebbled nipples. Losing control of myself in the rhythmic roll of my hips, and the provocative scraping, and scratch of Michonne's nails up and down the expanse of my back, I'm tunneling, digging, so close to busting this nut.

"I know, I love you too, Rick. I'm- I'm- I'm cumming again…"

"Me too… I'm…" My voice is snatched from me. The words are stuck in a jumble in my bulking chest. The tingle of an orgasm begins creeping up my spine, flushing and rushing over my skin, through my limbs. Its exquisite spike of titillation shocks my body, freezes me in a catatonic state of bliss. Bursting, blasting in a thick stream through the head of my dick, my wife's pussy is now awash in the stickiness of my semen. Sweat drips from my forehead, and into my drowsy drooping eyes, my forehead resting heavily against Michonne's.

Burying my nose into the crook of Michonne's sweet smelling neck, I know my weight is too heavy for her small body. I know this. But I can't help but snuggle and nuzzle into her, needing the comfort of her softness. Holding tightly to her, each palm overflowing with the supple flesh of her ass, her curvy body is crushed to me. Though my cock is deflating, our connection remains, and the thought of releasing her never crosses my mind. The heated, ropy mix of our excitement is oozing from her, leaking onto the bed, onto my balls. My breath is harshly blowing on her. I can't help it. I need to remain here with her just a little while longer, in the loving cradle of her arms. Sensing her fingers gliding through my hair, pulling gently at the curls at my nape, I can feel myself drifting off.

"No champagne for you, Michonne? You're not pregnant again are you?"

"Uh no. I'm still breast feeding the baby, Shane. I don't want to drink while I'm still feeding her my milk-"

"Ok, ok! Too much information, cuz. Damn! I got it. You could have just said no. Ok? Next time just say no. I don't wanna think of you, and your breasts, and… whatnot." Obviously uncomfortable at just the mention of Michonne breastfeeding, Shane's face immediately flushes a bright, scarlet hue as he waves his hand in a frustrated manner at her breast area.

Wearing a body hugging white wedding dress, covered in lace, belted across her tiny waist in Swarovski crystals, with a bustled train, Michonne is the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. She always is to me. Whether she's hanging out around the house in nothing but my blue jean shirt and leggings, a breast milk soaked t-shirt, or a $5,000 wedding gown, my lady is a rare and precious beauty. And right now, even though we just made love an hour ago, I can feel that same familiar tingle of arousal blossoming in my groin. If I could snatch her away from the reception right now, and feast on her, I would. Her breasts are fetchingly propped up in the strapless dress, creating a gloriously plump cushion for the diamond necklace she's wearing. It's one of the pieces left to her from my father, and sparkling against her radiant skin, giving off flickers of brilliant twinkles of light, my mouth is watering at the thought of burying my face between the two globes.

"It's completely natural, Shane. It's just milk." Michonne teases, delighting in my best friend's discomfort.

"What the hell did I just say? Y'all think this is funny don'cha?"

"Well, it is." Michonne offers on a snicker, rolling her eyes at how affected Shane is at the smallest thing.

"And it tastes kinda sweet." I offer, joining in. Squinting with glee at the uncomfortable squirm and grimace Shane is acting out at the idea of anyone other than Nina drinking Michonne's milk.

"Yuck! Y'all are a special kinda freaky I don't wanna ever think about again!" He shakes his head back and forth, probably attempting to rid himself of the thought. "Anyway…whatever. It's good you're not drinking, Michy. More for me. I'm gonna need it, dealing with your snooty ass cousin and her husband."

"Hey don't talk about Sasha like that. If I remember correctly, you always seem very interested in my snooty ass cousin. Despite her being married." Playfully swiping at Shane's arm with one hand, Michonne is tightly holding on to mine with her other one. Now legally husband and wife, it's odd to feel the cold metal of my wedding ring on my left hand. But when I look down at our intertwined hands, a wide smile breaks out on my face at the absolute perfection of the sight.

"That's cause that evil woman has her claws in me deep! I can't shake her. It's like she put a spell on me or something. Damn woman!"

"Well I know it's hard for you to remember that you weren't raised in a damn barn, so try and be easy around her today. It's Michonne's and my day. Let us enjoy it without you and Sasha fighting or fucking, ok?" I ask, hoping with everything in me that Shane will take my advice.

"You dorks get on my damn nerves. You know that? Do you think I want to be trapped in her web? I can't stop loving that crazy ass woman. And she loves me too. But she won't leave that sap Spencer… at least not for good. Fuck it, I don't care!" Staring off into the distance, where Sasha stands at the chocolate fountain, with her tiny daughter in her arms, Shane's gaze is trapped by the sight. Holding on to a stick with a fat red strawberry on the end, Savannah, Sasha's daughter, bears an oddly striking resemblance to Shane. It's not something that the family talks about openly, but it is quietly whispered about. Mostly when neither Shane, Sasha, or Spencer are around. After holding his fascinated gaze on them for a long moment, I suppose he has tortured himself enough, because Shane turns and simply stomps off in the direction opposite of them. Michonne and I share a woeful look, and a tiny snicker, because as usual, where Shane or Sasha goes, drama follows.

Four years ago when Sasha decided to leave Spencer, she came back to Atlanta and began working to open an art gallery that would feature the pieces she had been diligently working on over the years. Michonne and I had also just returned to Georgia ourselves with a five-year-old Carl, and a two-year-old Andre. We moved into the farm house that my father had purchased for us a few miles up the road from her parents. I began working at the training academy for new deputies, and taught a class at the nearby King County Community College in corrections and criminal policy. At the same time, Michonne was setting up to take over her uncle Dale's practice. Excited to be living in the same vicinity again, Michonne and Sasha began working together on Sasha's business venture with, with Michonne investing her money and her time.

It was during this time that Sasha was spending a good amount of time in King County with us while she was trying to figure out if she was leaving Spencer for good, and wanted a divorce or not. It was also during this time that the on and off thing with Sasha and Shane was fully on again. Actually, according to Shane it was really never off, as they hooked up a few times over the course of her marriage, usually when they would happen to be anywhere near each other for family events or holidays. Again, it has never been ideal, or accepted, but for those of us who know about it, we simply try to keep our noses out of their rather tempestuous affair. Especially given that you never really know if they love or hate each other with all of the insults and rage cavalierly tossed around, generally followed by some secret tryst.

For some reason, that only Shane and Sasha are aware of, Sasha ended up going back to DC, and back to Spencer once her art gallery was up and running. And not long after that, Savannah Michelle Williams-Monroe was born. And even though the math is a little sketchy, with Sasha spending a good six months in Georgia, separated from her husband, and Savannah bearing a striking resemblance to Shane's dearly departed mother, Spencer claimed her, and loves her dearly.

On the other hand, Shane has only seen Savannah a handful of times, and seems entirely conflicted by the whole thing. He mostly keeps his distance from Savannah, but even a blind person could see that he's clearly hurt that Sasha returned to Spencer, and that Spencer is probably raising his daughter. For the most part, he simply won't talk about most things involving Sasha, not even with me. Either it hurts too much, or he's too angry, and in a way that is very much Shane, he shuts down. Continuing to whore his way across King County, and any surrounding areas he wanders in to, Michonne asserts that he's probably just trying to bide his time with women he will never commit to, waiting for Sasha to choose him. I tend to agree with her, but again, I know Shane, and I am aware that he's still fighting some pretty tough self-doubt. Whatever it is that keeps those two ensnared in their messy affair, everyone around them politely accepts that Savannah may belong to Shane genetically, but for now, until Sasha and Shane figure out what the hell they are doing, she is a Monroe.

Last year when Michonne and I took the kids to visit with Sasha and the Monroes for Thanksgiving, we witnessed that she may be a Monroe in name, but she is obviously a Walsh in attitude and biology. Even Carl made a rather innocent mention of how Savannah had a temper, kind of like cousin Shane's. As she stomped around Sasha and Spencer's regal brownstone in Alexandria, pouting and demanding her doting grandparents pick her up, that her father give her cookies, that Andre play with her, and that Michonne and I pay attention to her, my wife and I had to look at each other with a quiet nod of agreement with Carl's assessment. My God that girl is Shane Walsh 2.0, and heaven help us all when he finally decides to do something about it.

Now alone with my wife, I drag my gaze from the retreating form of a pissed off Shane Walsh, no longer interested in his self-inflicted drama, and back to her. Scanning the crowd of gathered friends and family, not yet realizing that I'm watching her, my pretty girl blinks those soft brown eyes, dropping her thick lashes to sweep the tops of her cheeks, and ensnares my heart in the palm of her hand once more. This scene, her in white, with the sun retreating behind her, bathing her in its luminescence, is strikingly familiar to the very first time we met. The memory of her, so young and beautiful, strutting into my life, stealing my heart, causes me to reach for her much smaller hand.

Swallowing the lump of emotion growing in my throat, caused by her piercing gaze sweeping my way, I am simply robbed of the ability to speak. But in that moment, my affection for her is too overwhelming, and since I don't have the words, I tug gently on her hand and pull her into my waiting arms.

"Rick?"

"Dance with me." I declare. It's not a question. It's a command. An assertive plea to grace me with the press of her sexy body to mine.

Nodding, she follows my lead on to the dance floor, joining our sons who are grumbling and complaining to their aunt Beth, about the slower pace of the oldies song that the DJ is now playing. Over the rising lilt of the singer's voice I can hear them telling her, as they march off the dance floor, that the song is too old and slow to dance to. Following close behind his older brother, Carl's constant shadow, Andre is excitedly explaining to his aunt why they should play some song, unknown to me, that will allow him to show her how to 'hit the quan'. I chuckle at my youngest son's exuberant response to even the smallest of things. Andre is such a rowdy little boy. So much so, that we were all caught off guard by how rambunctious he is compared to the mature calm of Carl.

Coming along in our second year in Boston, Andre was not the surprise that Carl was, as we were actively screwing like rabbits at any chance we got. Moving to Boston was a treat for us. It was like a brand new life. A new beginning. Despite the stress of school, and being new parents in a new city, our passion for the freedom of this life, away from some of the dour sadness left behind in Georgia, it sparked a refreshing bout of an unquenchable lust for life and each other. With all of the sexing going on in that expensive ass apartment in Harvard Square, less than a mile from campus, we were bound to end up with another baby. And we did.

At nearly seven pounds, Andre Hershel Grimes, was born very quickly, just like his brother before him, but in a very different way. Nearly two weeks overdue, Michonne was miserable on the February day that he was born. 35 pounds heavier than her pre-pregnancy weight, feet swollen, and tired, she was over being pregnant. Trying to keep up with her studies, and having trouble sleeping because of the sheer size of her swollen belly, she was sitting up in bed as I snored quietly beside her, worn out from my own studies, and from chasing Carl around all night trying to get him to take a bath. One moment all was quiet, my snores and her page turning the only sounds in the room. The next moment, Michonne was shrieking and pushing me in the back, telling me that she had peed the bed. At first I was irritated that she had interrupted my sleep, as I needed to be up very early for my first class at 8. But very quickly, feeling the soaking wetness spreading under her on the mattress, I sobered up and jumped into action.

Still sore at missing Carl's birth, I was ready and prepared for her to go into labor, and realized immediately that the amount of wetness in the bed was not her peeing herself. Her water had broken, and I called her doctor's emergency number to let her know we were headed to the hospital. Excited beyond belief, I rushed around the room, grabbing the already prepared suitcase, my phone, her purse, our coats, and boots and ran out to the car. Not until I was halfway down the street did I realize I had remembered almost everything, but the most important things. I had left my wife and son in the apartment. Collecting them after finding her patiently waiting on the sidewalk outside of the apartment, holding the small hand of Carl who was agitated and still quite sleepy, we rushed off to the hospital.

Andre was born within ten minutes of our arrival. In a brown tinged flurry of wild black curls, pumping fists, kicking feet, and loud screams, my baby boy dramatically announced his entrance to the Grimes family. And he has been the same ever since. He's a wiry skinny boy who loves to run everywhere he goes. He's constantly laughing at something, he has no inside voice, and he is the smartest kid I have ever met. A toasted caramel to Carl's very light summer tan, almost black, thick tight curls, to Carl's mostly straight chestnut hair, and more book smart than Carl's intuitive street smarts, Andre is a true mix of Michonne and I. Her mother said it's like we each sat down and gave him exactly fifty percent of each of us, which is a stark contrast to how Carl is clearly my spitting image, and Nina is every bit my wife.

Grinning at their hasty departure from the dance floor, their tuxedoed forms lead them directly to their grandparents standing at the buffet table, who willingly fix them plates piled high with all manner of treats. Mona and Hershel are good at spoiling their grandkids, and helping us keep up with the demands of our lives. Both having recently retired, they swear their doting is simply a result of them having nothing else to do, especially with Beth getting ready to leave for college. But, Michonne and I know better, and easily recognize that they are trying to make up for my father's untimely death, and my mother's welcome estrangement. It is what it is, and none of the kids seem to notice their absence, since they have a large family, including a Nanny and a Poppy that love and spoil them unceasingly. Only once have either of them even mentioned that they don't know my parents, to which Michonne stuttered through a convoluted explanation that caused them to quickly lose interest, and kept me from having to dive into the murky waters that is my deceased father, and…Ellen.

No longer watching my boys eat up as many cookies, and as much cake as their tiny bodies will allow, I tightly crush my wife's sexy form to my body. I begin a slight sway with her, keeping in time with the music of the familiar song's romantic lyrics.

"You were meant for me
No one else could come between this love, I know
Cause I'll never let you go

You and me...it seems
Never have a problem we can't overcome
Cause you'll always be the one

Never thought I'd be so happy
Loving you has made feel so fine
I can see my friends turn green with envy
Every time I tell them, I'm so glad you're mine…"

"Remember this song, Mrs. Grimes?"

"Kelly-Grimes. And yes I do, Mr. Grimes. At my parents' wedding you were so damn handsome, and charming. I was kind of scared of you. How you made me feel. Nobody has ever made me feel like you do, Rick."

"No one ever will, pretty girl. And they better not try!" I declare on a growl, angling my head to sip at the sweet, blood red lips of my wife. Passionately kissing her, my tongue tangling and twisting over hers, a low groan of excitement begins to rumble in my chest.

"Ahem, excuse me, guys. I think your baby did a poop." Tapping me on the shoulder, I reluctantly pull my lips away from my wife's, a few short pecks between us before I swivel to my right. Standing there, holding my little Nina out to me, her crisp white dress stained a telling greenish-brown in the back, is my little sister in law Maggie. In a fit of heaves, her boyfriend Glenn stands next to her, threatening to vomit.

"Mags, you couldn't just change her?" Michonne asks, reaching for my squirming, smiling, baby girl. Trying to hold on to Nina's chubby form, while also trying to avoid getting any poop on her expensive wedding dress, Michonne frowns at Maggie and Glenn's already retreating forms.

"I love my niece, but I'm done changing poopy diapers, Michy. Give her to Dad. You know he'll do it in a heartbeat." She offers on a departing shot over her shoulder. Knowing that she's right Michonne turns back to me.

"Rick, I'll be right back. Let me see if I can get my dad to handle little Miss Nina. You stinky girl. You went poopy in your pretty dress?" Michonne pops another kiss to my lips, then coos to our baby girl, as she switches off to coerce her dad into changing a stinky diaper. He will. Hershel loves his grandkids, and welcomes helping out any way he can.

Watching the hypnotic sway of her rounded hips as she prances away from me, leaving me alone on the dance floor, a proud, joyous grin covers my lips. Proud because that amazing woman is mine. These kids are mine. This is family is mine. And remembering the advice my father left to me in a letter, I make a silent vow to myself…

Rance's Letter to Rick

Rick, 

If you are reading this letter then I am surely dead and gone. Ain't that a bitch? I knew it was coming. When I went to Atlanta to see that fancy heart doctor, I knew my time was quick approaching. She told me I had heart disease. That it was pretty far gone, but surgery and meds might help, but probably not. So, you know me, son. I said fuck it. I'm tired. I'm done fighting and fussing, and raging, and hiding. Yes hiding. I have hid behind my PTSD for years. It has allowed me to blame your mother for everything. To shift the cause for every rotten, rowdy thing I've ever done. And trust me, Rick, I've done plenty. And so has she. We did everything we could to hurt each other. Lied, cheated, stole. Your mother is a mean ol piece of work, and some of that is simply who she is, how she was raised. And some of that is my fault. I can't fix it now. What's done is done, and I got nothing left for her. Not my heart, my love, or my damned money. 

It's amazing that as piss poor of a job as we did being good to each other, the good Lord blessed two rotten apples like Ellen and I with such great boys. We didn't deserve either one of you, and when Jeff figured that out he left. And look at you now, Rick, you're gone too. And that's good. That's what's best for you. You found you a precious girl, and you ran with her. You weren't too big a coward like I was. You chose happiness, and I couldn't be more proud. That's why I left things the way I did. I wanted to reward you boys for being better men than I was. I wanted to reward my brother for sticking with me through all the shit with our spineless daddy, your greedy mother, and for putting up with a brother who was a miserable son of a bitch. You all deserve better. My grandkids deserve better. Your Michonne deserves better. 

So there it is. I love you. You and Jeff are the very best parts of Ellen and I, and for that I thank God. Hug my grandbaby. Give him lots of love and encouragement. You're going to be a great father, I know you will because you are simply a good man Richard Andrew Grimes, my son.

Kiss your girl for me, tell her I love her too. She's a good one. Michonne is beautiful, sweet and smart. She's almost perfect. You need a woman like her. Take care of her and love and protect her with everything you got, son. Don't take her love and devotion to you for granted, cause life doesn't always give you another chance to find your way back.