Still Life With Taylor

::TEN::

The cook shows up. He's nervous. There's been pressure to leave. He wants to stay here. Seems everyone is feeling the crunch. Waitresses are still too low level to worry about intimidating, and are a dime a dozen anyways. I suggested getting rid of two. Cocaine in the back room. Sure, it doesn't seem like much, but the bikers are the ones that deal in it here. Some sort of weird alliance forming out there between the bikers and the cops. Don't need a raid, it would finish us for sure.

So Matty stays, and helps serve drinks. Sal comes back later, with a couple of guys. Their presence is subtle, but felt. Suits stand out against the workshirts and jean jackets of the regulars. I make a lot of martinis. Compari and soda's.

The bar is lined, two deep, for about four hours. Lunchtime on a payday is always like this. A lot of pitchers, boilermakers. Taylor and I behind the bar. I try not to touch his back, as we work. His shirt untucked, covering the handgun at the back. If I don't think about it, I won't be afraid. Just shut it out. Only here could a lunch hour run until three in the afternoon. Seems the regulars are a little harder to intimidate.

Workmen leave, in ones and twos. The sound of whatever track is playing comes up louder in the growing silence of the emptying bar. Turn it down. The lights are soft. Clink of pint glasses rattling in a tub, as tables are cleared. Nobody left to pour for.

Taylor rests back against the coolers, pulling me to him, his arms circling my waist. Put my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes against the furtive catty glances of the cocktail waitresses. His hands had lingered longer, in the last hour, as we moved together behind the bar. Occasionally slipping over a thigh, to cup my rear, when no one was watching. I want him too. His lips on my neck, too much. Take his hand, make our way into the back. Matty covering for us without a word.

Close the door to the storage room, it's not much privacy, but it's all we have. Move back, in the dark, against the back wall. Our kiss passionate, wet, and screaming of our need.

"Can you be quiet for me, baby?"

I nod, not wanting to speak, my voice will betray me, not wanting him to stop kissing me, wondering how I'll manage to not scream, when his hands on me make me want to scream already. His lips, his teeth, nipping at my neck, his breath hot and fast against my skin.

We'd been touching each other, trying so hard to be discreet, for the past four hours, every moment becoming more unbearable, and now our hands were everywhere. Metallic click, as the handgun gets put on the shelf beside my head. Run my hands up under his shirt, pulling at his nipples. His own moan telling me I won't be the only one fighting to be quiet.

His hand in my hair, his tongue setting a pace the rest of him wants to follow. Fast and hard. Slip my hand down the front of his jeans, as I unbutton them. A muffled moan, his jeans falling to his knees. A firm stroke, he's painfully hard already, sliding a nail over balls.

Pull back, his mouth buried against my neck, pulling my skirt up, ripping my panties. Hands lifting me by the ass, slamming me hard against the wall, fingers kneading. Wrap my legs around his waist, the creak of leather, as my boots rub against each other, behind him, my ankles crossed.

His lips cover mine, pressing, tongue flicks deep, as he, slowly at first, enters me. A quick glance, his eyes glazed with lust, to make sure I can be quiet, before he sets the pace we both want. Bury my face in his shoulder as he slams up into me, my back pressed hard into the wall. I can feel the scream and fight it, biting his shoulder, so all that escapes is a low moan. Over and over, the pace brutal and hard, our need for each other driving us both. His mouth buried in my neck, crying out my name, muffled, and dying out to animal cries, as he loses control completely. Driving so hard, my vision going grey at the edges, feeling I will black out, the pleasure more than I can bear. "Taylor..." ,weak, all the voice I have left to manage, his name a low moan, escaping from me, as his final thrust releases us both.

His breath ragged against my neck, not moving, not dropping me, not releasing me. As if he intended to hold me there forever. His heart racing, a low thrum against my breast. Kissing me before withdrawal. Gently this time. Letting me down slowly, his lips never losing mine, my torn panties still clenched in his hand. Stroking my neck where he bit me, kissing gently all the places he was rough. Neither one of us trusting our voices, we stay quiet. We grow still, his hand in my hair, holding me to his shoulder, holding my waist, not a sliver of light between us, as though he wished us to stay one, even after parting.

"I hurt you."

I shake my head, no, not trusting my voice to say it out loud. In his head he hears yes, despite my denials, and holds me tighter, stroking my back. Fixes his jeans, replaces the handgun at the back, pulling the shirt back, to cover it. My torn panties, a look, like he isn't quite sure how they got there, slip into his front pocket. Our kiss is slow, gentle. The passion is there. Gone deep, becoming something else, something more. Something neither one wants to say, not yet. Like a spell that would be broken if you spoke of it too soon.

Matty had the cook make us dinner, while we were gone. We sit at the bar, my back nestled into his chest, his arm around my waist. No one bothers us. For us, there's no one else here but each other.