Author's note: Thank you, as always, for the reviews and support. I am glad you are enjoying this as much as I am when I am writing it. The story still has A LOT more to go, so please stick with it. If you would like to review, that'd be excellent, but if not I hope you're just really enjoying it. If there's anything you think needs changing, or feel isn't as good as it could be, I like to hear that too.

Thanks again.


"Has he been like this all week?"

Gomez heard Thing rattle out his affirmation to Williamson's question, and Lurch groan mournfully, from the other side of the door but it didn't rouse him from his stupor. He rolled over amidst the stink of the satin sheets and fumbled for a cigar stub on the bedside table. His clumsy hands knocked over an empty Scotch bottle which crashed to the floor.

"You better be decent in there," Williamson's voice said, "I'm coming in."

He pushed the double doors open as Gomez sparked the cigar up.

"God it reeks in here," Williamson went to the window, ripped aside the drapes and flung up the sash.

Then he strode towards the bed, tripping over trays of rotting food and empty glasses as he went, and tugged the sheets away.

"Not decent," he looked away in despair as he came closer, "You are disgusting, this entire charade is disgusting. I don't know what is wrong with you but it better stop."

Gomez simply took a pull on the cigar stub as he watched his friend navigate to the bathroom door and disappear within. A moment later he heard the hard gush of the shower and Williamson emerged with a fresh towel which he flung directly at his head.

"Get up," he cried, throwing his hands up, "Get up and get back to life. If your aunt wasn't at her bridge tournament you wouldn't be moping about like a lout."

"She's back at the beginning of next week," he pulled the sheets back over himself, "And when that happens I'll…get back to normal."

"Not good enough," Williamson whipped the sheets again, this time from the entire bed, and with a grimace chucked them onto the floor, "Lurch, Thing, get in here and help your master sort his life out. Lurch, I trust that by the time Mr. Addams get home you will have returned this room to its normal state."

Then Williamson gripped him by both arms and, hauling him across the bed, dropped him on to the floor where he spluttered for a moment life a fish.

"We're meeting Baz in an hour," his friend said as he rolled up his sleeves, "So you'd better hurry up."

-0-

They were an hour late and Baz was already full tilt when they arrived at their favourite bar. Williamson had reserved a table for them too and there was already a little flock of not-quite-friends gathered around Baz, while he lamented the death of his sobriety with all the humour he possessed. Gomez flung off his coat and slid onto his chair, making quite the dismissive show of his own arrival.

"Cousin!" Balthazar drooled as Gomez pushed his face away.

He was a wretched drunk, in Gomez's opinion, and his patience was already pushed to its limit with Williamson's brutal insistence that he pull himself together.

Williamson slid a whiskey towards him, "Drink."

Despite not wanting to, he did. The place grew busier, bodies pressed into a heaving throng of too much money and not enough responsibility. The music started – pulsating and dark – and there were a few dancers, then more, and gradually the floor became packed too.

None of it made him feel any better and the whiskey just dulled the agony, making it doughy and heavy in his head and gut.

"Better?"

He examined the content of his glass as he contemplated Williamson's question.

"Entirely," he lied and threw the dregs of the golden drink back.

"What's wrong with you, you old lout?"

Baz clapped his back roughly, forcing the whiskey back into his mouth and through his teeth where it dribbled onto his chin.

He rounded on him, "Sometimes I could slit your throat."

Baz laughed heartily and grinned, "Someone is irritated."

"Such perception," he sneered as the waiter topped off his glass.

Balthazar backed away a little, scooting clumsily to the edge of his chair.

"Sorry cousin."

"It's not your fault," Williamson assured, throwing Gomez a dirty look, "Your cousin is in a slump of titanic proportions and will not be comforted."

"What's annoying you?"

He shrugged, tired of the conversation already, "Nothing. Let's get champagne."

"He doesn't seem terribly ill to me," Baz grinned, then pointed a floppy hand to the door, "Well look at her."

Gomez did it slowly, already dreading what he'd see. And it wasn't any better for the sheer lure of the image in itself.

"God be damned!"

His curse was quiet but it was enough to make Williamson give him a sideways glance, then follow his eyes.

"Do you hate Ophelia's sister that much?"

Gomez stared at her for a moment and felt the breath catch, as if snagging on a thorn, at the back of his larynx. She was arm in arm with another woman, with fierce red hair, who was laughing loudly. She was a slither of calm beside her friend, detached, as her eyes scanned the heaving floor. He followed the line of her body; from the satin of her hair, curling in tendrils across her shoulders and back, down the velvet of the dress which stopped just at her knees, to the extensive legs which ended in dangerous, sharp heels.

He felt his gut tremble.

As if she knew he was examining her with the same urgencies of a predator, her eyes flittered to him. They grew palpably wide for an instant but then she turned her patrician jaw away, whispered in her friend's ear, and they moved quickly through the crowd and disappeared into the throng.

"Who is she?"

Baz would soon need the drool wiped from his eager, stupid chin.

"Gomez's future sister in law," Williamson murmured, wriggling in his seat.

"She's-"

"We all know," Gomez cut him off, the desire to protect her honour from his friends as strong as his jealousy that they, too, desired her.

"But old man, she's practically edible," Williamson pushed, "And I'm going to talk to her."

He stood up but Gomez reached up before he was completely vertical and, grasping his shoulder, hauled him back into place. Williamson growled at him.

"Don't…" Gomez felt, suddenly, embarrassed, "It'll end in disaster."

Williamson chucked a drink back, "For you maybe."

"Don't be like that," Gomez pleaded gently, "It's just that-"

"I know exactly what it is," Williamson turned to him and looked him straight in the eye, "And you're a fool if you think you can bed her and-"

"It is so much more than that," he slid down.

"You always say that," Williamson looked over his shoulder fleetingly, to make sure Baz wasn't listening, "Your family will crucify you."

He grinned and felt nails, thorns, the rough splinter of wood and spears, and the wash of her tears.

Williamson shook his head and muttered: "That was the wrong thing to say."

-0-

Morticia was relieved to be absorbed by the crowd and to be pushed amongst the body of patrons who were as keen on providing her with anonymity as she was of finding it. Carmen had listened to her plea to get to the bar, because she was parched too, and they had swept themselves into invisibility.

Victor was behind her a moment later, his hands on her hips as he leaned across and ordered martinis for them both. She let him tilt her head to the side but withdrew when his lips found the skin on her neck.

"Don't," she warned softly.

"Morticia," he murmured, hands deft and solicitous on her hips, "So beautiful."

She raised a brow as the bartender slid the drinks towards them, "I know I am."

"If we can, we should dance," he stepped back as Carmen pushed in between them and Henry sidled up awkwardly, carrying Carmen's bourbon.

"Trying to get your way before you pay for it?" Carmen asked Victor, blowing a ring of smoke, as was her habit, in his face.

He grinned and laughed but directed his question at Morticia, "Why are you even friends with her?"

Morticia grinned at her friend, "Because she's loathsome."

"You can say that again," he grabbed Morticia by the hand, and the suddenness of the motion made her spill her martini over her free hand, "Let's dance."

"Really, Victor," she paused to take a gulp of the drink, "I shouldn't."

She knew then that Gomez would see her again, or rather she'd see him, and all her endeavor would die in an instant surge of lust.

"Oh you love dancing," Victor grinned, "You do. And you love dancing with me."

"I know but…" she slid the glass onto a table by her side, just on the edge of the dance-floor, "But I shouldn't-"

"Bore," he grumbled, "Come on."

She nodded slowly, trying to keep them at the edge furthest away from his table. When Victor's hands went to her hips she imagined his, when she moved against Victor's tall, athletic body it was Gomez's in her mind. And the treachery, and the joy, was enough to make her bite her lip, the flesh almost splitting under the pressure of her teeth.

Suddenly she saw Addams flash past her and knew then he'd been prowling the mirror-speckled dance-floor, like an animal. The music pulsed, like a chant, and he was right behind Victor's shoulder, his eyes dark and deadly as they met hers, her unsuspecting dance partner the only thing between them. He circled again and she saw his head disappear amongst the crowd. She froze instantly, fear and lust and all things unholy pounding in a rush of adrenaline through her veins.

"We need to move," she said to Victor, "We need to-"

"Morticia, don't do this to me again," he pleaded, "I'm in love with you."

She looked at him coolly, "Not right now."

He groaned, "But I am."

"I said-"

"The lady asked you to be quiet," a smooth, growling, accented voice muttered and there was a hand on her arm, tugging her away from Victor, "And I suggest you listen."

His fingers, as chaste as the contact was in the crook of her elbow, burned against her skin.

"Addams?"

Victor seemed to be shouting from the end of a long, deep tunnel.

He did not answer as he propelled her backwards and she felt it happen slowly, as if she was falling down a welcoming black hole. As he drew her through the crowd he pressed her back to him and gripped her elbows.

"Morticia, tell him to unhand you!"

Victor was screaming, pushing through the crowd which seemed to be swallowing him.

But her mouth was glued shut.

Outside though, in the dark and tangy heat of the night and the fug of smoke, her senses snapped back into place instantly.

She gently tugged her elbow away and he let her go as he shrugged his coat on.

"What on earth are you doing?"

He motioned to a sleek, black limo parked at the far end of the street. The vehicle drew up beside the side walk as a prowling extension of its master.

"You were perilously close to making a massive mistake in there," he held open the door for her, "And I would hate for you to bring shame on the family I am about to marry into."

She laughed and it bounced off the tall buildings around, "Don't flatter yourself."

He motioned to the car and asked gently, "Miss Nightshade, are you getting in or not?"

She didn't know what on earth possessed her but she took his offered hand and slid in. He joined her a second later.

"Why do you care so much about my virtue?"

He slammed the door shut, suddenly angry, and the car began to speed away. When he turned his face towards her there was fury glistening in his dark eyes.

"Why do you hate me?"

The Castilian accent, which sometimes edged his voice, was more evident when he was angered. Instead of frightening her, it shocked her to the core when her muscles clenched in desire as a response to his fury.

Then she was wordless in the face of his accusation. It took her all of her effort to say what she had to say:

"I do not hate you."

That was all it took, she would realise in later years, to say what had been passing between them for months before. He placed a rough hand around her neck and pulled her lips towards his. Her fingers flew to the smooth, olive skin of his face as his tongue forced between her teeth. She gasped and felt her grip on the world tilt away from her as she pushed herself into him, chest to chest, until he forced her against the seat and jammed her there. His hands moved down her arms, down onto her waist as she leaned into his caresses. Then, hands brave in the heat of the moment, they were pushing her dress up her thighs, which fell listlessly open at his touch. As suddenly as his hands began, though, they stopped.

"No," he pulled back, breathless and holding her still, keen fingers gripping her thigh, "No, not here."

She nodded her silent agreement, not sure where the right place for this sin was – if there was anywhere - and his mouth found hers again.

He pressed his face to hers and whispered, what felt like only seconds later, "My home, cara mia."

She looked outside and realised they were facing an endless stretch of barren land as two huge, wrought iron gates opened up before them. At the peak of the heath, bordered by dense forest and flanked by a desolate graveyard, was a huge house.

She knew he could see the smile on her face, against the petulant moon.

"Welcome," he whispered.

"Call me it again," she ordered softly, her hand reaching up to caress his face.

He turned his mouth into her palm, "Cara mia."

She sighed as the car came to a stop.

The hallway was silent and cool, the only sound her heels on the harlequin tiles. He didn't relinquish his grip on her as he moved towards the grand staircase. They paused then to kiss, as if the slight break in between had starved them both of air, and it was a desperate vow of attraction.

"My bedroom?"

She had expected him to be gentlemanly but not as considerate as he was.

She nodded silently and offered her hand to him. Instead he slid a hand under her back and under her knees and swept her up into his arms.

His bedroom was at the far end of a corridor, behind double doors. There was a roaring fire, already, as if he had been expected. They stood face to face beside the crackling flames. Here he was darkly handsome, perspiration gathering on his forehead – a result of his restraint.

"Once we do this…" she felt herself say, suddenly, without much conviction, "It won't…"

"I can't go on without you," he let his coat fall to the floor, "But you can turn, and go, if you want."

"I don't want to," she slid her shoes off and kicked them delicately aside with her foot.

"I won't force you."

"You won't need to," she stepped forward, so there was no space between them, and her hands went to his bow tie.

-0-

He watched her deft, confident fingers unfurl the tie elegantly and drop it to the floor.

"Do I get to do the same?"

"I don't have a bow tie," she muttered, turning so her back was to him, and sweeping her hair over her shoulder.

"Ahhh, I see," his fingers trembled over the intricate buttons and the first one popped easily under his thumb and forefinger, giving him the confidence he needed.

The rest followed suit, until there was a pearly expanse of back and the satin of a corset in his view. He wanted to weep with sheer joy at the very beauty of it.

"Dios mio," he murmured, a finger ghosting across the hard line of the corset, just under her sharp shoulder blades.

He pulled her neck towards his mouth and slid the sleeves of the dress down her arms, where she wiggled it onto her hips.

"Don't move like that," he pleaded, "At least not yet."

She turned in his arms, "I have that impact on you…mon cher?"

The words were like an explosion at the very front of his brain, blowing his concentration to smithereens.

He gulped like a fish, "What?"

"It's French," she murmured, as if she had no idea what she had done – it did not occur to him, once, that perhaps she didn't -, "It means-"

He growled low in his throat and brought her hand up to his mouth, devouring the skin over her forearm and up to her shoulder and up to her jaw line while she breathed a delighted laugh.

"Oh," he groaned against her jaw, "Oh I know, I know exactly what it means."

-0-

She watched him shed his clothing from the island of his huge bed and then he came towards her, like the predator who had dragged her across the dance floor. When he kneeled on the bed she couldn't resist running her hands over the olive, smooth skin of his hard abdomen and up into the black hair on his chest. Against her hand, his skin was a wonderful contrast which was both jarring and complimentary.

"I have often thought about this," he murmured, his fingers trailing over the tops of her stockings.

"I don't know what that makes us," she drew her mouth down to his, "because I have too."

"No," he whispered against her mouth, "Neither do I. I am afraid, however, that if I don't make you mine I will die. I will become a husk of a man."

"Make love to me."


Finally? Yes. But the end? Certainly not. Please leave a review if you can.