One… two… three…

The breaths were not helping. Assumpta realised this as soon as she even began to exhale. The anger was still so raw – so new – it threatened to consume her completely.

Four… five…

Who did he think he was, anyway? Her father? Her employer?

Her Priest?

Six… seven…

Assumpta tried placing her head between her knees, rocking meditatively between each exhale. She mentally went to her happy place – a spot deep in the forest by the Blessed Virgin – but he was already there. Peter was already there.

He was everywhere these days.

Eight.

Hendley's, Cilldargen, the village hall…

Nine.

The pub, its kitchen… even the rooms upstairs had at one time or another been tainted by his presence.

Ten.

Her skin. Her mouth. Her heart...

Damn him.

Assumpta stood suddenly, her chair scraping angrily across the linoleum floor. She looked at the classroom clock. Fitzgerald's lunchtime rush would be in full swing by now and her presence was almost certainly needed by Niamh and Peggy.

Ah, they'll have to cope, she decided, wondering again what had caused her to come here, of all places, to salvage what was left of her composure.

The local school hadn't changed much since the days that she was a student. It had the same wooden desks and the graffiti that adorned them – although the slogans were somewhat choicer these days.

The same pea-green walls and lilac roller blinds. The same smell – all pencil shavings and day-old coffee from the teacher's lounge.

The same lessons to be learnt.

It was comforting, in a way, how some things never change no matter how far you get from them. You change, you move on, but still the very core of what's important to you will forever remain the same.

Assumpta wondered briefly if this would apply to her relationship with the Priest. Had too much happened already? Had she ruined things beyond all repair?

She tried to remember her breathing.

A month ago this would never have happened. Peter would never have humiliated her like that in front of everyone she knew – everyone she saw on a daily basis.

But now? He'd changed – they'd changed. Their shtick… their dynamic – everything that made them them. It was gone – forever, probably – and all that remained was a pool of missed chances and damned frustration.

An angry tear burned down Assumpta's cheek. She should never have agreed to be in that stupid play. She shouldn't have kissed him – the second time, or the third. She should never have told him what he did to her, how she'd been rendered half-mad with longing. She should never have been honest and he shouldn't have been allowed to do the same.

Assumpta stared to the heavens and wished finally something that it was impossible to take back.

They should never have met.

As this thought evaporated into the ether and along with it her list of other regrets, the classroom door creaked open.

Assumpta turned immediately to find that fate did indeed have a sense of humour.

"I thought I'd find you here," Peter commented lightly as he entered. "Well, it was the last place I could think of so I guess that's not really true."

He was nervous, she quickly realised. He was doing his best to hide it of course, his hands stowed safely in his coat pocket to keep from trembling, but everything about him had a kind of frenetic energy that the laid-back curate normally lacked.

"Where is everybody?" he ventured first.

"It's Saturday."

"Right, yes. Of course." Peter made his way over to the teacher's desk where she sat and, keeping his voice as humble as he could, asked her "How are you?"

Assumpta wasn't about to let him feel any better. "How do you think?"

"I apologise," he began in earnest. "For before. For how I acted. Just got caught up, I guess."

"You guess?"

Peter eyes shot straight to his feet. "I'd hate for you to leave the play because of me – because of something I did."

The publican rolled her eyes dismissively. The arrogance of the man! "What did I do?" she asked him angrily. "What could I have possibly done to make you hate me like that?"

"I don't hate you."

"Evidently –"

"I don't," he implored again, his voice raising a decibel. "Assumpta, I'm the Director. I was giving direction…"

"It's Enda, isn't it?"

Just the very mention of the man made Peter's blood turn cold. "Excuse me?"

"My date," she maintained. "You're annoyed that I still went, that I kept it –"

The curate kept his voice quiet. "It's no concern of mine…"

"You're right!" she agreed immediately. "It's my business – mine! You have no right... I mean, who do you think you are? My keeper? My lov –" she hesitated momentarily. "My Priest?"

Ignoring her near slip, Peter answered matter-of-factly. "I am your Priest."

"Not mine" she assured him.

"Whether you like it or not, I am."

"Oh really?" she goaded. "Kiss all of your parishioners like that then do we, Father?"

Peter felt his nerve falter. "You're being facetious."

"I'm being honest," she began wearily. "I'm being straight with you."

Peter remembered what had happened the last time she was so straight with him. First on the kitchen table and then against the door. She'd awoken something in him. She'd opened Pandora's box. And now what? They were just supposed to return to normal?

He looked briefly to the teacher's desk that she was perched on, evaluating quickly whether it would collapse under their combined weight.

Stop it, Peter. Stop it.

"We need to move past this Assumpta. You need to move past this."

Peter expected a retort for this comment, which he realised as soon as it passed his lips, was as unfair as it was inaccurate. But none came. Instead she nodded wearily.

"I know. I know I do." Assumpta gripped the table edge for support. "But you're not making it easy."

Surprised by her candour and then by his own, Peter whispered, "I know."

"What do you want, Peter?"

Her question rendered so many answers, so many suggestions. "I want you to…" he began slowly with the full intention of continuing. "I want you t…" he repeated, grappling desperately for the words that came next.

I want you.

I want you.

The words were as honest as they were simple.

"I want you," he said simply again with no hope of saying anything else. "I want you and I-I know that it's beginning to show."

His eyes finally caught hers but to his frustration, she immediately looked away.

"Well," she sighed resignedly, pushing herself off the desk. "Being alone with me in an empty classroom isn't going to help with that."

In a panic, Peter realised that she was making her way for the door. She was about to leave him. Again. Without thinking, he caught her forearm – a gesture that seemed to send tremors through them both.

"Peter" Assumpta's eyes were wide with warning.

The pad of his thumb grazed the underside of her wrist as he drew her closer until she was mere inches from the length of his body.

"Peter…" she cautioned again but it fell upon deaf ears. All he could see was Assumpta. All he could feel was Assumpta.

"Assumpta…"

His voice faltered mid-syllable as he pushed the hair back behind her cheek. She was so soft. She was so close…

It seemed almost inevitable that they would kiss again – that he would slip, again. Slowly, Peter's mouth moved to reclaim her, to learn if she was really as warm as he'd remembered. The publican's met his with no second guesses, no restraint – if they were going to hell, they'd go to hell together.

Their bodies edged towards the invitingly level surface of the desk.

It wasn't until she felt Peter's weight on her that Assumpta realised they were on top of it.

Stopping was impossible at that very moment. At that very moment all that existed was the ocean of water between them and the unquenchable extent of their thirst.

They needed this. He needed this.

Subconsciously, Peter's hand began to tug at the hemline of Assumpta's dress, awarding her legs more freedom as the fabric gathered in a pool around her upper thighs.

The publican gasped at this new game changer and the range of motion it afforded. Her legs now free of the shackles of a narrow, ankle-length skirt, Assumpta ran her ankles along the backs of the Priest's thigh, drawing him closer, eliciting a muffled groan as their shrouded centres finally met.

This was different. This was one very noticeable step further than they'd ever been before but neither of them was about to run from it. Without really knowing what would come next, Peter allowed his weight to come down fully on top of the publican, shifting as he did so to accommodate his now painful, hardening length.

The result was unprecedented.

Assumpta groaned loudly against the curate's mouth as she felt his solid erection push against the moist cotton of her underwear with a whole new fervency.

Fortified by her exhalations, Peter tilted his pelvis again, and again, until the friction threatened to engulf him, until he could stand it no longer.

As if reading his tortured sighs, Assumpta grappled with his belt buckle, attempting to release what had been incarcerated for so long. But just as soon as her hand made contact, Peter pulled away as if he'd been burnt – as if the exquisite ache of touching her was about to become too much.

"No… no, I'm sorry. I - I… can't. I can't."

Precariously, the Priest knelt half against the table and half on it – somewhere in between this bewildering purgatory of his own design.

Assumpta hastened a squeeze of his arm, which he flinched from involuntarily. "It's okay," she pacified. "It's alright."

"I'm sorry," he told her again, only then revealing the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh, Peter. It's fine."

"I just – it's just…" Peter allowed his sentence to trail with no intention of finishing it. How could he explain this to a woman? A woman he had every hope of impressing, no less.

"I understand," she told him finally, as if reading his expression.

He shot her a grateful look for her candour, which she then returned in kind. "Probably for the best, anyway." Assumpta admitted eventually. "I hear that you get detention for this kind of thing."

Her joke did its best to break through the tension, but still Peter stared sheepishly at his hands.

He attempted a retort: "Brendan would have a few things to say, that's for sure."

But it fell upon deaf ears. Assumpta's attention was firmly fixed on the beads of perspiration that had gathered at his brow. She wanted to touch them, allow them to absorb into the side of her face as they embraced again but knew that the stars would not align for such an outcome. Today, anyway.

She settled for a handhold.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it?"

Alarmed by the foreboding nature of his question, Assumpta agreed with a simple nod. "I don't think I should be in the play," she added eventually. "I think that we should keep our distance in public – for awhile, at least."

Peter felt himself nod despite everything inside of him leaning to the contrary.

"I should be the one to leave though. You're the lead actor! They play's even named after you."

Assumpta shrugged in nonchalance. "Whatever."

Silence descended as Peter struggled how to phrase what he had to say next. "I do have another request" he stuttered eventually.

"Oh yeah?"

He paused again and looked forlornly. "Enda. Do you think you'll be seeing him again?"

The publican was about to answer, but Peter continued in earnest. "I know it's not my business. I know that it's your choice but seeing you with him – it, it just…"

"Okay" she interrupted quietly.

"Okay?"

Assumpta smiled. "You don't want me to have anyone else even though I can't have you?"

He laughed at his own audacity. "Could you just?"

"There's me thinking that we had enough vows of chastity between us," she observed shyly before repeating, again. "Okay."

Peter's heart danced at her promise but he felt equally bad as it did so. "I'd give anything for things to be different."

Assumpta considered his vow – his vocation – and wondered briefly if this was truly the case.

"It's alright," she absolved him eventually. "Enda was hardly a love connection if you know what I mean."

A grin crept over Peter's lips. A perverse part of him wondered how he got to be so lucky. To have his Church, his ordination, still a part of his daily life with Assumpta his – and only his – was more than the curate could ever hope for.

He leaned in half an inch as if to seal their agreement with a kiss but soon thought better of it. Assumpta reclaimed his cheek with her hand and made the gesture for him, quickly and complicity, oblivious to the masochistic nature of their new relationship – of his latest request.

If only Peter had remembered to close the door behind him, this outcome would have perhaps very nearly remained the case.

If only he'd shut the door behind him and remembered that Saturday's are when the school board meet.

If only he'd remembered...