His first instinct was to go in.

When he saw what was unfolding between the Priest – his Priest – and the publican, Father Frank MacAnally's stomach lurched. He felt compelled to stop it. His fist had even found the doorknob.

They were holding hands for goodness sake – holding hands while perched proudly upon Brendan Kearney's desk. Just what had transpired before they'd reached this state, Frank did not know – nor did he want to.

But then it happened.

Assumpta Fitzgerald happened. Only then, when he saw her snatch a kiss from his younger curate, did he realise that this was almost certainly all her doing. Who knows, perhaps it was her plan all along?

He could scold Peter, he could even send him away – but that wouldn't solve anything. There was a very real chance that, given the choice, the poor lovesick boy would throw away the Church for that woman. He couldn't run that risk.

No, Frank realised then. Better to pluck this weed out from the root. Better to make Ms. Fitzgerald bear the entire responsibility for the end of the affair.

And he had a good idea what it'd take to convince her.

Father MacAnally closed the door softly so as not to reveal his presence. Give them this morning, he decided. Give them this.

But that would be all.

To have a legitimate reason to spend the majority of the afternoon and early evening in Fitzgerald's was a rare occurrence for Father Clifford.

But here he was. Occupying the best seat in the house, no less, in the inconspicuous corner of the bar where he could steal ardent looks from its landlady.

His excuse was simple; Father MacAnally hadn't actually specified a time for their all-important dressing-down. Better to wait it out in the veritable comfort of the open fire-heated pub within whispering distance of Assumpta.

Every condemned man deserves one final respite, he reasoned. And today, Peter certainly had that.

"For a man who was barred from this place only a day ago, you're sure making up for lost time."

Assumpta leaned in conspiratorially but really there was no need. Fitzgerald's had been devoid of the usual suspects for the most part of the day. Bar a few out of towners, it was just she and Peter.

Just how she liked it.

"Are you enjoying your meal?"

Peter nodded amidst mouthfuls of stewed beef and dumpling. It was perhaps the first home-cooked meal he'd had in weeks. And it was delicious.

"I could get used to this."

"I wish that you would." The words left Assumpta's mouth before she had a chance to catch them.

Peter smiled good-naturedly at her observation. "So do I. "

Assumpta felt her heart leap for what was probably the seventeenth time already that day.

It was wrong – she knew that. Of course she knew. But even the sheer possibility of this thing that they were embarking on, this flirtation that had suddenly become so real. Even the chance that it would lead to something else was intoxicating to her. She had no choice but to follow it.

"Another coffee?" she volunteered happily.

"I couldn't," he returned. "I'll be up all night as it is."

The publican smirked. "Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

"It is when you've nothing but your thoughts for company." Peter raised his eyebrows. "Believe me."

"Ah, we'll just have to give you something good to think about then."

With that parting comment, Assumpta turned to approach another customer at the bar, giving more measure to her strut than she ever normally would.

Peter took a large mouthful of stew to keep from his jaw dropping any further, but kept his eyes directly on her. Always on her.

He watched as the publican hastened a look at the chiming wall clock.

"Eight on the nose. Your employer's running late" she noted presently.

"He's not my employer."

Assumpta considered what Father Mac would have to say about that. What he'd have to say about a lot of things that had occurred recently. Her lips pursed. "Superior, then."

Peter tightened his smile. "Maybe he's not coming?"

"Like you would be so lucky."

By 10 o clock, Peter concluded that in fact he had been so lucky; he'd seen neither hide nor hair of Father MacAnally all evening. Brendan had popped in briefly an hour earlier, inciting a simultaneous flush of crimson from both Assumpta and the Priest, their earlier misconduct on the teacher's desk still fresh in each of their minds.

But now they were alone. Perilously alone.

For want of anything else to do with his hands, Peter began to load the glass-washer in the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you."

"Glass washing is man's work."

His companion deadpanned, "How ever did I manage before you?"

The curate smiled somewhat nervously at her in response. "You're welcome," he hastened in a muted voice.

To Peter's surprise, Assumpta sidled up next to him and began to restack the glasses within her reach. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?" she chastised, only half-serious. "Tankards upside down please."

But he wasn't listening. All Peter was aware of was how close she suddenly was – the clean, faintly floral smell of her hair. As if by instinct, he closed his eyes and inhaled her, taking his fill of her heady trace.

Assumpta shut her eyes immediately. "Peter…" she warned.

"I'm sorry."

She was too close. Agonizingly close. The temptation to close that infinitesimal gap between them was all too real for Peter; he could almost taste her sweet, wine-scented breath mingle with his.

"You should leave…"

Her request brought the curate devastatingly back to the here and now.

He took a single, decisive breath. "I should."

But neither moved.

A moment passed, followed quickly by another. Assumpta was about to speak her companion's name again but her mouth was quickly silenced by his. One kiss quickly turned into two which turned into three… each as sensual and frustratingly fleeting as the last.

"You shouldn't do that," the publican requested.

"What?"

"I'm teetering on the edge, here."

"The edge…?" Peter managed, his voice betraying the tremors that ran through his body.

She blushed in spite of herself. "Kiss me like that again and I'm going to want to do things… with you."

The temptation to kiss her again and find out just what things she meant was palpable.

Oh, heck.

Peter planted a string of defiant kisses on the corners of his companion's mouth. On her cheeks… her neck. "What… things?" he mumbled between them.

"Things?' she remarked dreamily. "You really want to know?"

Distracted by the smell of her hair and the softness of her alabaster skin, he didn't answer right away.

"I do... I want to," Peter stuttered eventually, his remark charged with double meaning. "I want to so much…"

As Assumpta felt the strap of her dress slide down her shoulder, she told him "I want to feel you…"

Pursing his lips, Peter ran a hot palm down the length of her waist, allowing it to linger beneath her hipbone. "You feel me…"

Frustrated by the candour of his response, she told him "I want to feel you everywhere."

Goaded by a high-pitched groan in the crook of her neck, Assumpta continued. "I want you to touch me…"

"I am touching you."

Removing his hand from her waist and replacing it on the underside of her dress, the publican breathlessly uttered, "I want you to touch me there."

Everything stopped. Peter's hot mouth that seconds earlier had traced patterns along her neck desisted, along with his laboured breaths. All that remained was the precarious position they now found themselves in: Assumpta half-reclined on the cold of the kitchen floor with Peter arched over her, his hand beneath hers on the exposed white of her breast.

Oh, no.

She'd pushed him too far this time.

Peter was all but willing to give an inch but she'd wanted a mile. She always wanted that mile.

Assumpta fully expected him to make his escape but the curate didn't move an inch. She chanced a glance at his face but his eyes were firmly closed, as if Peter's brain were trying to decide something – attempting to solve some great enigma

She immediately moved to pull away but his voice prevented her. "Please," he entreated. "Don't…. I just need a second."

Now it was Assumpta's turn to freeze. Eventually and deliberately, she released her hold of his hand and instead, hooked it idly around the Formica table leg.

Her companion's eyes widened at the gesture.

She did the same with her other hand, this time gripping the cool metal with her fingers, tethering her to the ground.

Assumpta leaned back onto her elbows, allowing Peter to drink her in, which he did so with all of the want of a thirsting man.

Which, of course he was.

He had to kiss her – he wanted to kiss her – but Peter didn't trust himself. It was a slippery slope he was treading and the curate wasn't sure how far along it he was willing to slide.

Instead he focussed on the position in which she'd left him, breathless and teeming with one hand picketed to the floor and the other... well, there.

Peter widened the spread of this hand to better accommodate the full weight of her breast, an action that was met with a surprised gasp from his companion. Had she not been expecting this?

Encouraged by a hardness forming through the thin cotton against his palm, Peter brought his mouth down to her neckline, tracing his lower lip along the ever increasing expanse of cool skin, supplanting fingertips with open-mouthed kisses wherever he could manage.

The illicitness that he felt, the wrongness, was palpable. But he wanted this. He wanted this.

His nerve was beginning to falter. His hands shook. The intricate front-fastening of Assumpta's dress was beginning to bind his fingers so, in one fervent motion, Peter ripped apart the seam, leaving the white material to hang loosely on either side of her like wings.

The sight of Assumpta half-naked beneath him was almost his undoing.

"You're so…" he began in earnest before deciding that his words would only cheapen this.

Instead he sought the veritable refuge of her mouth and neck, kissing her with a new fervency that he didn't know was within him.

By now, the publican had relinquished her passivity and had her palms pressed firmly on Peter's back, balling handfuls of his shirt as he ran his tongue along her stomach

Oh…

Ending this was unthinkable, but Assumpta saw their deadline looming.

This has to stop. It always had to stop.

As if realising this too, Peter became rougher and more desperate with his caresses.

"Peter…" she warned as his mouth hovered perilously close to her pelvis. "We have to stop."

If he heard her, the Priest wholly ignored her instruction. His hands found the waistband of her tights, which he began to tug slightly.

Speaking his name again, Assumpta announced, "You don't want this…"

A flash of incredulity crossed Peter's face – how could she think that he didn't want this? This was all that he wanted.

"Not like this…" the publican clarified. "Not now."

Peter took a breath that he hadn't realised he'd needed. She was right of course. She was always right.

Breathless and bewildered, Peter desisted his advances. He attempted one of his breathing exercises. One… two… but nothing would calm him this time. With reluctance, he pulled away from her and leaned his back against the Aga.

Trying her best to protect her modesty with the two redundant shreds of the garment that Peter had left her with, Assumpta sat up. She hastened a glance in his direction just as he'd attempted a look at her.

All of a sudden, they were so very shy. How was that even possible, given what they had just done… what they almost did?

Assumpta was the first to speak. "You owe me a dress."

"Sorry about that." The priest smiled shyly. "In the heat of the moment, eh?"

Neither spoke again for a moment, each trying to forget said heat, until Peter gathered enough fortitude to stand up.

"I should…" he began, gesturing to the back door.

"You should."

Both shifted uncomfortably to the doorstep. Assumpta studied her companion and his refusal to meet her eye. Was he being coy? Embarrassed?

Another fleeting thought entered her head. Was he ashamed?

As if on cue, Peter finally caught her furrowed gaze with his own. "So, I'll see you…"

"I guess."

"Tomorrow."

"If you like…"

"At rehearsal?"

Assumpta smiled at the thought of seeing him again. "I thought you'd left the play?"

"Maybe eventually." Peter returned. "I'll look for my replacement this week."

"Ah, not in any great hurry I suppose."

"I'll keep my distance, you don't have to worry," he added, remembering their previous conversation in the classroom. "You're not that irresistible, you know."

"You just keep reminding yourself of that."

"I'll try to" he replied with a shy smile. Keeping his eyes fully averted from the inches of skin revealing themselves from the tears in her dress, he added, "but something tells me that you're not going to make it easy for me."

His Assumpta interlocked her fingers at the small of her back to keep from reaching out for him. "Since when was this ever going to be easy?"

It was with these parting words, and the prophecy that they promised, that the curate took his leave from Assumpta's doorstep.

A/N Thanks for all of the lovely reviews. I'm up-to-date with what i've written so far for this story now (yikes!) so you'll have to keep on at me to finish and upload the next chapters. This story is far from finished however... I hope that you'll stick with me!