A/N Fair warning, we're entering m-rated territory now people... enjoy! And thanks for all of the lovely feedback.

...

In the ensuing weeks, Peter buried himself in the play. They'd agreed that this was to be the only time he would see Assumpta, and even then, they were seldom alone.

Increasingly, Peter would arrive several minutes early or leave a half an hour late in an attempt to catch the publican by herself. But fate, or unyielding villagers, would almost always inadvertently obstruct his attempts to see her without an audience.

This, coupled with the overt and unnecessarily familiar display that Enda and Assumpta were giving, was enough to drive Peter to the brink of despair.

Or, at the very least, to another bottle of whisky.

"Didn't take you for a fan of the hard stuff." Assumpta told him at the end of one rehearsal night as he waited patiently for the other actors to leave, thick-bottomed crystal glass in hand.

Peter held an expression of malevolence that his dimpled face wasn't wholly accustomed to. "A man can change."

It was hardly the response she'd longed for, following their weeks of radio-silence. But as they say, ask a stupid question…

"Well, that's true I suppose." Assumpta allowed her sentence to trail off into the ether. Peter kept his focus on the amber hue of his glass.

A moment passed, followed swiftly by another. A voice escaped her before the publican even had a chance to acknowledge it.

"What are we even doing anymore?"

Peter caught her troubled gaze with his own. When he opened his mouth to speak, a loud commotion interjected from the stage above.

"Right then you two, I'm off home." An exuberant Brendan, wheeling his bike through the half-finished set above them, broke the reverie of the moment.

When neither acknowledged him, the teacher eyed the pair suspiciously. Just what had he interrupted? "Walk anyone out, perhaps?"

His offer was greeted by a display of navel-gazing from the other two. Something was definitely up.

"Fair enough," he wagered, exiting Stage Left to a chorus of creaks and slammed doors as he clumsily manoeuvred his bicycle.

Peter looked up from his drink as Assumpta stared implicitly at him from across the room.

Alone at last.

It was up to the curate to break the silence. "Stay for a drink" he willed her, pulling out another glass from the donated box of theatre props.

She wasn't sure if it was a command or a question. "I can't, I'm meeting – "

Her sentence was cut short by the sound of broken glass.

"Enda?" At his feet pooled the remnants of the shattered shards but Peter was too far-gone to notice. "You're meeting Enda?" Again?"

"What did you do?" When her shock subsided, Assumpta made a move for his hand. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"You smashed a glass, Peter. Why are you even… what were you thinking?"

In a small voice, he replied. "I can't go on like this anymore."

Equally small, she replied. "I know."

His next words were itching to come out but the pain in Peter's chest, the physical ache of his heart beating against his ribs, was enough to quell them momentarily.

The moment passed.

"You and Enda… it's not just for show, is it?"

When she didn't respond right away, fresh tears began to sting the back of the curate's eyes.

"Of course it's for show…"

It was meant to sound reassuring but somehow she didn't convince.

"Some show," he responded.

She relinquished hold of Peter's hand, which had suddenly become so heavy in her own.

"Have you slept with him?"

Assumpta narrowed her eyes. "You're seriously asking me that?"

"It's a valid question," he sniffed. "You're with him every night. He looks at you… that way. Are you sleeping with him? Have you ever?"

"No."

Unconvinced, Peter sniffed audibly. "You don't have to lie, Assumpta."

"I'm not!"

"Because this – all of this – it can't just be for them anymore. It can't be for appearances – "

"It's not!"

The words left her mouth before Assumpta had a chance to prevent them. Peter stared at her with incredulity – his head a toxic fusion of shock and vindication.

In a barely-there whisper, he managed a response before his emotions began to take hold.

"It's not?"

Assumpta allowed her own tears to fall. "This isn't working, Peter. It's not working for me. I can't… I can't deal – "

"You can't deal?" Peter angrily snatched an errant tear from the side of his face. "Day after day I see that he's touching you… holding your hand and I-I just stand idly by. Dealing. And you… you can't deal?"

"You're not the one he's touching."

Peter's furrowed brow began to rise. "Don't do that. Don't say that. You can't tell me that this thing with Enda is not just for appearances sake and then tell me that. Which is it, Assumpta?"

"It's comfort. It's for comfort." The room fell into immediate silence. "Do you know what it's like to want something so much that's so far out of your reach? Do you know how painful that is?"

Peter spoke slowly, his voice charged with meaning. "I know something about that, yes."

The air grew heavy.

"Enda is a distraction," she began after a while. "When I'm with him, I can pretend that this thing with you and I – the persistent ache of wanting so desperately the one thing that I cannot have – this pain… it doesn't even exist."

Assumpta stared longingly towards him in an attempt to get through, to make him understand, but all Peter could give back was his silence.

The minutes passed as quickly as the seconds. Assumpta's final words reverberated like fresh daggers into Peter's heart.

It doesn't even exist.

She was as good as gone unless he did something. He needed to fight. He needed to show her that it could be different. He needed to act or Assumpta would be lost to him forever.

At last, Peter caught her ardent gaze with his own and crossed over to her in three urgent strides. His hands reached into her tangle of hair and he kissed her, deeply and with such fervency that Assumpta felt her back slam into the wall.

She kissed him back, like for like, matching his every pull on her clothing, his every caress, with a reciprocal endeavour.

Peter pulled up her skirt as she grappled with his belt buckle, allowing its cool metal to press indentations into her inner thigh. He gasped as she felt for his zipper and again as she unsheathed him, holding his shaft firmly against the palm of her hand.

This was happening. This was real.

His world began to spiral. This was a million miles away from the first time that he'd envisaged for them but the overwhelming urge to be inside of her, now and at last, rendered any defiance hopeless.

Instinct took over as their centres met – hot with yearning and quivering with nerves and anticipation.

"Oh…"

Peter's eyes snapped open as he heard his companion sigh against his ear as he entered her. He thrust again, eliciting yet another loud groan of pleasure from Assumpta.

The overtness of their location wasn't entirely lost on him. In all honesty, Peter didn't even know if anyone else remained in the building.

He should stop. He should definitely stop…

But he just couldn't.

"Don't stop," she begged, as if reading his mind.

Peter clamoured hopelessly for an anchor, something to keep him tethered to reality, to keep him tethered to the ground but all his hands could find were her. All he could feel was her.

So he gave in.

Immersing himself fully into her warmth, Peter moved against her with a fresh urgency.

Her voice shot up an octave, "Peter…"

The sound of her calling his name, loudly and without restraint was almost enough to end him completely. The curate tore away the last vestiges of her clothes that existed purely to impede him, to lay wait to their pleasure.

Assumpta cried out again as his mouth found her breast. He quickly silenced her exhalations with his thumb, which she sucked and kissed with a whole new fervour.

But Peter's sounds couldn't be quietened so readily.

"Oh…"

Without him even realising it, a thick, primal groan escaped his throat as he felt Assumpta's heat tighten, almost excruciatingly, around him.

The feeling was immeasurable.

Peter fought the urge to just lose it, to jump off the cliff. She was so intoxicatingly close he could feel it. He just needed to hang on a few moments longer. Slow things down for a second…

Assumpta grabbed his bare behind as his thrusts began to falter. "Stay with me," she pleaded and Peter had no choice but to comply.

It was agony – but the best sort of agony he'd ever experienced. Here they were, in the room where it all began. Here they were – months later – transcending time and space and feelings and obstacles.

Here they were…

Together.

It was with this resounding thought that they found their release, simultaneously and unexpectedly, without a sound.

It was only moments later that the curate realised that he'd been crying.

"Peter?"

But her voice was just a siren song in a sea of lost emotion. They were over – of that much he was certain.

Peter Clifford buried his head into the crook of Assumpta's neck and allowed his tears to fall without restraint.

They were over.

And from this, they'd never be able to find their way back.