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He folded his jeans, leaving them over the seat by the window and stretched out his legs. It was fine in the morning but by the end of the day his knee ached properly. It was a dull ache of old age and it hurt his vanity more than anything else. For a man who worked out with a religious zeal and prided himself on his impressive physical stamina, it was difficult to give in to the ageing process.

The darkness was pressed against the window, the moon made shafts of light, and the house was quietly settling into its first night with more than one occupant for the longest time. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly massaged his knee, wincing as his thumb pressed against the bone of his kneecap. He shook his head, feeling the wine was clouding it. He stripped his t-shirt off and left it on the floor. He was usually very tidy and couldn't be comfortable unless there was order and tidiness. It was a throwback from his days in the military, where there was no option to be untidy or disorganised. He removed his watch and laid it on the bedside table. He looked at his book, new and fresh, the spine unbroken, and contemplated reading it before deciding that he wouldn't be able to concentrate. He pulled up the sheets, took pleasure in the freshness of the blue cotton as he settled into the silence of sleep but he knew it would be elusive. He switched off the light and pretended to himself that he was tired.

He tried to force his body into exhaustion, as it clearly was, but his mind could not switch off. He turned into the pillow, smoothed it out, turned again to face the shafts of moonlight directly. He thought of her hands at dinner working the salad with all the commitment of a traitor and laughed a little. Her mouth around the wine glass, her eyes fleeting to his and back to those around the table.

Domesticated she was not.

He thought about her like this often; as if she were just simply a woman with whom he was in love. It was a fresh blow every time he realised it was not as simple.

The door fell open a while later, as he stared at the shaft of light across the ceiling. He had half-expected it and it was maybe the reason that he couldn't find sleep; he waited on her because he knew she would come.

"I can't sleep," she closed the door softly, making sure the latch didn't click as loudly as it would have normally. She padded towards him, drifting in and out of the shafts of the moonlight. She was dressed in ridiculously flowing swathes of white cotton – completely impractical for sleeping in he imagined. They must tangle around her legs and bunch up.

"It's a bad idea for you to be here," he whispered, sitting up, "You should go back to your room."

She stopped at the foot of his bed and stared at him. Then she lifted her shoulders and gave what he considered to be her version of a shrug. She smiled.

"I can't sleep," she whispered simply.

"What if Mia or -"

She was pulling the covers aside already, urging him to move over because the bed was pressed to the wall and there was no other side to climb into. Her determination was impressive to say the least. Despite himself, and his better judgement, the temptation of having her in his bed was too much to resist. He moved over, propping his head on his hand.

"You've never slept in my bed before."

"Your coming to my room is far less suspicious than my wandering to yours," she answered simply, "I'm not one to draw attention."

"No," he agreed, "You're not."

"Your room is just across the hall here and," she lay down beside him, "I can't resist."

"Admitting weakness?" He teased lightly.

"Embracing it," she answered, turning her face from him, "If I am making you uncomfortable-"

He felt dread in his stomach. She was tricky like this and, at times, unpredictable in her moods. He touched her shoulder and, sliding down, pulled away the loose cotton sleeve to kiss the skin there.

"No, you are not making me uncomfortable," he whispered, "I just don't want you to be in a compromising position."

"We're far beyond a compromising position Joseph," she laughed, "Though we may literally be in one."

"Not as much of one as I'd like," he tugged on the shoulder of her gown.

He was too tired for this conversation; he wanted just to make love to her, to tumble, and whisper that he loved her, and then have her fall asleep in his arms. Sometimes he grew tired of being frightened that their next conversation would be the one where she finally decided it was too much. He had grown tired of talking about the maybes and the buts. He wanted so much to be in the now.

"Don't embarrass me."

"I'm sorry. I find you very, very desirable," he whispered, "More than any woman I've ever had."

"God, I am a rare breed then," she teased, "You don't want to talk, do you?"

"I get tired of talking," he answered honestly, "I get frightened when you over-think things so much, and sometimes, I just want to silence you because I'm frightened you'll think yourself out of this. I don't mean I don't want you to tell me how you feel I just-"

"I don't blame you," she whispered, genuinely, and it was clear she was not hurt by his honesty, "I know you treat me like a fragile little bird and I know I let you."

"You are fragile to me. To me you are the most precious thing," he answered, "But I am afraid sometimes that you're going to tell me you can't do this any more. I can't push the feeling away that you'll suddenly come to the realisation that it's too much trouble."

The expert in security, he thought to himself, was very insecure.

"Have you so little faith in me?"

She sounded hurt and the barb was evident in her voice.

"It's not about faith or trust. It's about what we can withstand – I know the pressure exhausts you," he answered, "And I'm afraid that I'm not enough for you. I'm not like the men you know, or the men you grew up with."

They were having a conversation – not what he had wanted or intended. He scolded himself for his own stupidity but they were in that place now. He had wanted, so desperately, to share this with her for months. To ask her to just see it from his point of view but now he lacked the eloquence and timing and the right to say it.

And here, when he watched her, and he cooked with her and she was so normal, it was difficult not to want more. When she crept into his bed like it was the most natural thing in the world, it was so difficult not to want more.

"If I didn't love you, I'd be offended. You speak to me like I haven't already made the choice, as if you're petitioning me to make a choice," she said calmly, "I'm in your bed, I'm in your arms and, you have led me to believe, your heart. My choice is already made. I can't do any more than that. You have to uphold your side of the bargain and believe that I will too."

He was impressed with the elegance of her speech. He had allowed himself to forget how clever she was, and though not always, how sure of herself she could be.

He did want to believe her and he did most of the time. Being here though made him wish for more than he could have with her and it was painful – that was why he had delayed asking her to come back here after the first night they had been together in San Fransisco. He thought of them in the kitchen, of her watching him cook and pouring wine for her and making love to her on the table in this house. He wanted her to be his wife and that he could never have. He should have known that before he invited her, as she had so poetically put it, into his heart.

"Will you make love to me?" She sat up, leaning over him and pressing her lips to his.

He had never thought she would be so confident like this and it had surprised him at first. Then again, she had nothing to lack confidence over.

"You are, I believe, a man of action. I can't give you what you want Joseph; not because I don't want to give you it but because I cannot give you it. You're acting like that distinction doesn't exist. Don't bring me here, to this place, and make demands of me. I wouldn't do it to you. I need you and you know that."

She slid down beside him, pressing her warm body to his. He hadn't ever been seduced by a woman, he was sure, and yet that was what appeared to be happening now. But he had started a conversation he wanted to end. She was straddling him now though, and he found it hard to form a coherent thought. He sat up, using the wall as leverage, so she was essentially in his lap. He placed his hands on her hips to hold her there.

"I'm sorry," he rasped a little, pulling away, "That was so selfish of me."

She sat back, though stayed in his lap, and looked at him.

"I'm more resilient that you think," she whispered, tracing a finger along his beard, "You should tell me how you feel more. I want this to be a partnership. God knows my last relationship failed dreadfully due to poor communication."

That was an understatement that was cushioned in such strange language that he had a hard time agreeing with her. No, your marriage was a sham, he felt like saying. He remembered that afternoon in the winter castle, when she had told him she wanted to have an affair with him. All the power it had taken to resist and his fantasies were a reality now. And they were a gorgeous, brutal, intense reality that he was lucky to have. He should bear that in mind.

If he had any grace he should have thrown himself at her feet and begged for her mercy.

"Forgive me for my selfishness," he pressed his head to her chest, "I just want you as you are, my darling, and I hate myself for wanting more. I am sorry."

"I want more," she rested her head on his shoulder, "You believe that, don't you?"

"Yes."

She sat back, moved from his lap and crawled under the sheets, pulling them up to her chest. The moment had slipped away from him and it was unfair and cruel.

"It's being here...I know that. I relax a little more and we allow ourselves to think it is okay," she suddenly whispered, "I know that it's all of this."

"I am sorry," he shook his head, "I am sorry for making you talk about this."

"Isn't it terrible you are always the one apologising? Even though you're not always the one in the wrong," she watched as he lay beside her.

He smiled, "Clarisse, I will always want more from you. I can't apologise for loving you so much that I want more," he kissed her forehead, "I am sorry though, that it hurts you."

She shook her head, "It doesn't hurt so much as it makes me feel powerless. I think that's the most difficult thing."

He nodded and folded her in his arms, "Will you stay here?"

She kissed his chin, "Despite myself I don't think I can leave you."

"No, that seems to be the issue with both of us," he answered dryly.

She turned round so her back was pressed to his chest, both of them facing out into the moonlight.

They lay in silence for a while, sleep luring them into thoughtless oblivion that required no panic or fear, but she broke it when she said, "Thank you for the perfume."

"You're welcome," he kissed the back of her neck, where he could still smell the lingering scent.

"I'm falling asleep," she said, "I am sorry."

"Don't," he squeezed her waist, "Let's not spend any more time apologising."

But she was already fast asleep, apologies for all sorts of things, for which neither of them we responsible, lingering on her lips.

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