Author's note: Thank you for all of your encouragement, enthusiasm, kindness and all of those wonderful things. Please keep reading and reviewing.

This chapter has curse/swear words and, from this point on, so does the rest of the story. I don't think Joe is above swearing. If it offends you I am very sorry and please don't let it detract from your enjoyment.

She willed her body out of the warm sheets, her feet padding across the cool tiles of his apartment, to the bathroom. She tried a few doors – one a cupboard and the other a spacious kitchen – before finding an old fashioned bathroom. Fiddling with the taps and realising she'd have to retrieve towels for the cupboard she's previously invaded, she eventually managed to climb into the shower.

The warm water was a welcomed relief against her strained muscles. She let the water pour down on her, only reaching for soap when she realised there was no shampoo to clean her hair. She took longer than she should have, huddled against the slick tiles as memories assaulted her, but eventually she felt able to emerge into the apartment again.

Every time she thought of her husband and her sons she felt bile surge into her throat, choking her, before she told herself she hadn't done anything wrong, that what she was doing was okay, it was alright, she deserved it.

She hadn't been alert enough, attentive enough, to pay attention to the décor or setting last night. The bedroom was wide and airy, with huge glass doors which opened up onto a little iron balcony. The curtains were white cotton – everything was either black or white or dark oak – and they fluttered against the breeze when she pulled the window open and sucked in a breath of fresh air. It was impractical to remain in the towel she'd used, so she opened some of the drawers and found an old dress shirt of his. It was an unstylish cut now, absolutely huge and soft with use, but it would be perfect for wandering around. It stopped mid-thigh as it fell over her head. She examined her skin in the mirror – old and tight, having not been subject to the meticulous care she afforded it every night, she felt puffy and sore. She sighed and turned away from the mirror, refusing to dwell on the dichotomy of feeling flooding her as she looked at her own guilty reflection.

The apartment was, sadly, unremarkable. She'd always imagined it to be so very Joseph – to reflect who he was. There would be music and art and a collection of books that would be fascinating to her but that she wouldn't want to read. Instead it was a place he stopped in, a place he kept in case he had to turn and run.

It was a safe-house.

She gathered the shattered pieces of the vase and dumped them in the trash. She slipped off her engagement and wedding ring guiltily, placing them beside her handbag on the table at the door. She could barely look at them – sparking in the sunlight – and removing them was the only way.

She sunk down onto the sofa and looked around, startling as the lock clicked and she realised how suddenly alone she was.

"It's just me," his voice said gently as he came into view.

She smiled or at least she tried. He stopped when he saw her.

"You suit that," he grinned, setting down the coffee cups and box of pastries.

The grin was both shy and boyish and she wondered what was going through his mind.

"I didn't know what…" she shrugged, "I didn't have any clothes. Or at least none I could wear again."

He looked at her then and she knew he could tell she was petrified. She was trying so hard not to show him but the panic made her voice shatter, made her smile sore.

"Clarisse," he sat down beside her, "I know that this isn't something you ever imagined doing. If we need to stop now, if we need to turn back, that's alright. Clarisse, I won't ask you to torture yourself. I don't want to lose you."

Even though it was easier she couldn't bear to agree to that. She couldn't turn away now because, despite how many rules she was breaking and the risks she was taking, she'd never wanted anything more in her life.

Anyway, he spoke of turning back as if it were actually possible. She wanted to scream at him that they had let that slip away as their bodies slid, lustily and desperately, together.

"Joseph, I am appalled by myself," she said softly, refusing to look at that expectant face, "I am appalled by what I want."

He touched her chin gently, pulling her face towards his, "If you want to stop, we can."

"I don't," she swiped at her eyes angrily but tried to retain some dignity, some shred of self-preservation, "Just don't leave me again with my own mind."

He smiled sadly then and simply pulled her towards him on the couch. She didn't have any words left and neither did he. At least, the words couldn't be spoken yet.

"Alright," he tapped her nose after a while and she knew he was trying to lighten the mood, "I brought you some tea. I don't have a tea cup though."

He unfolded the box with the pastries and offered her one.

"Spain is going to make me fat," she said, eyeing the pastry with the contempt she reserved only for treats.

He laughed and curled her against his body, lifting his own coffee to his mouth, "Eat. Then we'll talk."

"Do we have to talk?"

She asked through a mouthful of pastry.

"We will, eventually," he said softly, genuinely, "Why, what would you rather do?"

She smiled a little, "It's not fit to utter it in the light of day."

"Aha," he set his coffee aside, then turned to her and his eyes were black with desire, "But you can tell me whatever you want."

"I'm not used to-"

"I don't care," his fingers wandered over her thigh and fiddled with the hem of his own shirt, and his voice was low and demanding," I don't care what you're used to. I want you to tell me what you want. I want to please you. I want you to cry my name like you did. It's crude but so true that it's the best thing I've ever heard. And if this has to be the only time I hear it, then that's what I want to hear all day."

She was wordless at his bluntness and could say nothing before his mouth covered hers again. They made love on the couch then.

-0-

While he paid worship, he was reminded that the woman writhing underneath him, whispering his name, was someone else's wife. He didn't know if that was what spurred him on more, to cover her mouth and silence anything but her pleasure, but something made him singularly focused on that moment only and the fact that she would never be his too at the same time.

He'd never slept with another man's wife before and his romantic life had all but died a slow death when he'd suddenly found himself in love with his employer. There had been women in between his misery, whose names he wouldn't say and bodies he wouldn't love, and they'd never been enough to push her out of his head.

Hours later they found themselves in bed again, bodies pressed together in sweaty heat. He kissed her shoulder gently, rolling off of her but pulling her flush against him.

"I've always dreamed about this," he murmured.

"I know," she turned to face him, burying her face in his chest, "Me too. You're very good."

"You're very complimentary," he laughed.

"Imagine if we didn't have to go back," she lifted her head, her large eyes staring into his.

He bent to kiss her forehead, "I wouldn't want to. Too much disappointment."

"We could run away," she said gently.

"Oh? Where to?"

"A little reclusive town…by the sea? Where you grew up."

"What would you do?" He asked seriously, allowing himself to get lost in her fantasy.

"Ohhh I don't know," she laughed a little, "Live off you, be your housewife."

"You'd get bored," he said.

"No, no I wouldn't," she looked away, "Sometimes I think about it."

He was shocked to hear she thought of it and quietly pleased too, "Really?"

"Yes, really," she wouldn't look at him, "I do. We would buy a house on the coast, you would work in the town…I would cook you dinner. It's silly-"

"It's not," he interrupted, "Keep talking, please."

"We would have a boat," she continued, "I would read and swim. I'd study maybe. Do things I have always wanted to do."

"It sounds wonderful," he whispered, kissing her forehead again, "Let's do it," he said suddenly, hating himself for saying it, "Let's not go back. Let's drive out of here, let's go and be there and not worry."

"It's not that simple," she said gently, a rebuke that was filled with sadness, "You know it can't be that simple. I have my boys…"

"No," he said into the quiet, "No. I'm sorry."

"But it's okay to dream," she climbed on top of him, her legs straddling his pelvis as she used her hands to balance on his chest, "I like dreaming."

He slid his hands onto her hips, helped her move against him as she rocked quietly back and forth and he became lost in everything that was her again and not the distant, never would be life he so desperately wanted.

There was the sudden sound of the door then, shattering her soft moans, as the locks were turned. Her eyes flew open and she fell off of him and onto the bed.

"Joseph!"

"Shhh," he said quickly, grabbing his holster from the side of the bed, "Don't move," he touched her face softly, "Clarisse it's really important you don't move, or speak, do you understand me?"

She nodded quietly, pulling the sheets up as she leaned against the bars of the bed. He scrambled for his boxers, pulling them on as he simultaneously checked the chamber of the gun. Shutting the door behind himself, he went out into the quiet of the hall and cocked the weapon. There was a man disappearing into the cupboard beside the kitchen, dressed in a blazer. His heart thundered in his chest and the scenarios he imagined were so intense that he thought he'd lost his mind in that moment.

"Who's there?"

"Holy shit!"

Andre stumbled out of the cupboard, carrying a bag of wrapped gifts and throwing his hands up in the air.

"Fuck Joe," he cried, dropping the bag to the floor, "You scared me to death!"

"I scared you to death? Really?"

"Put your gun down," Andre said, "I was just picking up Lucia's gifts, remember?"

"Oh," he lowered his gun, sitting it on the side table beside her handbag and running his hand over his face. They were trembling. In fact, he realised his entire body was shuddering.

His heart was thundering and sweat was gathering on his forehead.

"I thought you'd left," Andre shouted, motioning to the gun, "You need to calm the fuck-"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes lingering on the table and moving from the gun to the handbag. Watching him closely, Joe felt the sudden urge to vomit.

And his friend was looking at him strangely too, realisation dawning on his face.

"You were supposed to go home," his friend murmured, eyes still on the table, clearly processing his lie.

He was focussed on the engagement ring – uniquely large and distinguished – that was discarded beside the expensive leather handbag.

"I-"

"You're in too deep," the anger was gone from his friend's voice, he leaned forward and gripped his shoulder and his tone was warning, "You were supposed to go home."

"Just leave," Joe said blandly, trying to force the emotion from his voice.

Andre nodded, only once, and scooped up the bag of Lucia's birthday gifts. Joe followed him to the door, letting it fall open. He thought his friend would go, a wound left open, but he stopped and turned and Joseph blurted it out.

"Andre please don't tell anyone."

"What do you think I am?"

He was shocked to see sadness on Andre's face.

"I-"

"You have a secret," his friend muttered, "I've always kept your secrets. God knows it won't last long."

Joe closed the door behind his friend and sank against the wall, his heart still thundering against his breast plate.

He walked back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him with his foot. The world, the world they had created in this little apartment, had been shattered and invaded by reality.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he went to the window and pulled back the drapes, looking out as the sun fell into the earth and the sky turned violet, "Let's go dancing."

"Who was it?"

"No one," he answered sharply, going to the holdall and pulling out a dress for her, "Get ready. Let's go dancing."

"Joseph I –"

He turned to her, "We have one night left," his voice was angry, "Just please, give in to me."

"I thought I already had," she climbed out of the bed, scooping the sheets round her body, and came towards him.

He resisted the feel of her pressed against him, the feeling of calm that she brought with her as she did so. She wrapped her arm around his waist and the other around his chest and pressed her cheek to his back. Then he gave into her.

"Who was it?"

He considered whether or not he should lie to her. But he had dragged her into this charade; he couldn't well leave her without the script.

"Andre."

"And does he know?"

"Yes."

She paused for a moment, then kissed the dent of his spine, "We can trust him."

"Yes," he said, threading her fingers through his own.

"Right, let's go dancing."

She turned away from him and walked towards the bathroom. He watched her go and fell onto the bed, dipping his head as he resisted, of all things, tears.

-0-

By the time they left it was dark and the neon glow of bars and the twinkling yellow of the street lights dampened the rising feeling of horror in her. Defiantly she wrapped her hand around his and pulled him down the street to the smaller bars and clubs.

"Get us some wine," she whispered, leaning towards him as she stopped in front of an empty table. The bar was wall to wall with people, dancing to contemporary music.

"I've never been in a club," she whispered as he sat down, slipping the bottle and two glasses onto the table.

"Have you ever been seduced when you were very drunk?" He leaned towards her, pouring sizeable glasses for both of them, "I want to seduce you when you're drunk."

"You've already seduced me darling," she drawled, looking towards the floor as it filled up more and more.

"Come on," he stood up after a few more sips, "Come and dance with me. No five minute rule, no propriety, no audience."

He took her hand in his and pulled her, enjoying her feigned reluctance. As promised he didn't waste time on propriety, grabbing her so she was flush against his body and forcing her body to move against his in time to the music.

"This…" he kissed her neck, "Is how I've always wanted to dance with you."

"Then dance with me," she held his hands firm on the jutting bone and curving indents of her hips, "Hold me like you would if I was just the woman you loved."

"You are just the woman I love."

"No I'm not," she whispered against his cheek, "Don't tell me lies."

Please leave a review.