Cyril paused for a second, letting the car idle in the driveway for a brief moment.  He glanced at Marissa out of the corner of his eye and turned the engine off.  He wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing.  He merely opened his door and slid from the driver seat.<br/><br/>He idly pulled his suit coat from the backseat and slipped it around his shoulders.  He buttoned the two buttons as he looked toward the house.  Just standing in front of it was enough to make his skin tingle, to let him feel echoes of past sessions along his nerves.  He could feel the part of him that was in control, that commanded those around him, begin to loosen it's hold on him.  He felt a slight relaxing of his shoulder blades.<br/><br/>That tension, however, slightly returned when he looked toward his wife.  The sight of her here, in front of the house of his Mistress, was...too incongruous, actually.  It was wrong.  He had intended that the two would never meet.  Hell, he had never planned on Marissa even learning about Mistress Bridget, but...here she and he were.<br/><br/>He turned and walked toward the front door.  There was no real reason to delay...and really nothing to say.  She had asked for this, insisted on it really.  Nothing to do but go through with this.<br/>