AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do not own the characters herein, only the plot device and dialogue. Hannibal and Clarice are the brainchild of the brilliant author Thomas Harris. I merely take them out to play.

Just a brief lemony interlude for fun as Hannibal plans the next stage of #NMSL! Enjoy!

THAT'S MY GIRL:A LEMON IN THREE PARTS

PART ONE:

Hannibal was well aware the FBI had long left Bimini. Clarice stayed, but he wasn't certain why. Not that he ever quite understood her motivations. She was a puzzle he hadn't tired of. Perhaps, he never would. It was more than a little unusual to be so captivated by the internal life of another.

Not only captivated. Preoccupied, actually. It was not only unusual, unheard of, really. Her life not only interested him, it concerned him. She'd been dragged to the island with much fanfare when efforts to track him proved unsuccessful. How dare they continue to use her in this way? It disturbed him to see her surrounded by agents and besieged by reporters. It was obvious such treatment would occur, but it didn't make it any less offensive.

Dullards all. They didn't care about her beyond what she could do for them. Why wouldn't they wring every last ounce of life from her? She'd become no more than a scent hound brought in to lead them to him. Bait, that's all the good she was to them. After all, hadn't Jack Crawford sent her into the dungeon armed with nothing more than a useless questionnaire, her bravery, and her innocence?

Her bravery. Crawford hadn't counted on that, had he? No, likely he hadn't, but taking advantage of her innocence, that was no accident. Crawford knew she would tempt him. Clarice M. Starling. The proverbial lamb led to the lion for slaughter. Starved for prey though he was, the lion wasn't tempted. Yes…they were dullards all. They had no idea it was his Nature to protect. Even now.

The absurd FBI dog-and-pony-show had withdrawn five days earlier. Crawford's press conference announced not only their return to the United States, but that Clarice was encouraged to stay. He touted that they were a tight-knit family, the bureau, and she'd need time to recover before reporting to her first assignment in Criminal Profiling. Bullshit. Not that anyone believed it. Hannibal obviously didn't. She'd soon be assigned to Jack Crawford. Assigned. She would be in the man's company daily. She would be used. Desecrated by one not fit to speak her name.

You are far too special to be so used, my Clariiice…

She was alone, now, wasn't she…alone and vulnerable? But a worm on a hook is as well, is it not? A worm is meant to tempt. A worm is watched. Was there such a plan, and if so, was she a part of it? Speaking to her face-to-face was the only way to tell. From scent alone, he would know. If he knew her mind, would he risk it? With so much to chance, the decision weighed heavy. After all, he could be captured. If he were taken, the trip back to Baltimore strapped to a handcart, his body swaddled in that godforsaken straitjacket, would prove trying. And that miserable, stench-ridden, mask…if it were placed once more, it could break him.

Break him? Impossible. Capture? Unlikely, if he prepared well, but it would be worth the chance for a possible life with Clarice. With Chilton gone, a repeat incarceration, though not sought, or desired, would be tolerable. After all, he had a host of new memories, memories that would serve him well. Severing the vocal chords before the smarmy man woke from the ether had been an inspired decision. The sight of Chilton's twisted face, no more than a mute mask, jaw dropped mouthing unutterable screams, was exquisite. The visage would be the source of endless hours of deeply engrossing, if not gross, entertainment.

Of course, remorse had not intruded. It isn't a sin to kill one who threatens or offends, is it? Hadn't this irreligious man spent years trying to break him? Years exulting his agony, yet he could not coax even a whimper from all that pain. Not a whisper of a moan was uttered to grant him satisfaction. No. When Hannibal suffered, it was silently.

His foe presented no such challenge, taking less than an hour to break. Perhaps with Christ his only witness, Chilton's unadorned anguish was immensely satisfying. His suffering sublime, the Catherine wheel had been an inspired method of execution. An envious man positioned higher than his gifts, he had bound Hannibal's limbs and subjected him to years of torment. The good doctor stoically endured the pain of infinite metaphorical cuts. Such allegoric agony, when applied in small measure to Chilton, a man as weak of body as mind, translated to mere hours in Hannibal's hands.

Perhaps, Clarice would ask about him. If she did, it could be assumed she'd remained behind to gather information or trap him. If not, there was hope and hope is a precious thing to a man denied such for so long.

He followed her day and night. Existing on the fringes of her life, the sight of her enough to satisfy, nearly. The patterns of her daily activities were far too exact to be accidental, were they not? Whether or not she was aware, her activities invited him. Eyes tracked every passerby, as she searched the crowds. There was nothing passive about her behavior. No. Clarice Starling, hopefully, contrary to the opinion of her soon-to-be-employer, was actively pursuing him, but to what end?

They've gone, yet still you seek me, Clarice? Why…for them, or for you?

Patience was the key. Watch. Learn her habits. Her daily trips to the beach, where her eyes focused overtop the book she pretended (unconvincingly) to read, ended exactly one hour before she took her nightly meal. Home to shower, she dressed in any one of a number of newly purchased island-chic dresses to visit the local five-star steak house. When finished, she scoured museums or attended whatever concert was offered locally. Even her accommodations appeared designed to spot him. She moved from the exclusive FBI-chosen resort, to a modest cabana-style hotel with more far foot traffic.

He visited her hotel room daily to gather information. Each time, without exception, he'd found the balcony door unlocked. Forgetfulness? Perhaps, if it had happened once or twice he would think so, but not every single day. Was it risky behavior? Tempting fate? Not Clarice. She was inviting him. By the third day he decided to accept the invitation. Daring more, perhaps, than he should, he sorted through her clothing and selected a modest silk nightshirt. Sinking his face within the garment, he breathed so deeply the fabric fluttered within his nostrils. He stroked it against the side of his face and imagined his cheek resting on the fullness of her breast. She was magnificent, his Clarice. His Clarice. Dare he? Yes.

He stretched the garment across her pillow, arranging the arms as if reaching for a lover. Still, anyone might be responsible.

Shall leave a message for you? One you are certain to understand?

He produced a silk handkerchief, folded an object within, and placed it on her bedside table. There would be no question. She'd know, but what would she do?

When he returned the following day, the cork from the bottle of Chateau d' Yquem he'd placed rested on her bedside table was settled between two flutes and a bottle of chilling champagne. The handkerchief was missing. Had she taken it with her? His scent was heavy on it. He hoped it that was the reason she'd chosen to keep it.

Propped beside the champagne, a note on which she'd written only four words. He read them aloud.

"You're safe. I'm alone."

Might it be an invitation to return this evening? Not the best of ideas perhaps, but the potential proved irresistible. He returned to his hotel, showered, dressed for dinner, and arrived in her room not moments before her return from the beach. She would need to shower. His heart raced at the thought, causing him to spare a moment to center his palm on his chest to still the beating.

Clarice...

Her scent wafted through the open window. Standing from the chair, he took a long stride, preparing to greet her in the center of the room. The moment the door opened, he held his breath and watched. Like his, her chest neither rose nor fell.

"I notice you hold your breath, as well, Clarice."

She stood so still, so calm as, eyes wide, she questioned, "As well?"

"Yes. Your beauty takes my breath away."

He took a step closer. Now within reach, for her ease, he allowed this respectable distance. She remained in place with her hand on the doorknob. "It didn't before."

In or out, Clarice, which is it to be?

"You left me breathless from the first moment I saw you. Unfortunately, until now, I couldn't act upon it."

Watching her as well as the door, all could be seen so clearly. The ocean breezes stirred as a late day storm began rolling in. The stiff winds swept over the threshold, carrying her hopeful scent. Inhaling the sweet musk was unavoidable, making her positively irresistible to him. So lovely, she wore a flowing skirt and a loosely knit sweater. The garment's neck had shifted slightly to reveal one shoulder. A bite would mark her alabaster skin so well. No bra, the halter-style strap of her bathing suit was knotted neatly behind her neck.

She watched him so intensely, her thoughts almost visible. It sounded as if caution wrapped each word, as she questioned, "Until now?"

She seems hopeful, but unsure. Calm her.

He kept his distance. His voice lush, an effort to come across as non-threatening, he countered, "As I said before, though I have a preference, the choice is yours."

"Doctor, I…"

He interrupted, "I am a doctor, Clarice, but not yours. Please. Call me Hannibal."

"Hannibal? I don't know. It seems like it should be followed by the moniker, 'the Cannibal'. How about H? I think I could just about handle that."

A wicked smile slowly tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The Cannibal. Charming.

"If it pleases you, Clarice, I'm fine with, H."

The shift of her body caused him to blink. She released the door handle. Finally, decisiveness seemed to take control as she tapped the knob to push the door closed. The polished metallic slide of the latch assembly released the bolt into the strike plate. The sound caused a sudden flutter so low in his abdomen it surprised him. Did she know how much that act moved him? She'd abandoned her escape. He was alone with her. The trust implied, overwhelmed. She stood so proud, so brave, staring at him without fear, without anxiety. In fact, if there was any trepidation to be found in that room, it came from him.

More a statement, than a question, he whispered, "You're not afraid."

"Of you?" she laughed, "No. Not even remotely."

Sensing the truth, but wanting to hear it, he asked, "Not even remotely? Then why did you leave the door open?"

She crossed the room, swung her bag onto a large armchair, and stood beside it. He noticed she'd kept the same distance between them, but the fact that she moved away from the door, alerted him. Was it to illustrate confidence, or to allow access?

Placing a hand on the back of the chair for support, she reached low and removed her sandals.

"I wanted you to be able to see outside. Clearly. To know I hadn't called anyone. I'm not afraid. I didn't want you to be, either."

No surge in hormones. No deception. This is truth, for her.

"Nor should you be afraid of me, and yes, I will admit to my own, not fear…I'll call it, caution. As I have rather much more to lose than you, would you consider relocating? To my hotel rather than yours this evening? Dinner to start?"

As if fully ignoring his presence, she crossed her arms and gripped the edge of her sweater. Was she going to undress? Here? Now?

She paused, hands still holding the hem of the sweater.

"If dinner's how we start, how will we finish?"

Biting the corner of his bottom lip, his salacious wink probably told her more than he'd intended, but no matter. "I know how I would like the evening to end, but I won't make assumptions. As I said before, the choice is yours."

"Yeah, well, even though I'm hungry, I don't think dinner's on your mind any more than it's on mine. Not really."

He watched, spellbound as she lifted edge of the garment and pulled it over her head. Her auburn hair spilled from the shirt and tumbled across her now-bare shoulders. He gasped at the slight bob of her breasts.

She reached behind to the clasp at the back of her skirt. She wouldn't stop at the sweater. Now aware that Clarice would continue undressing, ever the gentleman, Hannibal turned his back. Clearing his throat, he responded, "No. Quite right."

He couldn't see her, but he imagined her smooth, creamy skin. She was fair. He imagined a galaxy of freckles to shower with kisses. Her breasts. Christ how he longed to free them. He imagined tugging at the ties of the bathing suit top with his teeth, to tease her silken flesh with tiny nibbles. His heart pounded. Lust brimming, he didn't move. Stillness seemed his only defense.

"I need a shower and just a head's up, I'm exhausted so I don't feel like going anywhere. Why don't you call room service and get us something to eat?"

A shower. He could hear his pulse in his ears. "What would you like me to order?"

"I'd love a big, thick steak. Mushrooms and onions, bacon, if they've got it."

"As you wish. If you'll allow, I didn't have time earlier. Might I check the bathroom before you enter?"

She chuckled, "So, you trust me enough to show up, but you don't trust me in the bathroom alone? What? You think Crawford is taking notes in the bathtub? Is that what you're telling me?"

Seemingly ignoring his concerns, she continued to undress. Hearing the lowering zipper and the swish of her skirt as she stepped out of the garment, a shudder ran up his spine. She was nearly naked, with no more than a bathing suit covered her. Christ. His body betraying his calm, he fought not to attend the flesh that crushed against his zipper.

"Being here, I risk spending the rest of my life behind bars, Clarice. Indulge me?"

"Are you kidding? My feelings for you aside, you're a killer. By inviting you here, I risked my actual life. You don't trust me, there's the door. Hit the bricks."

He couldn't help but smile. She wouldn't concede to him. Not an inch.

That's my girl…

"Hit the bricks? How charming. Shall I offer you a compromise? I'll give you my Harpy if you'll allow me to check the bathroom. That will offer equal protection, yes?

Protection. Truth be told, birth control was the only protection he was actually concerned with. Condoms would have been a presumption. When she'd tossed her bag onto a chair, he wondered if she had a small dial of pills in her purse. There were none in the room. He'd checked.

"You want to look in the bathroom, go ahead, but if I was setting you up for capture, would I be taking off my clothes and getting ready for a shower? No. Instead, I would have slipped my cuffs on your wrists and called for backup by now."

If he were judging from the sound of the clothing slipping from her body, she was down to her bathing suit by now. Not nude, but very nearly. It took every ounce of his self-control not to take her. He lowered his head and hissed, "And do you think I'd be that easy a capture, Clarice."

The sounds informed she'd tossed her clothing over her bag on the chair. The knot of the halter was next. The whisper as the straps were untied…she would lower them soon. His breath hitched as he imagined reaching to catch her breasts with his cupped palms as they spilled from the support.

"I know you distract the hell out of me. Smart as you are, I suspect the same is true of you. After all, you're only human."

Testing her mettle once more, he hissed, "That depends to whom you speak. I've been called other things, as well."

She laughed, "I don't care what anyone else calls you."

Not affected by the dungeon tones, it was becoming increasingly obvious she truly had no fear of him. That was an intoxicating thought, this small, spectacular woman, undressed, yet unafraid.

Her hair whooshed through the air. She'd been in the water today, the scent of salt reaching him low. She was bending over, now. The sound of fabric slipping over skin, the bathing suit bottom must be gliding down the length of her legs. Scents flooded the room as his eyes crushed closed, and his mouth watered. If only he could taste her.

"And what would you call me, Clarice?"

He watched her eyes. She stared ahead, as if holding him whole in a glance.

"What's in a word? They're useless. Action speaks louder."

"Yours certainly speak to me, Clarice."

The air shifted, informing she was moving toward him. The scent of her want was as obvious as his. Although her instincts were advanced, his desire would be perceived subliminally. Hers twisted within his nostrils and settled on his tongue, flooding his mouth with desire.

Christ. Get hold of yourself. Control.

She stopped abruptly, her breasts grazing his back. The wafting air told him she reached out, but lowered her hand to her side before touching him. Why? Instead, she leaned, allowing the warmth of her breath to float across his neck.

Enchanting.

Nothing masking the purity of her scent, her natural aroma was intensely appealing. So pure, only a hint of ocean kissed her flesh. Deep inhalations perceived the salted mist coating her hair. She'd been in the water, but had likely washed most of the salt from her body in one of the outdoor showers. Another intoxicating inhalation brought forth the fresh flush of desire. Her body signaled arousal. She was so close, one step, one small step and their bodies would be touching. Her breath lighting across his cheek caused the hair on his neck to stand, the reaction so intense even the hairs on his arms stood on pebbled flesh. Piloerection couldn't be controlled any more than a traditional erection, the latter far more uncomfortable, and becoming exceedingly difficult to contain.

Touching. Even the thought set his body was on fire. Free less than a month, his photograph was in every paper and every news broadcast around the world. It was too soon and far too dangerous to avail himself of a woman. High-end prostitutes, certainly an option for their quality and discretion, didn't appeal. No. He wanted Clarice. The question was, did she want him?

"Kinda funny that you're still hissing at me. Do you think I'm afraid of you? Is that what you want, my fear?"

The shudder that rolled through his body as her hands slipped around his neck from behind, was unavoidable. Her lips were at his ear, her breast pressed against his back. So warm…if he turned…

"Of the infinite things I want from you, Clarice, fear is not among them."

A hand slipped over his shoulder, smoothing a path along the tingling flesh from his chest to his abdomen. Her hand stroked the fine silk of his shirt just over his belly. So tantalizing.

The moment she drew the soft flesh of his ear into her mouth, his eyes, once more, fell closed. Christ. Steady yourself, for God's sake. No woman ever found premature ejaculation attractive. Focus. Breathe.

Emotions stampeded as her left hand pressed on the center of his chest. Long dormant sensations roused, and overwrought nerves burned from the intensity of the contact. Her touch became the center of his universe. It was self-preservation. There was no choice, really. Had he attended to the right hand pushing past his belt and slipping within his linen trousers, all control would have been lost.

As she tugged at the lobe of his ear, teeth grinding to provide the perfect balance of pain and pleasure, she whispered, "Of the infinite things I want from you, H, fear isn't among them either."

Her hand slid very slowly within the garment His head lolled back, resting on her shoulder. When had he become so incredibly conscious of his breathing? Reminding himself to inhale and exhale, he could feel her breasts heavy on his back. So gentle, her hand slipped lower still. His breath hitched, as he choked, "Christ…Clarice…"

Her voice purred in his ear, "Feels good, doesn't it, H?"

So overwhelmed with the sensations he felt nearly illiterate, he could only repeat, "So good…so good…"

She reached lower still. Oh, God.

Breathe. Breathe.

Each time her thumb stroked upward, reflexively, the flesh tightened. He strained for focus with each new touch. Though he was firmly trapped and becoming increasingly uncomfortable, he didn't complain. She tugged gently, but maybe perceiving how physically trapped he was, stopped.

"Help me with the belt, H. You're running out of room. We need to free you."

Free. He'd never felt it so keenly, as in this moment. His hands fumbled for the belt, quickly tugging the strap back to release the buckle. His fly open, trousers easily accessible, he reached back for her waist, smoothed his hands over her hips and spoke softly, "I'm yours, Clarice…all yours."

The moment her fingers closed around him, he held his breath. As she lifted, he instinctively moved his hips back, helping her to release him. A woman, his woman, was holding him, cradling him. Crashing waves of sense memories washed over him, threatening to overpower.

"Your hands are so warm," he hushed as her fingers closed to grip him. "Warm and soft."

She sighed. Why? Wondering what she was thinking helped his concentration. Think. Think of anything but the sublime movement of her hand. His heart thumped so wildly it seemed to careen untethered within his chest. Her hand…Christ, he needed a distraction. Quick.

"Talk to me. What are you thinking, Clarice?"

"That I'm sorry you've been alone so long."

"There's no need. You had no part in it."

"No, you did it to yourself. Still, with no privacy…" apparently unafraid, she continued, "I was wondering how often you allowed yourself to…" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

"Not as often as my biology dictated, though when one sleeps, it becomes a moot point."

It might be an awkward conversation in this position if he'd had any reticence. No, modesty in regards to his body or sexual behavior hadn't been an issue in years.

Clarice rubbed her left palm across his chest, her right hand continuing to move, as well. She spoke softly, "With no privacy, cleanup must have been awkward."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Awkward? Yes, to say the least."

Her pace quickened. His chest heaved, body eager for release. He was silent, and allowed his hips just the slightest sway to meet her hand.

"Move, H. With me."

Breathing heavily, he lowered his head, answering plainly, "I can't. I won't last."

"I don't want you to last. I want to help you through this."

Help? This was the one thing he'd experienced plenty over the last eight years. Unassisted, he might have added if he wasn't so insulted.

"I'm not a virgin, Clarice."

She didn't make mention of the edge in his voice. "I know, but it's been nearly nine years. Trust me."

He nodded. Unexpectedly, she began bucking her hips, forcing him to thrust deeper within her closed hand. His body shook. Oh God. He wouldn't be able to hold this long. Panting, his breath huffed in quick gusts. Trembling, he struggled silently, as the rhythmic motion overwhelmed.

Without warning, she released him and urged, "Face me, H?"

The loss of her touch tormented as much as its presence. He whispered, "I told you…my control is..."

"I don't care about that. C'mon, H, face me."

Hannibal turned and she kissed him so sweetly, it was disarming. "Clarice, please…"

Dotting his face with chaste kisses, she consoled, "It's okay…it's okay. I know this is hard." She grasped his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks, as she encouraged tenderly, "It will be perfect, but you're too quiet. I need to hear you. I won't know if I'm pleasing you if you're afraid to let me know, okay?"

"I'm not afraid. I've simply conditioned myself to pursue such activities silently."

"Microphones?"

"Cameras, as well. There was so little in my control, I made every effort to deny Chilton any knowledge of my sexuality. I'm a cannibal, not an exhibitionist."

"Fair enough, but no one is watching or listening here. If they were, you know I wouldn't be doing this."

She dropped to her knees to untie his shoes. "Let's get you undressed. We're in this together, right?"

"Yes. Together."

With her help, he stepped from his shoes and kicked them to the side. Together, they moved quickly, as he removed his shirt, she tugged his trousers and undergarments, lowering them together. He carefully stepped from his clothing. She stood and stepped into his embrace.

"I want to kiss you before, if that's okay."

Gripping her upper arms, he could feel the tone. She had a lovely body. Strong. Sleek. "Of course it's okay, but, before what?"

She smiled. "Before I get on my knees again."

Jesus.

The hitch in his breath surprised him nearly as much as her comment. Enfolding her petite body within his arms, he tilted his head and lowered it slowly to hers. The kissing began tenderly, but their want soon escalated their desires. Simmering passions surged. They held each other tightly, moans muffled by clamped, clutching mouths, tongues gently dancing, swirling in circles, entwining.

He was vocal now. She wanted that. She wanted to hear his pleasure and he was pleased. She grinded against him, his groans rumbled from his chest like low growls. It seemed to fuel her passions, each moan making her keening higher. Her sounds caused a burning low in his abdomen. His hardening body strained between them. As her body rocked against him, the intense friction made him reach for her.

"Calm down, H…calm down."

Calm? Hadn't she just been encouraging him to speed up?

His hands grasped over her body, finally clutching her hips, fingers digging deeply into the small of her back pulled her tightly against him. She pushed him away.

"My turn, H. You just go with it, okay. You'll have your way on the next go around."

The next? That was encouraging. Good. It wasn't just a one-off. Hell, if it were up to him, they'd be at this for the rest of their lives.

She reached toward the chair beside Hannibal, quickly grabbed a tufted pillow and dropped it on the ground. Realizing her intent, Hannibal stroked the small of her back and whispered, "Are you sure, Clarice?"

"Let's get one in the books so you're not stressed. When you're ready again, we'll take our time, okay?"

She lowered smoothly to her knees, her head bowing as she settled on the pillow. Unable to look away, when she glanced up, he nodded. "Okay."

Gripping him gently, she stroked several times. Biting his lip, control was nearly lost. Likely preparing, she turned her head to one side and whipped it back, flipping her hair from her face. Captivating. Scents and sounds mingled. His lust, held tighter to him than the straitjacket he so often wore, was unbridled for the first time in a decade. Every nerve electrified, colors seemed brighter, her hair, shining like copper shimmering in the sunlight. She leaned closer and looked up at him, her eyes wide and inviting. Her acceptance was a gift he hadn't expected. Watching closely, his heart pounded as her tongue slipped through her lips, moistening them. They'd wrap around him soon. The thought forced him slow his breathing to still his heartbeat.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. If you're sure."

"Never been surer."

She blew him a kiss, his knees nearly buckling as her mouth bowed. And though he tried, he couldn't stop the low moan as her lips closed around him. Nearly bursting, his need was evident. It wasn't the first time a woman had serviced him so, but it was the first time he'd felt so utterly connected to a lover.

Lover. They'd spoken less than a handful of times, yet the truth of it seemed obvious to them both. She recognized the truth of it, or she wouldn't be on her knees before him now. On her knees, not a natural position for her, certainly. No, this submission was a gift. It showed her level of care, and, dare he say, her love?

Christ, her tongue. His mind was spinning. He steadied himself as she pulled back, her hollowed cheeks holding him firm.

Hmmm...

It wouldn't be long now. Would she allow him to offer the same? Christ knows the saturation of aromas allowed a preview of the taste. It would be heaven. When the time came, he wouldn't take no for an answer.

His hips swayed gently, meeting her. And though instinct told him to clutch fistfuls of her hair and thrust to his end, he stayed the urge. No, not Clarice, he could never use her in that way. He followed her rhythm, allowing her to guide.

When her hand joined, he bit his lower lip, the pressure beginning to build. The heat gathered low, the fire growing in his belly, her mouth stoking the flames. Though he wanted nothing more, he was careful not to grip her head.

She reached down and cradled him, squeezing just enough to send his blood pressure soaring. He'd never had a woman handle him this way.

"Clarice…soon…soon…"

She nodded, but didn't respond beyond that.

Gulping hard, the pressure building, he urged, "Christ, Clarice."

He doubled over slightly, resting a hand on the chair beside him to steady himself. His groans barely covered the long unheard sounds of sex. Mesmerizing, these sounds of life and of lovemaking, sounds he never thought he'd hear again. The experience was overpowering. And the sensations, God…the sensations radiated through his body. He was on fire.

"Clarice…now…"

She gripped his hips and held so tightly, it was obvious she wouldn't let go. The surge rose quickly, still, she held him close. Throes of his passion were so powerful, the force nearly buckled his knees. Breathe. Breathe. Even the aftershocks were more pronounced than he remembered. Everything was more pronounced than he remembered. Finally, he guided her to stand. Sweeping her in his arms, he carried her to the side of the bed, lowered her and took his place beside her. For several minutes, he held her. Neither spoke. Instead, together they waited for his body to be ready. They wouldn't wait for long.

Until the next chapter, my friends,

LH