From the study where he retired to finish preparations, Dr. Lecter chuckled to himself as he heard the distant sound of dishes clanking from the force of her fists slamming on the bar. He was not entirely unaffected by their tryst earlier—his pants felt more constricted at the moment, but he would easily restore control. All good things to those who wait. He had preparations to attend to after all. Always one to indulge his whims, Hannibal was elated at the turn of events as the possibilities unfolded.
In truth he did not care as to whether or not Clarice had a past sexual relationship with Jonathon Cade. He was more than secure in his ability to satisfy her, again and again, in new and inventive ways. Inventive. Hmm. No, what had angered him was her reluctance to be open with him on the subject. Coyness was an unusual trait for her, undesirable, and he would see to it that it would be remedied. He would punish her, he decided, but it would be one they would mutually enjoy. He smiled, enjoying the game in motion.
His first action was to phone the theater and exchange his center stage floor seats for a private box. One might imagine this would engender quite a bit of difficulty given how close to show time it was, but Dr. Lecter was a man of great means and persuasion in equal measure, and was able to secure the private box for tonight's performance. Now to look up the set list…
Clarice went through the motions of getting ready—her mind calculating, analyzing, trying to predict his method of operation. She would not come on to him again, she decided. No, she would make him come to her, but on her terms. She may be on a course of his choosing but damned if she's going to give him everything. He wanted the blue, she chose the red. Fits my mood better anyway.
One final glance in the full-length mirror and, satisfied with the result, she exited the room. She debated on being a few minutes late intentionally but decided against it. Let's not be petty. She descended the stairs to find Hannibal waiting for her in black tie. He held out his hand and as she placed hers in his, brought it to his lips, kissing her hand slowly, breathing her in.
"I see you decided not to go with my recommendation, never the less you look stunning." He winked. In that moment she saw that he indeed had a red handkerchief, nearly the exact shade of her dress, no less, tucked into his suit pocket.
Goddamnit. Played right into it. A darkening of her eyes, a minor wrinkle of the forehead and it was gone. She was determined not to allow him the pleasure of getting under her skin—he was already having too much fun as it was. She kissed him chastely on the cheek "Glad you like it. Shall we?" And headed for the door.
The venue was packed. All the socialites and debutantes—the proverbial 'who's who' of the city gathered for opening night. Silently she was pleased they had not arrived sooner. Dr. Lecter, ever the social butterfly, would normally have traversed the scene, taking in the latest gossip, etc. But as luck would have it, they had just enough time to retrieve champagne and locate their private box before curtain call.
Their box was ornate, secluded, featuring crimson tapestry with gold inlet adorning the walls. The two high-backed seats adjourned with two small tables on either end, and a chaise lounge behind. He smiled and kissed her hand once more, guiding her to her seat as the orchestra began warming up.
The first set was mesmerizing—surging and powerful at times, delicate and ephemeral at others. As soon as the music began, all thoughts from before vanished and she allowed herself to be lost in the ebbs and flows of the music. She looked to find Hannibal's hand caressing her thigh and was unsure of how long he had placed it there, so taken as she was by the performance. Jonathon was centered in the spotlight, playing with as much passion and focus as she remembered from what felt like ages ago, so far removed as she was from her past life. She smiled to herself—life had a funny way of coming full circle, mixing past and present in unexpected ways.
While Clarice watched the performance, Hannibal had watched Clarice, from the corner of his eye, noticing her breathing changes and emotion as she followed the musical progression. She was beautiful when lost unto herself. The music was extraordinarily good, he had to admit, but something rankled. He was surprised to find his thoughts drifting to the man who had once possessed his Clarice. The one whose hands commanded such mastery over his instrument, could they have achieved such mastery over her body as well?
He felt such a primal need to have her now, to assert his dominance, to possess her fully. He had begun caressing her thigh involuntarily, he realized. Hannibal Lecter had surprised himself—not one to ruminate on jealousy, to think that she had such an affect on him was both pleasing and frightening. And she was his. She grasped his hand and held his thumb as the first act came to an end. The intermission lights came on as Dr. Lecter turned to his lovely companion. "Would you care for more champagne?" Returning from her reverie, Clarice smiled. "Sure."
They descended the stairs, Dr. Lecter, ever for keeping up appearances, made the rounds, a few exchanges with those of status as was customary, his hand at the small of her back as they glided in and out of social circles. She found there was no reason to worry, so she didn't. She was radiant, his Clarice, and he could not help but take prides in her transformation. Had it been almost three years already? My how time flies.
As if on cue, the intermission bell sounded. Glasses replenished, they leisurely made their way through the throng and to their private box as the house lights lowered. Clarice proceeded to walk to her seat when a hand caught her wrist, pulling her back to him. A single light source illuminated the exalted soloist as the orchestra began a piece, its haunting melody in stark contrast to its brightness. Enveloped in the shadows of anonymity, Dr. Lecter pulled her to him, his hand moved from her wrist to now guiding her arms to her side, lightly caressing her upper arms. He paused to brush her hair over her shoulder exposing her neck and closed his eyes, inhaling the unique scent that was Clarice Starling. His breath, his lips so close, enough to illicit an involuntary shudder. She could sense his smile, the smug bastard, dually skilled in his ability to both vex and tease her.
"Hannibal—" as she turned her head around, his hand firmly clamped onto her chin and turned her sharply forward facing the orchestra.
"No." His mouth a whisper in her ear. He tilted her chin up, her head slightly back as his lips brushed against her jawline, beginning a slow trail of kisses along her neck to the apex of her clavicle.
With herculean effort, she allowed only the slightest moan to escape in stark defiance to her next words. "Hannibal we can't—not here. People will see us. The orchestra—"
He ignored her, his tongue now tracing the invisible path of kisses. "I assure you I very well can." His tongue continued its journey to her jawline. "And I will."
Another moan escaped her, more guttural than the last, as she tilted her head back further to rest against his shoulder. It was not like Hannibal to engage her in such a public setting though undeniably exhilarating. She knew Hannibal would never allow her to be truly exposed; he would not have initiated if there were any doubts to their privacy. The sound of the violin—one violin in particular—broke her from the spell of his ministrations. Jonathon. That's what this was about wasn't it?
His hands moved to her hips as he pulled her closer, his erection pressing firmly against her buttocks. And she saw the intent behind his actions—this was to be about control, possession, and she would indulge him. But not too eagerly, if she could help it. It wouldn't do to throw the game just yet.
"Mmm." She undulated ever so slightly against him. "So eager, Doctor? I don't recall you being this eager in the kitchen earlier."
He growled in response. His hands were caressing her breasts through the silk of her dress, her nipples hard against his touch. He slid the strap of her dress down, exposing one of her breast to the open air, circling his thumb over her. The effect was electric, but no need to stroke his ego even further.
"Perhaps I've lost interest," a lie so blatant it was almost laughable.
"Have you now?" He said in mock surprise, as he slide his hands under her dress over her thighs gripping, massaging her buttocks, then over the thin lace of her thong—her legs parting, betraying her will as he stroked her center through the lace. Her eyes closed, her breathing heavy, his breath hot on her neck, the rise and fall of her breasts, her scent pure lust. He then slid her panties to the side, running his fingers along her folds, feeling her slickness, so wet, so ready for him.
"No, no I don't think you've lost interest at all." He purred as he continued stroking her slowly, maddeningly.
Her hands gripped the back of the chaise lounge; moans she no longer cared to hide escaping her throat. The rise and fall of her breasts in the ambient light, erotic beyond measure, and the pulsating of his own organ left him very nearly at the edge of his control.
"Your body admits your defeat, my dear," the sound of a belt buckle, the rustle of fabric. "And while perhaps I shall accept mine lying down at a later time," a quick movement as he ripped her panties away, his length sliding along her wetness, teasing her opening, "you will accept yours here, now. Standing up."
And with that he thrust into her so hard, so deep causing her knees to buckle as she gripped the chaise lounge to the extent her knuckles turned white. He bit down on her shoulder; pain mixed with pleasure as he entered her fully. She was his—she belonged to him. He withdrew to almost the tip and back in with long, slow, deep thrusts, matching the tempo of the music.
"Hannibal," his name a plea on her lips as her body begged him to increase the tempo, but his hands firmly held her hips, preventing her from rocking into him, increasing their pace. He wanted control. Absolute control, though his own was beginning to unravel at the seams.
The orchestra was building to a crescendo, the vibration of the strings in unison as one, the pulsating at his temple as he thrust into her harder, faster—andante, vivace, prestissimo. Clarice came hard, shaking. The nails of one hand digging into the lounge, the other his shoulder. Her vocalizations, his name, drowned out by the climax of the music. Her orgasm, feeling the contractions of her around him pushed him over the edge, and he came— gripping her hips tightly, thrusting deeply as he spilled his seed within her.
Her name, from his lips was lost not to the music, but to thunderous applause as both he and the orchestra finished to standing ovation. He remained inside her throughout the applause; she could feel his involuntary spasms post-orgasm, just as she could feel his smile as he kissed the bite mark on her shoulder, his arms encircling her waist.
"Son of a bitch. You planned this didn't you." She turned her head to see a very self-satisfied Hannibal Lecter, grinning ear to ear like the Cheshire cat, a low chuckle vibrating against her back.
"You—" He lunged in to capture her mouth with his in a passionate kiss that left her breathless. He cocked an eyebrow, "Would you expect anything less?" In truth, she could not. This was Hannibal Lecter, the man she had chosen. Her man. This was her life, full of adventure and passion and amusement, and—love. He would give her all this and more, and she would return in kind. She could never tire of him—of that she was certain. She smiled and kissed him playfully.
"We should… compose ourselves before the house lights come up, don't you think?"
She was of course right, though he was reluctant to separate from her. "If you insist my dear."
And compose they did, aglow among the drove of patrons as they exited the symphony hall into the cool night air and then into the seclusion of the Mercedes-Benz parked outside.
"Shall we stop for a bite to eat on the way home?"
"No." Staring out the window at the lights of the city, she turned to him, her eyes ablaze. "I'm sure we can find something—satisfying—at home, wouldn't you agree?"
He laughed as he shifted the Mercedes into drive and turned toward home. Satisfying indeed.
Author's Note: Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed my story, please take the time to review. After all, the night is young—who knows what will happen when Hannibal and Clarice return home? Could it be that reader enthusiasm has the power to inspire another chapter? Review to find out. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated… don't be shy.
