Chapter Ten – Rapture in the storm
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He was still watching her.
She could feel his gaze on her, as electric and dangerous as the clouds that now lay above them. The winds were growing stronger, ruffling the trees from their unnaturally quiet calm. Branches bent and twirled, sent flying into contortions by the sheer power behind each gust. The endless depths of the sky stretched before and around them and, as Clarice Starling looked up, she felt like she was falling into them.
"What is it, deep roller?"
His voice cut through the electric air like a knife, penetrating deep inside her. She turned to look at him. His dark features were ten times more dramatic in the half-light. Maroon eyes danced over her face, watching. Reading every nuance of her. She didn't even try to shut it out, she knew him and he knew her too well.
"Will it be safe here, for a while?"
She did want to stay, she had known that for days. Starling held her legs to her chest, and settled her chin on her knees, tilting her face to watch him. The doctor looked pleased. His eyes glinted with delight as they swept over her again. He would be congratulating himself, no doubt, on his choice in real estate. The house was beautiful, Starling admitted that, but it was the grounds that she really loved. The woodland and prairie, big skies and endless horizons; the land of her childhood.
He nodded in response to her question.
"We're safe."
Starling nodded and settled back down to watch the clouds. Two words and she believed him. Surprising, how she felt most protected, most safe, when she was beside such a creature as Hannibal Lecter.
His hand found hers and held it. Gently, he turning it over and back within his larger palm. Her eyes watched the storm, her mind solely occupied with the way his finger ran the narrow grooves between her hand bones. Up towards the apex of her wrist, and then back down again. Starling did not have to see Lecter to know his expression. It would be one of rapt concentration and unadulterated interest. When he turned his mind to a subject, he did it wholeheartedly. Starling did, she really, really did like to be that subject.
His fingers slid to occupy the spaces between hers. She is delighted to find that they fit well together, still. The discomfort between them, after London, was vanishing on the gathering winds. Starling heaved a sigh of relief. No five weeks in her life had felt as long as these last ones had. From her initial realisation of her condition, to their argument, to the loss of her unborn child; Starling had felt alone. For the first time in three years, there had been no lover's touch to crawl back to. It had taken her a long time to realise that she did not want to be alone again. Ever.
She slid her hand free of his and up his back, to just under his scapula. The movement gave her cause to move closer, bridging the remaining gap between them. Leaning against him, Starling's fingertips traced circles on his back through the fabric of his light shirt. They sat like that for a while. Attentions focussed on the storm brewing over the fields on front of them, Starling startled slightly when he spoke.
"You cannot know how sorry I am that you are sad, Clarice."
His voice reverberated in his chest, causing vibrations through the side of her cheek as she leant against him. Turning her face from the storm, she buried it in his shoulder and inhaled. He smelt of shea butter. From the wet towels she had noticed hanging in his room, Starling surmised he had just showered. She breathed his scent as his arm slid around her, mirroring her embrace. Fingertips teased up the back of her neck, stroking down the strands of hair that escaped her pony tail.
"I never meant to act like that, ya know. I know that it wasn't your fault."
"I know that, Clarice. Your reaction was perfectly natural." He tilted his head so he could look down into her eyes.
Starling felt her eyebrows slide together in physical manifestation of her guilt.
"I was a bitch."
"I know that, too." He smiled slightly, "I was living with you."
Starling groaned.
He did not reply, but the smile extended slightly as he pulled her closer. Forgiveness tasted sweet. The lovers drank it in and both sat in silence, until the rains came.
The storm arrived with a downpour, thundering in over the grounds before spattering against the wood of the house. Thousands of water droplets, each making a single drumbeat, together formed a symphony of sound. He took her hand this time and they fled to his room. Pulling themselves up and over the windowsill, they dropped to the wooden-board floor, rolled on their backs and stayed there. Starling's heart paced faster, exhilarated by the suddenness of their movement. Outside, she could hear the rain growing faster, harder, lashing against the side of the house. She opened her eyes and looked over at her companion. He was lying back on the floor, eyes still tightly shut. One heavy breath told her that he was taking in the scents and sounds around him. She mirrored his actions.
Close eyes. Breathe in. Starling could smell sweet, heavy air. She could hear rain falling hard on the roof and walls of the old house, like quick footsteps. Lightning flashed, visible even from behind her closed eyelids, and she held her breath. Beats of time passed, then a clap of thunder rumbled across the fields. She could feel the hardness of the wooden floorboards against the curvatures of her spine and shoulder blades. The house was old. The floorboards had been in the house probably longer than Starling had lived. Running her fingers over their well worn surfaces, she breathed in again. Varnish, mixed with rain, mixed with Him. Opening her eyes, Starling was not surprised to find him watching back with an air of utter calm.
"Are you sure we're safe here?" she whispered.
Lecter blinked stoically once. Then he lifted himself into a seated position, shifting sideways to lean over her. His fingertips ran the shallow groove between the muscles of her abdomen, tracing languid lines all the way down to below her naval. Brushing the smooth the soft cotton of her shirt aside, his palm settled, fingers spread against her belly like a star. They locked eyes.
"I meant what I said before, Clarice. I left nothing we need in that house."
Starling was pretty sure he was not only talking about money or paper trails.
She sat up. Lecter leant closer. A beat or two passed, but the stillness did not last for long. She grew tired of the game and he was more than willing to join in her new one. Sliding her cotton shirt up and off to reveal cream and blushed pink skin, he trailed his nails across her chest, following the patterns of her ribs. One of his thumbs traced the hardened bud of her nipple and she exhaled loudly. Drawing back, he placed a chaste kiss against the corner of her lips. Starling responded with a more demanding, if slightly fumbling embrace.
Sometimes moments as these need no finesse.
She graced his cheek with a kiss, and then moved back from him. As she stood and undressed, their eyes never parted. Starling was naked and Lecter clothed, but it changed little in the power balance. She was always naked under his gaze. He could see straight through her, so the boundary of clothes meant little. But he was not looking through her now.
"You are beautiful." he whispered.
He stood also, moving to take her body with his hands.
"Touch me" it passed her lips almost silently. A whispered request, from one lover to another. And he eagerly complied. He loved to touch her. It was a novelty that had never worn off. Skin on skin, they were electric.
Lightning flashed, thunder clapped and the lovers danced an age-old dance. Bodies touching, lips meeting, shadows entwining in the half-light.
Sex is nothing new to this pair. They explore each other thoroughly and willingly and often. They move carefully, and she is patient. He does not much like exposing his own vulnerabilities, and it is preciously difficult to hide them when they were so close. Despite his caution, he is a good lover to her. They fit well together, and work even better. Quid pro quo, they talk sometimes. Mostly her. She talks, he listens.
Neither of them felt much like talking much tonight. It was a rarity sprung out of impulse. Mutual need and opportunity collided in a storm of hormones and adrenaline. He could smell the want on her. She could read it in his eyes. Up against the edge of his desk, the back of her thighs were pressed into the hard edge. Starling's knees rested against his hips as he ran one hand along the inside of her leg. She groaned. He slid his fingertips against her blood engorged skin. Slide. Dip. Fingers flat either side of her clitoris, so light that he was barely there. Back - forwards - away - he traced circles from the crown of her pubic bone to the outermost folds of her labia.
With a smile indicating less than honourable intent, he skimmed his thumb south and pressed, centimetres, millimetres away from being inside of her. Oh, she was dying. Starling closed her knees against his hips, thigh muscles straining, fighting her every urge to pull him closer. That would deny him access, stop him from doing – God – whatever he was doing now.
"I missed this." She managed to whisper into the night air, her voice harsh with desire.
"I missed you."
"You never lost me." She whispered in his direction. Smile. Three fingertips lightly stroked her in quick succession, making her gasp and yelp out loud. "Oh shit, Christ, damn hell Hannibal!" He gave a low hum of pleasure at her reaction. "Okay, I promise – I promise you'll never lose me!"
They met eyes and Lecter chuckled, clearly delighted by the response he had elicited.
Starling suddenly realised she has not been this happy for nearly a month. She lost something in London. And she had been so preoccupied that she hadn't even realised he had been slipping from her grasp as well. One more month of resentment and maybe they would have fractured. Starling knew that if he left, she would never find him again. She slipped her hands to his shoulders, pulling her body back up to him and nudging into the angle of his neck. Her movement halted their foreplay, but he graciously shifted to accommodate her change of heart.
He allowed her to hide her face in his neck for a minute or so, then pulled back, supplying his hand as a surrogate.
"What is wrong, Clarice?"
"Nothing."
"Clarice..." she tried to avoid his gaze, it was impossible.
"It's not important." Starling smiled, turning her face to kiss the hand that cupped her cheek, but he drew the hand back. "It's not!" She frowned, a hint of frustration spiking within. Lecter held her gaze, completely unfazed by her irritation. He wasn't a man to just drop something, was he?
"Then you would not be scared to say it."
Starling's frown deepened.
"I'm not scared." She pulled on her favourite front, eyes calm and steady and full of confidence. Leaning closer to his face, she stopped at a few centimetres distance and smiled. The top of her lip brushed his. "I don't scare easy." His mouth opened, tips of white, white teeth slipping into view. Starling wondered vaguely if it was wrong that it turned her on.
"Hmm" he leant in and ran his tongue along the pulsing vessels of her neck. "I know that." His hand traced the path his mouth made.
Front momentarily forgotten, Starling whimpered. His other hand rubbed slow circles along her outer thigh.
"I just wanted to say" she stopped, distracted by the faltering patterns he made across her skin. "I just wanted to ask if this – I mean, you and me..."
His hand stopped, fingers gripping her skin lightly, tantalisingly close to where she really wanted him.
"You and I, what, Clarice?"
"I know we made this decision together, we both chose to be here, but I – I need to know we are... good, after what happened. The things I said..."
His eyes floated over her face, rising to her eyes then to her forehead, as if he could seek the answers directly from inside her if he concentrated hard enough. Starling could not quite place his expression. Lecter sighed and leant back, removing his hands from Starling's body altogether.
"What happened was a terrible thing, a thing you did not deserve." He spoke slowly, with complete sincerity "I promise you, if there was anything I could have done to make it all go away, I would have done it, Clarice. But you needed time and space. You needed to grieve. All I could do was to be there for when you ran out of tears... and priceless Roman vases to throw."
Starling grimaced. The vase had been an impulsive action.
"I was selfish."
"To heal you needed to be." He reached forwards and brushed one thumb along her cheekbone. "My beautiful Clarice, you lost a child."
"It was your child too. You didn't flame up in a blaze of immaturity and selfish anger!"
"Hmm" He hummed again, occupying himself in movements involving his fingers and her lower back. "You do not know where I went the week following that argument."
Starling did not ask where the doctor had gone that week, though some part of her wanted to. Instead, they met eyes and she fell into him all over again. He did not move forwards to touch her again until she initiated contact. But an outstretched palm was all it took for him to scoop her up and pull her toward him.
"Cry, grieve and let go, little Starling. Fly free."
Thank you lover, but I've cried enough, she thinks, and takes his lips instead.
Pushing, brushing, fingers tracing well worn patterns over each other, they dance a dance learned patiently and carefully. His fingertips make slow circles, dipping in, dipping out of her. She whimpers and twists away, but comes back to his touch every time. Eventually, he picks her up. He still can, but only just; she is tall enough for her frame to carry weight. He is shirtless, her fingernails grip his skin so hard they leave red half-moon shaped marks. The tension of the past month, stirred to a frenzy of desire by his earlier movements, is burning in her belly. Her muscles tighten in anticipation.
Off the desk, they stagger to the bed. She scrapes her arm, breaking the skin on the rough iron-cast lamp beside it, but does not notice. They fumble like teenagers, learning each other all over again. Electricity in the air, electric touch on skin, she leads and he follows. It is her game, her dance. She slides his trousers down, brushing against him as she kneels back up. Her naked abdomen, pressing against the fine network of nerve endings in the glans, causes Lecter to murmur something in a language Starling does not understand. All the muscles of his upper body tense simultaneously.
"Uh..."
She pulls him closer one hand on his left hip. Her other hand slides between them and she curls her fingers around the almost fully erect shaft of his penis. Thumb on top, fingers spread along, pinkie finger hovering to just where it needs to be. Slide. Lightly, pressure on the thumb slightly harder than the fingers. Over, back, curl around. She gets another half-swallowed noise for her trouble and smiles, remembering her delight when she first discovered he could whine like that. It hadn't been the noise she expected him to make. After a few composed seconds, he lets a shaky breath out.
"... H–ah." Starling smiles.
"Really?"
He replies with a wink.
"I'm sure."
Starling slides her hands back up to either side of him, rubbing his skin there instead. She looks up when one thumb rubs along her cheek. He is watching her with a different expression now, eyes decidedly softened.
"Aš myliu tave."
I have no idea what you mean, Starling thinks. Sliding back into a seated position she kisses the skin just below his navel.
She will never understand him. His mind works in ways far beyond her, perhaps beyond anyone's comprehension. Starling and Lecter come from two different worlds. If she was white, he would be black. Hot and cold, good and bad; they shouldn't work, but they do. Maybe it is true that opposites attract. She's pretty sure he would have a better explanation for their compatibility, but her thoughts sort of slip away with his next touch. Starling sighs. She does not want to think right now, just feel. Slide. Touch.
She arches and weaves before him. His hands flit over her skin, her name rolling from his lips like a prayer. She whispers his back. It takes a few seconds of manipulation, they're not perfect, and then he is inside her. They have grown confident enough with each other to know their limits. He guides himself into her, but holds back for her to close the distance between them. She murmurs a little, in mild discomfort. It is a stifled noise, quite indiscernible, and quickly lost in the thunder that growls overhead. Time is enough to coax her closer and soon pleasure vastly overrides any discomfort. Starling allows herself to be picked up, straddling his lap with her back to the headboard. A tilt of her pelvis, and she feels him push deeper. Her legs and body feel strong and he feels strong under her. Together, they feel invincible. They fuck, animal desire overcoming any cautions they might still harboured for each other. The tensions of the past few weeks burn as passion in their only barely opened eyes.
The line between love and darker emotions is thin – Lecter and Starling dance it beautifully.
Outside, the storm is building. Rain thrashes the windows frames and Starling can hear the slate roof trill as water pelts it. A thousand drumbeats cascade from the sky, each raindrop adding to the harmony. Inside, charge building, climax approaching, she chances a look down at him. Her back is pressed into the headboard. Lecter kneels beneath her, between and inside her. Her fingers form knots across the back of his neck. One index and a thumb pressed into the ridge where his skull meets his neck, feeling the muscle there working as he moves. Gently, gently.
Deep and slow, circular movements. She balances him, guiding both of them around. Her muscles ache but her desire aches more and she will be satisfied. The hunger grows with the second. The line between love and darker emotions is thin, but Lecter and Starling never mistake love and hate. They move faster and faster, their breathing shallower. Starling whispers something – God knows what, perhaps a prayer of thanks to a God she has long abandoned – and grips him tighter. It is a wonderful bond that physical intimacy can give. Right now, he is the only thing in her universe that matters.
Thunder follows lightning. The storm is here. One last arch of her back and she is gone.
Lightning. Thunder.
Starling falling. He rises up to meet her.
Rapture in the midst of the storm.
She gives a broken moan and bites down gently, to silence herself, on the back of his neck. The bite does not seem to hurt him. In fact, he gives a low moan of pleasure as closes her teeth on his skin. Her fingertips are pressed against the side of his head, her belly flat against his. Shoulder blades slam into the sweat-damped headboard, her lower back curved in spasm. They hold, bodies straining for a moment. Then she settles into a quick rocking, bouncing her body smoothly off of his. He thrusts hard, up into her, giving tiny aftershocks of pleasure. Her breaths slow and steady as his become shallower. As she rocks, he groans softly. It should be too soft to hear, but for the fact he does so into the hollow of her collarbone.
Watching him climax was an experience Starling could never tire of. Those eyes that usually held such controlled calm, blazed with passion. Wild abandon, the tiniest hint of what his soul must look like. Beautiful and terrible, all in one. Exquisite chaos. All that he knows, all his wisdom, seems infinite. In that moment, she can see forever in his eyes.
They shudder together. Just for a minute or two. Then one more kiss, barely a touch, and they fall apart.
Starling's lover sits before her. She leans back against the sweat-dampened headboard, panting, muscles fluttering in echoes of ecstasy. Her hands are still laced, cradling the back of his neck. A slight tremor shakes them. Below her, he pants too. The sheets that cover his bed slip against his knees as he sinks down from where he supported her against the headboard. Sides rise and fall, shadows between their ribs dancing in the low light. He sinks further down, and places his forehead against her chest. Her muscles dance as she feels his tongue flicker against her skin. It is even hotter than his hands, which grip the sides of her thighs. Her thighs are damp with both them.
He lifts his face, kissing her at the dip between her breasts, and then straightens up. With a sigh, she lowers from herself down between her lover and the wall. She kneels, he sits, equal enough in height to look each other straight in the eye. A moment of complete understanding passes between the pair. They feel blessed not to have to speak.
Rain batters the house and roof, a fine spray on the open windowsill. Thunder smashes behind them. Outside, the storm begins to roll away across the prairie, painting the sky in electric hues. The air it leaves behind is fast clearing of cloud. Though the faintest tinges of sunset still cling to the far western horizon, the rest has turned deep purple and rolling blues. The day has left with the storm, and soon the stars will be visible. For now, all is quiet. Upstairs, the two choose to lie beside each other and rest. Downstairs, Starling's lamb sleeps. Silent.
Starling's companion watches her until she falls asleep, and then a bit longer. He lies beside her body, feeling her shift to curve into the hollow his body makes. She is close and he feels glad for it. He waits until she is deep in silent dreams, before turning his attentions to the cut from the bedpost. He licks it clean, tongue feeling around the jagged edge and torn skin. Her blood, which he had always imagined to taste sweet, is slightly bitter on his palate. So, he desists, preferring to lie beside her instead.
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