Hannibal Lecter woke without confusion, without a sense of displacement or concern, though the situation was new to his experience. He lay on his back, as he had slept for years, his body trained to stillness, alert to the possibility of danger in this vulnerable state. Such awareness had predated even his years in the twisted care of Frederick Chilton; it was a habit acquired in childhood, in that terrible winter, and he could not now shed it even had he wished to do so.

A chill stole over him, a memory-thought attempting to float into consciousness, but it was easily banished. Not by him, no, but by the warm presence of his companion. She was the new element, the unknown factor that upset the equation in ways brilliant and terrifying.

Clarice lay on her side, her naked back curled against him, the delightful curve of her bottom snug at his hip. It was a pose both trusting and wary, near but not near. He lay quietly for a time, enjoying the press of her body and the steadiness of her breath. She had not slipped into nightmares; it was no movement or utterance of hers that had awakened him.

Her deep slumber pleased him. That he had satisfied her enough to leave her in such a peaceful state pleased him more. For all the sparks that had ignited between them in the nearly three years since their first meeting, sexual compatibility had been an unknown quantity. Tension and desire were not always accurate predictors. Had it been necessary to suppress or redirect his appetites in order to keep her, he would have done so, but he greatly preferred the current openness and honesty between them.

Previous paramours had been nothing more than idle playthings, the healthy release of sexual desire where no deeper feelings existed. He had made certain they were satisfied, but he had not spent his nights with them. They had not known him; they had not been invited to share his dwelling or his bed. Trust and affection had had no place in those encounters. Charm and attentiveness had won him invitations to their beds, and he had not refused what was willingly offered.

Clarice was… different. Unique. He desired her still – again – despite the post-coital lethargy that lingered in his muscles. It was a pleasant, languid sensation that suffused him from head to toe, a warm stirring that had him half-hard and twitching against his thigh.

A simple shift found him on his side, her bare back an empty canvas for his hands. He traced the length of her spine from atlas and axis to sacrum and coccyx with the flat of his palm first. He stilled for a moment, hand pressed to silken skin, but detected no change in her slumber. He smiled.

He made the return trip with his knuckles, the back of his hand bumping lightly along her vertebrae on their way to her neck. No pause at the top; no, his hand simply turned and stroked more swiftly downward with fingertips pressed to her flesh. Clarice slept on.

His hands mapped her slender expanses and their scars with tenderness and care, taking the time he had not been allowed earlier. Her impatience to be joined had been understandable and shared; the preliminaries had not, perhaps, played a large role in her previous experiences. Now and in the future, however… his smile grew as he bent his head and traced the outline of her right scapula with lips and tongue.

Her arm lay along the top of her body, elbow bent to drape her forearm protectively across her stomach. His hand stroked along the humerus, coaxing her arm forward and baring the sweeping curve of her thoracic cage and intercostal muscles to him. He laid his palm flat against her skin just below the concavity of her axilla and followed the outward curve of her ribs downward with steady, even pressure, dipping into the enticing hollow at her waist and the even more enticing iliac crest at her hip.

She made a soft sound as she exhaled; her right leg shifted slightly forward, her knee bending just enough to bring her foot into light contact with his shin. She was not awake, not yet, but her skin had warmed and the scent of fresh arousal was rising.

His hand continued forward, tipping over the iliac crest and down across the softness of her pelvic cavity. He bypassed more direct erogenous triggers in favor of lingering over the slope of her quadriceps – weakened, no doubt, by the limitations on her running routine during her convalescence, but still a firm strength under his hand. His fingers curved inward and down to brush the silky skin of her inner thighs, venturing close but never quite reaching the labia majora.

A slight grumble emerged from her throat, and he soothed her with a quiet hum against her neck. His mouth closed over the rise of her trapezius above her clavicle and sucked in a long, slow, pulsing rhythm. The slope of her bare breasts kept his eyes transfixed; the skin of her areolae flushed and crinkled as her nipples rose under his gaze. Her breathing had grown more pronounced; her breasts danced in time with the rhythm of her respiration.

He allowed her muscles to slip from his mouth and lifted his head slightly, pulling his eyes from her breasts to study her face. Her eyes flickered in rapid movement beneath closed lids. She dreamt. Hopefully of him, of the responses he was even now coaxing from her pliant body.

His own arousal had grown more insistent. He had ignored it until now, though their close proximity meant the occasional twitch brought his sensitive, hyper-alert flesh into contact with her backside and sent a rush of pleasure up his spine. But her body, too, worked against him as much as with him – perhaps sensing his heat, his delectable dreamer wriggled backward and settled squarely in his lap, a pleased sigh falling from her lips.

He gave in to impulse then and pressed himself firmly against her along the full length of her body, his right hand splayed over the curve of her abdomen, his thumb alongside her navel, his fingers dipping toward her pubic arch.

"Hannibal." His name was a sleepy moan on her lips, the same guttural, loving tone he had first heard as she called him back to her bed long before such a reality had been even a glimmer on the horizon.

"Patience, my dear," he whispered at her ear, satisfaction filling him as she shuddered against him. Her eyes still fluttered behind closed lids.

He allowed his fingers to slip further still, dragging them through the soft tangle of curls shielding her from him. He pressed on, lower, to trace her swelling labia with his fingertips. With a delicate, coaxing touch, he laid her open; her wet desire rushed out to meet him, coating his middle finger as it slid between her inner lips. He stroked her slowly, unhurried despite the soft noises she had begun to make and the quivering he could feel in her muscles.

His finger drew slickness up and over her clitoris with only the faintest pressure, enough to turn her exhale into a moan. He pulled his hand away and brought it to his face, inhaling her sweet musk before tasting her, swirling his tongue around his fingers to dine on every trace of her. He had yet to truly indulge that desire, to bury his face between her thighs and feast on her until she begged him to stop. She had been too impatient to allow him such leisurely attentions in their first encounter. And that was not his intent now.

He raised himself higher on his left arm and leaned across her body until he could tease her right nipple with his tongue. His right hand skimmed down her stomach to her thighs, pressing between them and lifting her right leg enough to press his knee between hers. His fingers, now with more room to work, returned to stroking her labia and teasing her clitoris with faint touches. Her hips began to move to the slow rhythm he had set; his own arousal became impossible to ignore, her motions a stimulant to his already taxed control.

His mouth closed over her nipple and tugged in a faster rhythm, an apology of sorts for the haste with which he was about to move. He shuffled his hips backward just enough for his hand, sliding through her thighs from the front, to settle his erection between her swollen labia. Now it was his gently insistent thrusting between her thighs that set the rhythm as his fingers on her clitoris rolled and rubbed and pressed.

He moved his head from her breast, lavishing open-mouthed kisses against the roundness of her shoulder. Her slickness made her thighs an inviting haven, warm and wet, but he wanted more, wanted her full participation.

"Svegli per me, la mia bellezza di sonno," he whispered at her neck. "Io sono affamato per le vostre profondita."

He nibbled her jawline and tugged her earlobe with his teeth. Her hips rocked harder against him; when he rose to claim her lips, he found her eyes open and watching him, her pupils swallowing her irises with beguiling darkness.

"Clarice…."

Her name was a drawn-out question on his lips as his erection slid freely between her thighs. He felt the muscles in her neck shift as she turned her head toward him until their lips touched. Her tongue traced his upper lip. He shuddered.

"Yes."

The word had barely left her lips before he thrust inside her, claiming her with cock and tongue both, one hand on her hip to keep her body locked against his own. The sharpness of his need brought a kind of clarity; her every touch, every whimper, the very scent of her, of them, that surrounded him was carefully preserved in his mind as her body grew tense.

He slipped his left arm beneath her neck and brought his forearm up and across her clavicle, his hand closing around her right shoulder. She was rigid in his arms, poised on the edge. Her hands rose to grip his arm, tightly enough that he expected to find bruises there later. Sparks gleamed in his eyes, and his teeth flashed in pleasure at the thought.

She claimed him as much as he claimed her; it was here, in this moment, driving each other beyond themselves, that they both belonged. The knowledge was too much. His climax was unbearably close, and he would have her with him.

He pushed her hair aside with his nose, spread his jaw, and sank his teeth into the nape of her neck. She shrieked her pleasure as she came, her body rippling around him with impossible speed as he thrust and thrust and thrust again to completion.

Her body continued to shiver for long minutes afterward. He held her tightly, humming softly against her as he soothed the marks he had left in her neck. No scent of blood reached his nose; he had not broken the skin. He rocked her back to calmness, easing her return to sleep even as he softened and slipped from her depths.

Clarice woke to an entirely foreign feeling: contentment.

It wasn't the first time she had woken with a man beside her – but in college and afterward the experience had been rare and filled with awkward discomfort. Would her partner press for morning fun? Would he deliver some half-hearted – or worse, truly felt – declaration of affection? Such concerns had typically sent her hopping out of bed and digging around for her clothes or scampering to the shower before he could wake.

The difference, she knew, was that she hadn't cared for those men, at least not in the way she cared for him. Hannibal. The man who lay beside her now, a warm presence behind her, not quite touching. Her skin hummed with satisfaction at his nearness. She was pleasantly sore, assorted muscle aches making themselves known, but nothing she hadn't expected or desired. The stretching had been good for her side, she thought, and her primary focus now was on the ache of emptiness between her legs, the reminder that mere hours before she had felt complete, whole, as she held him tightly within herself.

Her eyes remained closed; behind her lids, she replayed the thrill of awakening under his hands. He had been gently insistent, coaxing her body to respond to his touch, ensuring she was fully in agreement before sating the need he had built in her. And if she were being entirely truthful, it wasn't as though he would have needed to use much persuasion at all. The whole experience had been dreamlike, surreal, and sensual beyond measure.

She rolled to face him, her eyes finally dragging open. They met his, calmly staring back at her.

"Ready to admit to being awake, my dear?"

"I dunno… I kinda like the treatment I get when I'm half-asleep."

"Do you?" His tone was neutral rather than playful, and his eyes studied her face with interest. Had he been concerned about her reaction? Did he believe he had trespassed?

"I do," she confirmed, "as long as you don't object to being on the receiving end of similar treatment."

He rolled toward her enough to gather her in his arms.

"I don't foresee a problem in that area, my dear."

No… no, she didn't foresee a problem in that area either, as his interest was obvious and growing.

"Again?" she murmured, her lips already seeking out his skin. Lazy contentment faded as new urgency flooded her with a rush of heat.

"If you're amenable, my dear."

He ducked his head, his nose rubbing over her neck and collarbone with just enough pressure not to tickle. She could feel his abdomen expand as he inhaled her scent. Her nipples tightened in expectation of his descent.

"Mmm. Is that a 'yes,' Clarice?"

Oh yeah, that's a definite yes.

As it happened, it was only the first of many.

Note: Hannibal is speaking in Italian here: "Svegli per me, la mia bellezza di sonno. Io sono affamato per le vostre profondita." The approximate translation is "Wake for me, my sleeping beauty. I am hungry/starving/yearning for your depths." (With thanks again to fellow Lecterphile and author lovinghannibal for assistance in capturing the nuance!)