"So tomorrow we feast?"
"Mm-hmm."
He was fully awake – had been, in fact, even before she had begun shifting and stretching and arriving at wakefulness herself. But the lazier his responses, the closer she snuggled into his side, and he was hardly about to discourage that.
"And Saturday we play?" Her movements conveyed the suggestion of more than music.
"Mm-hmm." His hands strayed to her hips.
"But today, I get to pick, right?"
"It is your birthday, my dear. If you'd care to put in a breakfast order, I'll begin preparations immediately."
"Nope."
"Shall I surprise you, then?"
"Nuh-uh." She reached for his hand and settled it firmly against her sex. "You should stay right here. All day."
"I believe the purpose of one's birthday is to receive gifts, Clarice, not to grant them to others." But his fingers slid lightly over her heated flesh, feeling the moisture already gathering there. She was an… enthusiastic… partner, and hardly shy about it. They had made love yesterday afternoon following her massage and again that night before falling asleep. It was possible that she might be the death of him. "But if it's truly your wish…."
Her own hand had traveled down his flank and grasped him now with clear intent.
"I'm pretty sure I'm holding the gift I want to receive, Hannibal. Unless you're going to go back on your word and tell me I can't pick my own present."
"Far be it from me to dissuade you, my dear. A woman who knows her own mind is a wondrous creature."
It was nearly noon before she allowed him to leave the bed. Not that he was of a mind to complain about such treatment; in this, her pleasure was his as well. Eager, inventive, and unexpectedly insatiable – such appetites were to be encouraged rather than suppressed. But such appetites also required fuel to maintain, which was how he found himself in the kitchen putting together a tray of items to entice his young lover into considering desires beyond the sexual.
When he returned to the bedroom with her birthday luncheon, he found she had finally deigned to leave the bed herself, though she hadn't gone far. He set the tray on the nightstand and approached her where she stood at the French doors to the balcony.
She had pulled the quilt around herself, though by the bare skin revealed where it dipped across her back, he judged she had not donned clothes beneath. The fingers of her left hand rested against the glass. The angle of the sun did not allow him to see her expression reflected in the glass, and the snow on the balcony lay undisturbed. He stepped in closer, slipping his arms around her waist.
"It's a bit cold for lunch on the balcony, my dear, but if you wish it…."
She shook her head lightly; he felt the shift of her hair against his cheek. She let her hand fall from the glass.
"Nope. I had my chance last summer, and I missed it. Maybe next year, though."
"A chance for lunch on the balcony?"
"Not exactly."
She turned out of his embrace, pulling him with her to the bed. Her evasion intrigued him; surely she knew he would pursue the subject with more vigor now. Perhaps she wanted him to – consciously or not.
He settled against the headboard and retrieved their lunch, determined to provide at least some semblance of sustenance for their bodies before Clarice decided to resume their previous activities. Her thoughts had already drifted in that direction, he expected, from the deepening of her scent, and he felt the answering effects stirring in himself.
"Will you elaborate, Clarice, or shall I venture a guess?"
She raised an eyebrow in question, her hand paused in mid-reach toward the tray.
"Elaborate on what?"
"Your missed chance. It is your birthday, after all. If you make a wish, I will not fail to fulfill it, Clarice."
She colored, then, a vivid blush that had him quite curious indeed, though he now had a theory.
"It's not… I mean, you already… this morning… and the snow…."
"Lunch was not quite the meal you had in mind on the balcony?"
His tone was suggestive; he had, in fact, enjoyed a quite filling meal this morning, though he had not left the bed to partake in it. But he was at a loss to explain why the balcony featured in her fantasies.
And now she was calming herself by sampling the food he had prepared. She had chosen a pear-and-prosciutto roll with a bit of parmesan and arugula, he noted; a pleasant mix of sweet and salt.
"This is really good. Did you throw this together just now?"
"Clarice…." He dragged out her name in a teasing rebuke.
"I know, I know, you aren't going to let it drop." Her exasperation seemed amused, tolerant, rather than angered, and he knew she would give him the answer he sought.
"You remember – in Saarbrucken, that night – we went to dinner, and those idiot boys – well of course you remember."
She hadn't met his eyes during her rambling opening, and her fingers toyed with another canapé. Her nervousness charmed him; she was quite willing to perform any number of acts, but talking about them seemed to strike at some inborn modesty or childhood moral injunction.
"Before those idiots – it was all… perfect… and I was thinking – I wanted to get home, to finish what we'd started the night before – and you had that balcony upstairs – I just kept seeing it, that railing, with my hands on it, and you kneeling – and, god, your mouth – which, you should know, it's even better in reality—"
Her skin was still flushed, and her breathing had quickened. Her eyes darted up to meet his.
He recalled the night in question quite well; her arousal had been obvious to his senses from the moment they left the restaurant. That she had been having such elaborate, stimulating fantasies, however… mmm. I must encourage her to share more often.
"Ah. So that was what had you so... interested."
She rolled her eyes at him, though it didn't diminish the blush she had acquired.
"You'll always know, won't you. I'll never be able to surprise you."
"Mmm. Not in that, perhaps, Clarice, though you surprise me in a multitude of other delightful ways."
His hand captured hers, caressing, lifting it to his lips; he kissed the underside of her wrist with tenderness before biting wolfishly into the heel of her hand. She shivered in what was likely pleasure. He held her gaze as his tongue flicked rhythmically against her skin. She wet her lips with her tongue; her breathing pattern quickened further. He inhaled deeply through his nose as she squirmed. Yes, definitely pleasure. He pulled his lips away with a final ghost of a kiss over her reddened skin.
"Tell the truth, Clarice... wouldn't you prefer a... knowing... partner to an inept one?"
Her fingers reached out to stroke downward over his chest alongside the silk edge of his robe. She traveled all the way to his belt, her fingers tugging at the knot to reel him in. No fool, he went willingly.
"You tell me, Mr. Knowledgeable. What do I prefer?"
She allowed the quilt to fall back to the bed and pressed her nude body against his; her nipples lay hard against his chest where his robe had parted. He bent his head to nuzzle her neck.
"Your body speaks for itself, Clarice. I'm hopeful about the prospect of enrolling in an immersive course to reach complete fluency."
Her soft laughter pleased him even more than the delicate fingers slipping inside his robe. But when he reached for her in turn, she shook her head slightly and pushed him back, sliding the robe off his shoulders to fall in a tangle behind him. Her fingers stroked his chest, trailing through the hair over his sternum. He leaned in once more, angling for a kiss, but she thumped her fingers against his chest – in warning, perhaps? – and pushed back more firmly. Amused and intrigued, he allowed her motion to tumble him to the sheets. It was, after all, her birthday; if she wished to play a new game, he would hardly deny her.
So he lay back and watched her as she studied him from where she knelt between his knees. Her scrutiny was not a cause for concern; she was not one to care about surface appearances, he knew, and he was unusually fit for a man of his years. Fit enough to keep up with her in bed, at the least, and to ensure their safety in most physical confrontations, and he had no need for more than that. He was not, however, so immune to the lure of ego as to be dismissive of her attention. Thus he watched her closely, hopeful that his body was as pleasing to her as hers was to him.
Her hands settled on his thighs, kneading softly. She was silent, focused, the morning's playful banter gone from her now. Something was different in her; he perceived that this interaction was more serious to her than those earlier in the day had been.
Given the frequency of their encounters, his arousal was slow to develop despite his desire for her. He might, if he wished, put more deliberate effort into redirecting blood flow … but it seemed, from her dominant behavior, from the lack of impatience in her gaze, from the tender softness in her face and hands, that a slow pace, a passive engagement, would not go amiss. She was not rushing toward the main event, so to speak. So he allowed for the natural course of events, involuntary twitches, sparks of excitement, beginning to harden him for her pleasure.
She shifted sideways. Her legs straddled his left thigh now, and her hands came down to either side of his ribcage until she knelt above him on all fours. Their bodies did not touch. And then her head bowed, her hair falling across his chest; he felt the press of her lips on his skin, above his sternum. She turned her face aside and rubbed against him, almost catlike, he thought. Marking him with her scent? Memorizing his own? Their scents had already thoroughly mingled in his nose; he could not, at this moment, separate hers from his.
Her motion continued, her hair a tickling sensation across his chest and arms as her face swept over him, lips occasionally brushing him with affection. It was still the only point of connection between them, though he could feel the warmth of her body hovering above him. Anticipation. Did she wield it to build her own arousal along with his?
She moved lower, her cheek trailing down his abdomen as though she were following a curving track crossing the linea alba to its inferior end at the pubic symphysis. Was that her intent? He did not suppress the instinctive, urgent rush of blood the thought inspired, nor did he stifle the pleased groan that emerged as the eager motion of his swelling erection came into contact with her skin.
He felt her pause, and then she lowered her body, eliminating the distance between them and bringing him a wealth of new information. His mind raced to catalog the sensations – the vibration of her throat as she hummed with pleasure, the press of her breasts just below his hip, the slick heat of her rocking lightly just above his knee. And then her nose nudged at the side of his erection. She breathed deeply. Her cheek slid over him, back and forth, almost… petting. The literal definition of a cocktease, though that was hardly a word that described Clarice Starling.
And it still did not, he thought, as her mouth closed over him. He forced his hips to stillness despite the provocation. It seemed she misunderstood the concept of birthday gifts entirely if she felt fellatio qualified as a gift for her rather than him. Not that he was about to argue the point. As a gentleman, it was neither something he would have expected nor something he would have requested… but as her lips moved over him, he could not deny that it was very, very desirable.
To her, as well, it seemed, from the increased motion of her hips against his leg. With his self-control focused on not thrusting into the sweet suction of her mouth, it was an easy matter to allow his other natural responses free rein, to vocalize his pleasure… and to recognize the pre-orgasmic shudders that rolled through her body each time he did so. His eyes narrowed as he considered the evidence with the small portion of his mind not wholly consumed by the sight and feel of her.
Was that what she wanted? He very carefully, ever so slightly, eased off on his iron control. Her hand gripped him, working in concert with her mouth, her tongue teasing at the height of her upstroke; his hips gave the barest thrust in response. Her reaction was immediate – her pubic bone pressed down hard on his thigh as her legs clenched around his, her free hand covered his hip with moderate force, and she emitted a pleased moan as her mouth slid over him once more.
With her hand holding him down, he loosed his control further; her responses increased proportionately. Instinct urged him to take her now, to pin her to the bed and demonstrate how easily he could make her quake with ecstasy. But that wasn't the gift she wanted.
No. What she sought now was what he had sought as she slept on their first night together. Possession. Ownership. Control.
And if that was what she needed… proof that she could make him lose control… even that, he would not deny her. He pulled back his control to its thinnest threads, until only the primary injunction – allow no harm to Clarice – remained. All else was given over to experiencing her, to the feel of her mouth and the thrust of her hips, to the knowledge that he was hers.
The intensity of the emotion and his unbound physical responses conspired to bring him swiftly to the edge. He called to her – a plea, a warning, an acknowledgement of her power over him – and when the inevitable arrived, that last, distant corner of his mind growled in fierce triumph as she, too, cried out her pleasure, her body shaking against his.
