Hannibal lovingly gazed at his beautiful wife, her alabaster skin gleaming an invitation to his willing hand. His fingers lightly brushed the visible side of her breast. He knew the caress would set off a series of spasms as the ultra-sensitive nerve bundles there were connected to several highly responsive muscles.
She moaned softly, and then promptly drifted back to sleep. Hannibal frowned. He stared, willing her to awaken, but she remained in peaceful slumber. He tried a few more tricks that usually met with success, all without response.
Clarice was indeed awake, and trying desperately to keep from showing it. It was hard when he kept inciting her muscles to fluttering activity. She eased one eye open to glance at the clock, which indicated it was, indeed, the dead of night. Her husband had warned her that he was a nocturnal creature, and she had tried—really—to accommodate his preferred schedule, but she was most assuredly an 'early to bed'-'early to rise' kind of country girl. She didn't even mind that he watched her while she slept, but that hadn't been enough for him these last several months.
She felt his hand at her hip and another at her shoulder and knew he intended to flip her over. When he did, it was a combination of sleep deprivation and simple outrage at his selfishness that brought her harsh fist squarely to his jaw.