Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Her heart is beating so rapidly that Lecter can see the rhythm on the skin of her neck. Starling was excited—ready and anxious. He noted how well she had managed to contain herself, keep from being rash in her actions. For this, he had to admit, he was proud of the restraint. She was usually far hastier, and he had noted that long ago. She watched him closely as he tapped the tip of the knife against his full lips, thinking as his maroon eyes meandered over her lithe frame. She could tell he was giving careful consideration towards where to cut. She was also sure he could taste the blood on the knife, and smell how aroused she was. Her hands were perched on his shoulders, holding him there, and at the same time keeping her from speeding things along. He now had control—and could take even more of it should he wish to. While this was something neither were used to in their complex relationship, it was something Clarice was willing to do, if only just this once. It did seem that he was getting closer to a decision though, thankfully.
He takes the blade, going a few inches lower than where she had, stopping just an inch or two short of where her breasts started to curve. Gently, he guided it along, slow and steady. He does not aim to hurt her—never had and never would. As he watches the blood come to the surface, he is reminded of their conversation after consuming Paul Krendler. You don't have to give up this one. He never had and never would. Leaning down, he cleaned the blood from her pale flesh—the stark contrast not missed by him. All the while, one of his hands rubbed against her inner thigh, increasing the pleasure she felt. The benefit of being so skilled with anatomy (and of course, Clarice Starling)—he knew exactly where, how, and when to touch her to make her feel the most pleasure.
Blue hues dark with euphoria of the most adulterated forms slip shut against his touch and his acts. The sensations of pain and pleasure merged and gave her a high that she had yet to fully understand, though never questioned it for it was, for her, good. Whimpers of want fell from her parted lips, hands grasping tighter onto his shoulders. Lecter's hand then moved to touch her between her legs, feeling the arousal there, relishing in the fact that he had made her feel this way, before stimulating her. When there was no more blood to siphon from the wound, he created another one on her shoulder, shorter in length but just a tad bit deeper than the first. His mouth latched onto her there, the spot most likely going to have not only a scar but a hickey as well. He also reveled in the fact that by tomorrow morning both of them would have quite a collection of scars and bruises—and while they both already had their fair share of them physically, emotionally, and mentally—they would always remember who gave them the best ones; the ones made with the poetry of a twisted love and the skill of a blade.
"Hannibal…" Starling moaned, trying with much desperation to not sound as if she is begging, though it's quite apparent she is. For fuck's sake, Hannibal… PLEASE...do not stop.
He waits until there was no more blood to be wasted by talking before pulling back, grinning to her with a wolfish and sanguine smile. He licks the blade clean, setting it aside before cupping her cheek within his hand, caressing her badge of courage before finally letting words come.
"Yes, Clarice…" While Lecter loved that he finally had someone he trusted enough to let control him, if even in only a sexual sense—he could not help but to enjoy when she let him has his moments of control, and he took advantage—oh boy, did he take advantage.
"…" Balls, he's going to make me say it. Fucking fuck shit balls. "…I want more…more."
A falsified look of displeasure comes to his features, head cocking to the side as he observes the stubborn woman he found himself loving, despite how he loved so seldom that most thought him incapable of the emotion—even sometimes himself. He recalls on occasions, whenever they do exchange the soft whispers or passionate yells of their love—depending on the situation—when Lady Murasaki had told him there was nothing left in him to love. Apparently, Starling saw something in him to love. He was glad someone had, though he never voiced that thought.
"Perhaps, my dear Clarice; if you asked politely, I might consider giving you what you want."
Blue hues narrow with frustration in response to his remark—though it does not stun her in the slightest. Taking a calming breath, she then moves to rest her forehead against his, eyes locking intimately.
"Please, my dear Hannibal; may I have more of you—of what your hands are doin'?" There's a sarcastic manner in the way she says his name, but she's honest about wanting more. Starling hopes he will forgive the former for the latter.
"That's my girl." His words are nothing more than a breath as they are spoken against her lips. He moves back, kissing down her jawline. He pauses once he is at her neck before using his teeth to bite her there in a way much similar to the way she had done so to his own, only it is apparent he has his own way of going about it.
The taste of her blood is so profound and sweet on his tongue that his hand which was steady and still between her legs began to move quicker than before—quicker than he had originally intended. Sure, his prior tastes had been ecstatic in their own right, however there was something about the blood which came from that place, something pure, sweet, and outrageously intoxicating. She really knew how to make him wild with lust—something which rarely happened prior to their coming together. Her eyes slipped shut, mouth hanging open as she makes no attempt to remain silent. After all, the staff is off for the day, something which Clarice made sure of herself. The mansion of which they inhabited was free for them and their less than ordinary acts.
"Fuck! Ah, fuckin' hell!" She exclaims, no effort to restrain her foul language.
"Mm," this is Hannibal's only reciprocation, thrilled and driven by the words, the grunts of love.
After the sanguine fluid ceases to flow from the newest wound his has created, he pulls away. He likes watching as her body writhes above him, hair tossed back so it crashes like lava down her curved spine. He waits for just a few seconds—the moments passing oh so slowly—before pausing his hand, knowing she was just instances from her orgasm.
"Not yet."