Take me. Take me. Take me.
There is a notable frustrated expression on Starling's face, the denial of her orgasm causing her to inwardly explode with aggression. She wants so badly to hit him, but that's not their game. Not today. Her hands grip him tightly enough to cause him pain, nails digging into his flesh. She listens, the hissing sound he makes all too perceptible by the former agent. His hand is still between her legs, she has to take what she wants for herself, it seems. Dogged, the auburn-haired woman moves her hips against his hand, feeling herself growing closer—almost there… almost—there.
Knowing all too well what she is trying to accomplish, Lecter moves his hand away from her. To his lips it goes, the fingers drenched with her sweet nectar. Honey in the lion, indeed. He muses to himself as he licks them clean. The taste merges with the blood which still lingers on his tongue. It is enough for those red sparks in his eyes to brighten—like flames of desire. Then, and only then, does he simultaneously maneuver them so that she is down on the couch, back pressed firmly into the furniture. The knife is in his hand, held steady at her throat. Would he dare to harm her, though? Oh, no; not at all. The intent is simply explainable—it is designed to enthrall, to entice, to eroticize. He wants to please her, not punish. A grunt. A whimper. A pair of blue hues locking onto maroons. Both sets are so darkened by their lust for the other it is almost startling.
"Hannibal…" Starling's voice retains a hint of warning, as if she is prepared to be the one to punish, should she wish to do such a thing.
"Yes, my dear?" The question is spoken in such a way as to make him seem far more innocent than he truly is.
Lids narrow with a sudden hatred. She does not hate him, but boy does he get on her everlasting nerve at times! She speaks not in response to the inquiry, for no answer is truly necessary. Lips purse inward, vexation readable upon her face. You're a real bastard sometimes, Hannibal Lecter. She thinks to herself, watching him scan her—look her over a few times as if to admire her how she is, take in this rare moment. The blade moves from her neck, his free hand taking her two smaller ones before pinning them on the armrest above her head. What does he have planned? She does not know—only he does.
The dagger which he had grasped within his palm then goes to her innermost thigh. It is so close to where she truly wants him to touch her that it is enough to send ripples of chilling heat throughout her entire frame, though she tries, with much desperation, to keep her thighs from quivering too much. Nothing which happens here must be by mistake—all acts must be calculated, planned, and moreover thoughtful. Those inwardly pursed lips then push out, only to have the bottom one be captured by its host's teeth. Clamped upon them, those pearly whites dig into the flesh—waiting, waiting—waiting for his neck move. She had indeed wanted him to take her, though this was not exactly what she had had in mind.
As his hand, which is connected to a long, strong arm, keeps her hands pinned, he slithers down her frame in a snake-like manner. He leaves a trail of kisses, some rough and some nothing short of tender. Once his mouth is between his lover's legs, Lecter then lets the instrument glide along the ghostly-colored skin. She is left with no other choice then but to let out a moan, to find pleasure in it. Her back arches, all the while keeping herself from letting her legs move even a fraction. This game, while enjoyable, also had its tormenting parts. The denial was excruciating, no doubt. However, his dragging it out like this was even worse.
Lips, ones which are full and gaze-drawing, then move towards the blood trickling from the wound oh so slowly. He takes in her crimson essence, as well as the sounds Starling makes. He is cautious—careful to not waste a drop, and to not let any of it stain the couch. What a shame that would be? After all, he wants to be able to recollect, replay the memory every time he sits there in the future, whenever he so desires. While it is true this series of events, along with everything else, would be permanently locked away within his memory palace, it did feel good to be able to have a reminder—an object to draw retentions from.
Once his mouth is finished there, he moves just a fraction to the right, where he knows Clarice eagerly wants him. He can feel her beneath him, her body silently begging for more—and he is more than willing to oblige her. It frightens him just how much he is will to please her and at the same time get what he wants from this. More often than not, Hannibal finds himself frightened by her all together. He finds her surreal, to say the least. Almost as if he is trying to surprise her, he lets that all too skilled mouth go to pleasuring her, a tongue quite experienced in its own way giving in to her. This is as close to consuming her as he will ever allow himself to get. Not that she would give him cause to reconsider, for the thought alone is not something she could conceive.
The instrument which was capable of the utmost destruction in the right—or rather, wrong—hands yet simultaneous capable of fulfilling the most twisted of desires finds itself back on the table where it had been many moments ago, abandoned if only for the time being. He cares not about the blade, though. What he does invest his focuses on is getting Starling to her climax. He knows it won't take but a few more moments of their time. As the obscenely large clock resounds with the ending of the previous hour and beginning of the next, screaming of his name from a sweet yet smart southern mouth overrides that, her body relinquishing all its control. Her blue eyes flutter open after several moments to find him dangerously close to her own face, lips barely centimeters apart. Closing the distance, she raises herself up just a hair. Kissing him deeply, her legs wrap around his muscular frame. Despite their ages, both undoubtedly are in prime physical condition, which proves advantageous in regards to activities such as these.
Strong thighs clench around him, hands now free for use as soon as she has them flipped over so that her body hovers above him. A self-satisfied hum leaves her lips, head canting just slightly. Her fiery locks fall along with the movement. She allows one hand to wrap around his throat, threatening to apply just a bit of pressure. The other reaches over to grab the knife, the handle fitting quite perfectly within her palm. Mimicking him in a sort, she lets her tongue part her maws, running over them sinisterly. She then lets the steel caress her lover's chest, hair and skin alike being toyed with then.
"Clarice…" His accentuated words are thick with want and a very slight amount of objection, though he lets his yearning hide it quite well. He cannot help but to love it when she takes him like this. Admittedly, he enjoys it more than when he does so. This is something he found himself only liking with her.
That hand, which was on his throat, then slides slowly up Lecter's jaw, a sole finger pressing against his mouth. If there was any chance that he was disputing her actions, she was not about to hear any of it. She wanted this, and she was going to take it.
"My turn!"