Warning: Sexually Explicit Content!
Ophelia sat in her room, staring at herself in the mirror. The clock on the bedside table read eleven o'clock. A plane would leave for England in thirteen hours. Hannibal was downstairs doing some work in the sitting room. All was peaceful. All was quiet. Her last night as Ophelia Ford.
She continued to run a brush through her hair. Though it already fell in silky waves around her face, Ophelia continued on, her stomach clenching and her heart pounding. In a whirl, she threw the brush down onto the armoire across from her and began to dig through the drawers, extracting two small orange bottles of pills that she had smuggled out of the hospital. They were prescription meds, and strong ones at that. One label read "Lortab" and then was proceeded by a long list of multisyllabic words that she would never even attempt to pronounce. And the other "Dianoxyl". She recognized that one; it was a steroid that her old roommate would take before volleyball games.
Ophelia downed two of each, followed by a swig of water. Almost immediately they began to work, the Lortab muting all the pain in her abdomen and head. The Dianoxyl felt like a shock, as if her entire body had been plugged into a light socket. Her fingertips tingled and her eyes dilated.
She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, crinkling her nose in rueful distaste. While Hannibal had gone down to finish up a bit of work, Ophelia had snuck into his room, against her better judgement. But instead, she had rifled through his drawers in search of a shirt. She had chosen the blood red button down that he had worn only once before; red would be the color to do the trick. After re-folding the shirts that she had disturbed while looking for the red one, she had scurried back to her room, shutting and locking the door behind her.
Whereas earlier Ophelia had been clothed comfortably in a pair of shorts and a sweater, she now stood before the mirror, scant of such comforts. She had put on her least favorite set of underthings; a lacy black bra and a pair of black underwear that could barely pass for a swatch of fabric. Over that, she had sloppily fastened two of the buttons on Hannibal's shirt, letting the sleeves fall over her hands and the top fall off one shoulder.
She hadn't done this since high school. The whole sex thing had never been all that appealing. Though it was nice when it happened, once years ago, it had been at a graduation party, and both judgements had been impaired. College had not been the pace for Ophelia to sleep around; she had only wanted to work. So now she was a bit rusty and more than a bit nervous.
Now, she stood, a face fresh with makeup and skin fresh with scented lotion, preparing to use her "femininity" as a weapon. Sure, it wasn't the most conventional way to handle a situation, but the situation itself was in no way conventional. Ophelia knew that there was no possible scenario in which she would be allowed out of Hannibal's sight unless he was completely assured that his hold over her was more than secure. She wasn't stupid; the kiss had not been forgotten.
Ophelia curled her bare toes against the cold floor and sighed. For a moment, she doubted whether or not this plan would even work. Maybe Hannibal would laugh in her face and send her off to bed with a pat on the head and a cup of tea. Maybe he would ignore her entirely. Or maybe he would respond more... positively. Ophelia's stomach turned and fluttered at the thought. She couldn't deny her attraction to him. He was a powerful man, both in presence and in appearance. And they had grown close, no matter what Hannibal's intentions really were. Despite all that, though, Ophelia knew that it was a situation that she had to get out of. Quickly.
As the drugs began to take more of an effect on Ophelia's mind, her doubts began to melt away, only to be replaced by brazen confidence. She scrunched up her hair at the roots a bit, adjusted her bra, and took a deep breath. Downstairs, she could hear the rustle of papers and the scratching of Hannibal's pen.
"Now or never, Ophelia," she told herself, flinging her hair over her shoulders and marching out into the hallway. The moment she began to descend the stairs, she tried her best to slink. She had seen the way women had done it in movies; they swung their hips, their hands hanging languidly at their sides. Perhaps she could be as convincing as them.
Hannibal sat facing the doorway, hunched over a file full to bursting with papers. His hair, usually immaculate, fell messily over his face, obscuring his eyes. A glass of wine, half full, sat on the edge of the table. After a moment of deep concentration, Hannibal reached for it and took a meticulous sip. He obviously had not seen her.
Ophelia leaned against the doorway as casually as she could and cleared her throat. She folded her arms and tossed her hair as he looked up, his face freezing. Ophelia could almost see his thought process. At first, he made a valiant attempt to stay emotionless and calculating. But as soon as she cracked the slightest smile, something clicked behind his eyes and his lips began to curl.
"Why do you need to do all of this now?" Ophelia pouted, sashaying toward him and plucking the papers from his hands, tossing them onto the couch beside him, "I think you should take a break." She slunk around the back of the couch running the tips of her fingers along his shoulders. He shivered.
"You seem to be in quite a mood tonight," Hannibal muttered, never taking his eyes off of hers as she came around to the front of the couch again. He reached up and snatched her wrist, holding her still.
For a moment, Ophelia knew not whether he was rejecting her advance, but then he pulled her toward him, his other hand latching onto the hem of her shirt and using it to guide her. She took initiative, pushing him back against the sofa with her other hand and straddling his lap. He did not move as she leaned down and brushed her lips against the hollow of his jaw and downward. But still, he did not move. He simply sat beneath her, his hands resting lightly on her hips.
"What are you doing, Doctor Lecter?" Ophelia breathed into his ear. Her hands ran up the front of his torso and over his shoulders.
Hannibal smirked, his grip tightening on her hips, "I'm trying to decide whether or not you know what you're getting yourself into, Miss Ford."
Ophelia bit her bottom lip, tossing her hair over one shoulder and rocking back on his lap so she could look into his eyes. She nodded, running her hands down Hannibal's chest and over his shoulders beneath his jacket. With a languid sigh, she rocked forward again, winding her hips in lazy figure-eights and skimming her lips over his jaw.
Suddenly, with a burst of carnal intensity, Hannibal grabbed her hips with both of his hands and pulled her roughly against him. His hands slid down over her thighs, lingering there for a torturously long moment. He knew that he could play Ophelia's body like a fiddle.
"I don't think you do," he growled, one hand knotting in her hair, holding her head still. His eyes darkened as he leaned forward, his lips pressing lightly against her throat. The hand that rested on her thigh slid upward ever so slowly, until the tips of his fingers found the lace that was hidden beneath the shirt.
As Hannibal pulled Ophelia into a deep, smoldering kiss, his hands wandered, exploring every inch of her while she was so close, so vulnerable. She wound her hands around his neck, allowing his hands to wander over her rear, then up her back and to her chest. She sighed against his lips as his hands slipped beneath the straps of her bra, making small circles over her collarbone. It felt as if every inch of skin that he touched had been set aflame.
"Hold tight," Hannibal commanded, hooking his hands beneath her haunches and standing.
Ophelia latched her legs around his waist as he stood, carting her upstairs. He kicked open the bedroom doors, kissing her with an intensity that far surpassed their previous encounter. He tossed her roughly onto his bed, slipping off his jacket as she landed amongst the pillows. Ophelia crawled toward him on all fours, his shirt slipping from her shoulders.
"I do believe this is mine, Miss Ford," Hannibal's voice was rough and deep, almost a growl, as he loomed over her, his hands knotting in the front of the shirt.
"Take it, then," Ophelia breathed, sitting up on her knees and stretching upward so that her face was nearly level with his. The smell of his cologne mingled with the floral aroma of her lotion. Beads of sweat began to form on their skin. The feeling of unspoken desire was the only tangible energy in the room. Unspoken desire, and an untamable heat.
Hannibal grasped the hem of the shirt and snatched it over her head, ruffling her hair and almost exposing her entirely. He pulled her face up to his, kissing her roughly and leaning her back onto the bed. Ophelia fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and the clasp on his trousers, clumsily pulling them away from his body and tossing them aside. She gripped his shoulders as she felt the clasp of her bra snap. He wrenched it aside, pressing himself down against her, and her breath caught in her throat, a familiar tickle beginning to build in the pit of her stomach.
Hannibal trailed his mouth along her jawline and down her neck, letting his teeth knick her pristine skin every once in a while. He left his mark there; a droplet of her blood appeared just below her jaw. Hannibal inhaled its scent deeply, then wrenched Ophelia's head back and ran his tongue over the small prick of blood. Ophelia's hands knotted in Hannibal's hair, a small moan escaping her parted lips. Hannibal felt a jolt of heat and energy fire through him. He took her in for a moment, entirely vulnerable and submissive beneath him. She quivered with anticipation, her legs itching to wrap around him again, and her hands grasping at his hair.
And then in one motion, Hannibal pulled Ophelia's wrists away from him and pinned them above her head. Entirely dominant, he thrust into her. She gasped, back arching, hips bucking, and fingers curling against his hands as he turned animalistic, a growl growing in his chest with each movement. Hannibal sat back, pulling her with him, their bodies still intertwined. He grasped the back of her neck with one hand, and the small of her back with the other as she rolled her hips against his. Hannibal, teeth clenched, held Ophelia's face level with his. The spot of blood on her neck had appeared again.
He thrust forward as she continued to roll her hips, and Ophelia threw her head back, a gasp and a shriek of pleasure clawing its way up her throat. Hannibal's lips curled into a snarl as he aggressively pulled her face back down to his. His hand covered the back of her neck and held it there, their heavy breaths mingling in a steamy heat.
Taking Hannibal entirely by surprise, Ophelia thrust all of her weight forward, pushing him onto his back. He tried to regain control, but Ophelia snaked her body against his, and he submitted. She took his hands in hers and guided them over her bare body, bringing them to rest on her chest. As she rocked back and forth, holding Hannibal's hands in place, she felt the bubble in the pit of her stomach begin to waver. Goosebumps began to appear on her skin. The hair at the back of Hannibal's neck stood on end.
But the power struggle continued as Hannibal latched a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face beside his. The other hand clasped firmly on her backside.
"Don't test me, Ophelia," he muttered, each syllable accented with a rough thrust. He flipped her back onto the bed, stomach down, and loomed over her. He held her head still with a hand around her neck as he reached down between her legs. She shuddered, her back arching against his chest.
He held her there for a moment, her back pressed against him, then breathed in her ear, "I'll take you just how I want you, and there's nothing you can do about it." His grip between her legs tightened, and she whimpered.
He took her again, dominant and animalistic, relishing every moan and gasp that came from her. It was clear that they were both reaching their ends. In the last few moments, he turned Ophelia around to face him. Hannibal wanted to see her eyes.
As they both began to unravel entirely, Hannibal dug the tips of his fingers into Ophelia's skin, while her fingernails raked down his back, leaving long, stinging red marks in their wake. Electricity ran through their tightly wound bodies, shaking their foundations and turning their minds silent. For a moment, the only sensations they could feel were each other. Hannibal, tasting the sweet spice of Ophelia's lips, listening to her short, whimpering breaths, and feeling her soft skin quiver beneath his fingers. And Ophelia, seeing nothing but the chocolate of his eyes.
Hannibal fell back onto the tousled sheets, pulling Ophelia down with him. They lay there in silence for a moment, Ophelia splayed across his strong body, and Hannibal holding her there.
"Stay," he commanded, closing his eyes. For a moment, Ophelia feared he had found her out, but then she realized what he really meant.
Ophelia waited for a long while before she dared to move. Hannibal looked so peaceful when he slept. It was as if everything that he had done, and everything that she had learned about him was a ruse, and that she had seen the real Hannibal that night. She felt a pang of sadness and guilt as she crept back to her room. Unable to sleep, she slipped into a pair of jeans and an old knit sweater and began to make herself look a bit less tousled. After she had pulled her hair into a braid and reapplied a bit of the makeup that had been wiped off, she finished packing her bags.
At one o'clock, Ophelia was still wide awake. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection, trying to think of anything but Hannibal. It was wholly impossible, though; she was too attached, though she was afraid. That night had surely meant something. It had to be more than just a tryst. Thoughts battled in Ophelia's head until morning.
The only thing keeping her company until Alana arrived was the hooting of an owl.