VII

There's no release

Note : Here is finally the chapter 8. Sorry for the delay. Thank you for your patience.

Thanks Astridu!
Happy reading!

The motel was like all the establishments which lined the roads throughout the United States. In appearance rather seedy, an almost empty parking lot but for one car, an out of order vending machine next to the entrance, maybe a dozen rooms all on the ground floor, a somewhat dilapidated storefront, huge red neon letters. The only light came from the reception and I parked the car not far from there, before opening the trunk. Hannibal followed me. It was as if we shared the same thoughts or just the same reasoning. I opened one of our bags and gave him a black beanie which he put on his head, while I put on a khaki cap, lowering the visor in front of my eyes. Like this, we'd be harder to recognize to anyone who had seen our faces on the news. We had to deal with it and pray that it would work. To go on driving that night wasn't an option. The cashier had been right. Deep dark circles marked Hannibal's eyes, his face was drawn and strained, and I wasn't in any better condition. We exchanged a last look, before heading towards the entrance.

The office was like the motel. Poorly furnished, not properly maintained, lightless, and the manager behind the worn counter, was only an additional stereotype. Middle-aged, paunchy, he was captivated by any television series, slouching in a chair that seemed about to fall apart. With a vacant stare, he ate barbecue chips which he absentmindedly fished out of a torn bag. I didn't need to look at Hannibal to guess his facial expression.

"Good evening." I said, with a loud voice, so that the man would grant us his attention. "We need a room."

He muted the sound of the television and took a register and a pen.

"Can I have your ID?" He asked.

I gave him our passports, hoping he wouldn't pay attention to the photos. He copied our fake names, before raising his face to us.

"Double or two single beds?"

The question took me by surprise and an inarticulate sound came out of my mouth. When he saw I couldn't find the words, Hannibal answered in my place. The manager raised a mocking eyebrow, but made no comment, before turning back to bring a key hung on behind him.

"So take the number seven. There is a mirror on the ceiling." He told us, handing us the keychain.

"Oh my God." I muttered under my breath, rushing to get out, leaving Hannibal to pay for the room.

Hands deep in my pockets to fend against the cold, I returned to the car to get our luggage before heading to the door, upon which a "7" in golden metal was mounted. Hopping from one foot to another, I waited for Hannibal. Without a word, he opened the room and moved aside to let me in.

The room was like the rest of the motel: an ugly tapestry with undefined motifs, a carpet that had seen better days, an antique TV set on a rickety shelf with a pamphlet showing the tariffs of the pornographic channels, the infamous double bed, and an old cupboard which was missing a handle. To top it off, the room was overheated. A real oven. Literally. Immediately, sweat started running down my back, under my many layers of clothing, beading on my forehead, my temples, and I quickly put down the bags to get rid of my jacket, my cap, my sweater and shoes, while Hannibal did the same. Then I approached the radiator. Obviously, the thermostat button was broken.

I heard the sound of a zipper and turned to see Hannibal take the toiletries. I really needed a shower too.

"Do you want to go first?" He asked, as if he sensed my thoughts.

"No. Go ahead. I'll lie down a bit." I replied, turning words into action.

The mattress sagged a little too much under my weight and the sheets, if not new, were clean. But what disturbed me deeply was to see my own reflection by looking up. This guy was serious. Nevertheless, I sighed with well-being as I felt my back, stiff from too many hours of driving and naps on the seat of the old Chevrolet, finally relaxing. Hannibal disappeared into the bathroom and I closed my eyes for a moment.

An air-like caress to my hair woke me and I looked directly into his brown, hot and penetrating eyes. His fingers slid down my cheek, my neck, my skin was covered with goose bumps.

"You can go." He said softly.

I nodded, unsure of my voice, before straightening up. He followed my movement, moved back to let me get up. Then I noticed that he was wearing only a towel around his waist. A solitary water drop slowly rolled down his collarbone, passed between his defined pectorals, slowed by some fine and fair hairs on his chest, before following the line of his abdominal muscles and disappearing, absorbed by the terry cloth. I swallowed hard, my Adam's apple jerked loudly and scraped against my larynx, as my throat was dry.

"I'll ..." I hesitated, pointing to the bathroom. "…take a shower."

Quickly, I grabbed the toiletries and almost slammed the door behind me. I looked around the bathroom and saw the dirty mirror, dust on the sink, the unidentified tracks on the "white" tile, molds on the joints and the scaly shower head which spat an uneven jet with a temperature which was impossible to adjust correctly. I resigned myself to being scalded, rather than to die of cold, trying to imagine myself anywhere but here, while water relaxed my muscles. Above all, I would not think about that single water drop.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wipe myself with the hotel towel which was hanging miserably on a hook, and I dried my skin with the quilted and soft fabric which we had taken in our luggage, before knotting it on my hips and going out... to freeze in the door frame.

Lying on his stomach, his arms tucked under a pillow, Hannibal seemed asleep, still scantily clad. It was the first time I saw him like this. In this vulnerable position, I could see how he trusted me now.

Furtively, I sat on the bed beside him. My gaze was lost on the smooth curves of his body covered here and there with more or less old scars. I ran my fingertips on his back where Verger's brand was still visible. Seeing it reminded me of Mason and this nightmarish night when Hannibal had saved me. One more time. When he had brought me home, cared for my wounds. When I had told him I wouldn't miss him, that I wouldn't go looking for him and I didn't want to think about him anymore. The night he had surrendered to the police, to be sure to see me again. How could I have thought for a moment, that I'd be able to live without him indefinitely?

At length I caressed his pale skin, the curve of his spine, his prominent shoulder blades, his muscular shoulders, his proud neck, before noticing that he was watching me behind his fair hair which fell in front of his eyes. Predator's eyes. My mouth went dry. A low rumble rose from his chest, vibrated under my palm, and he fell upon me. His lips took over mine when he pinned me to the mattress and we lost our towels in the maneuver. His body covered me, wrapped me in its warmth. His hands seemed everywhere at once, stroking my ribs, grabbing my hips, slightly scratching my thighs. He slipped between my legs. His devastating kiss made me breathless and I clung to his hair, his neck and his shoulders, nibbled his neck and licked his throbbing carotid. He pressed our foreheads together, kissed my cheek, before looking into my eyes.

There was a moment of hesitation, we just shared the same air, before he sat up and grabbed my shoulder to make me turn around. I buried my face in a pillow; apprehension crawled under my skin, mingling with desire. He stepped over my thighs and his burning palms rested on me, gently down on my back and I sighed of well-being. He leaned over to me and bit my neck, before retracing the line of my vertebrae with the tip of his tongue, agonizingly slowly. My fingers caught sheets, my back arched in search of more contact. He moved back, knelt between my legs, and I turned my head to see him of the corner of my eye. He sank his teeth into the tender flesh of my left buttock, made me jump, before going down to the ground and searched in the bag of the gas station, to get out a small bottle of massage oil. I pursed my lips not to laugh and he raised an eyebrow. How could he have thought to buy that?

In his dark eyes, I knew that he had no intention to use it conventionally, and desire stirred my heart. He opened it without taking his eyes off me, before pouring some of the contents into his hand and returning the bottle to the bedside table. His imposing erection brushed against my skin and a shiver ran through me. He settled back between my thighs, his oiled fingers slipped between the two fleshy globes of my buttocks, touched me, teased me, and a complaint of frustration escaped me. The savagery had given way to sadism. And it was only when my hips rose up to meet him, he finally slipped his fingers into me, slowly, feeding on each of my reactions. He had apparently decided to teach me, away from the rush of the day before. Meticulously, he put me in agony, wiggled his fingers, added one, go further, while biting, licking, kissing my back, pushed me to my limits. He made me almost pleading, dominated by the need to feel him in me.

In perfect control of his emotions, he retrieved the bottle and I turned my head towards him again, to see him lubricate his erection, before leaning over me. He kissed my lips, penetrating me with care. A groan escaped me; our hands were entwined, pressed on the sheets and he moved against my back, sinking deep into my flesh again and again. The friction of the sheet against my cock made me arch a little more, trapped in his warmth, intoxicated by his scent, when he suddenly left me to turn me on the bed. In front of me, he devoured me with his eyes, languid under him, sweaty and breathless. I grabbed his neck and pulled him to me, to give him an eager kiss, before knotting my ankles in his back so that he could take possession of me again. He plunged his nose into my neck to inhale the scent of my skin, taking me harder, and my eyes drifted to our reflection on the ceiling. There I could see his soaked back, his tense muscles, brutal movements of his body, my nails making scarlet scratches on his shoulder blades. And the pleasure on my face, the desire in my eyes, my red lips, my wet hair. Seeing myself like this, submitting to this man, this predator, this unique and complex human being, shook me deeply.

His lips found mine and I lost myself in his kiss, before suddenly reversing our positions. Surprised, he could only follow my tracks. A hoarse moan passed his throat when I impaled myself on him before lasciviously grinding my hips. He grabbed my dick and stood up, gripping my waist, caressed me expertly, until I trembled in his arms and cried against his lips, my fingers digging furrows in his shoulders. He watched me lose control, moving with more passion, receiving him more ardently in me, he drank my sighs, kissed me breathlessly. The pleasure rose in my lower abdomen, devoured my entrails, before exploding in his hand. He made me switch back, before taking me harder, stronger, pinning me to the mattress, biting my neck and climaxing inside me, struck by orgasm.

I kissed his sweaty forehead, caressed his uncombed hair, his soaked back until he relaxed and calmed down. He kissed my latest bite mark, then my cheek and my lips. I hugged him, appeased, satiated. Then we languidly stretched out on the bed without covering ourselves with sheets. It was too hot in this room. I snuggled against his chest, slipped a leg between his and sighed with delight, listening to his heart beating. All this was new to me, unknown. No words came to me, my thoughts fluctuated freely. Then I met Hannibal's eyes in the mirror on the ceiling. He seemed fascinated by what he saw and I realized that he created a new place in his memory palace, to never forget. I tried to do it too. We had just made love desperately, in a seedy hotel room in the middle of nowhere, while the police were after us. At least there was no corpse in the next room. At least we were free. Amoral, outlawed and perhaps insane. But free.