So ! It's been a while I didn't get back to our lovely Hannibal. Get ready to sweat a bit, this chapter is rather... ahem. Steaming. I don't know why, to be honest.

Hannibal was on the wheel, his usual three-piece suit traded for a more casual look more adapted to the scorching heat of summer. Baltimore was slowly, but surely welcoming a heat wave that should have made Frances crazy if she had not spent so much time at the beach house, and if Hannibal didn't have air conditioning in his house. The perks of being overseas, for in Europe, people suffered – and died – from the heat.

The couple was retreating from Wolf's trap; Hannibal wanted to check on Alana's health who was in the throes of gravidic nausea and other merry little moments. Will had got her to move in with him, if only to take care of her while she struggled with the first months of pregnancy. This afternoon visit left Frances a little bereft; she didn't know whether to be happy or spooked. Alana's blood pressure was low – nothing to be worried about, Hannibal said – but things were on the mend. The happy couple had shown them their first ultrasound, and the young woman was impressed by the precision of the images.

Yet, her heart was bleeding, inside, as Hannibal pointed to the little organs with clinical precision under the watchful gaze of both Alana and Will. Their thoughts were enough to read; when would Frances and Hannibal's turn be? A heavy mantle on Frances' shoulders, so heavy that she couldn't wait to flee the enclosed house of Wolf Trap that had been a refuge so often in the past. The smell of dogs, the cosy interior was but a furnace today where her mind burnt and heart leaked. It was a family's house now, no longer the celibate refuge where Will and Frances could linger on the sofa and talk to midnight.

He deserved happiness and a family. The chemistry between Alana and him was obvious, they loved each other. Very soon, they would welcome a tiny bundle in their midst and see their child grow. Nurture this new life, watch it become something they had never imagined, and beam with pride. They both deserved it.

Frances understood that Will's priorities had shifted, especially with Alana so sick that she had lost ten pounds at least. But Hannibal's eyes, silently following their interaction in the room, told the her something else brewed. Often, she found her husband's amber gaze fixed upon Will before it travelled back to her. Unreadable, like the water of the dark lakes of the Alps where no ripple hinted at what lay below. Unsettling, and in the end, she settled beside him, taking his long fingers and nuzzling his neck. He understood the message; she needed an escape. So, the ever-polite psychiatrist made excuses, leaving some food behind in Will's fridge – that she could only hope wasn't human – and off they went.

An hour later, stuck in Baltimore's never-ending traffic, classical music played on the radio while she watched, mesmerised, the lithe muscles flex on Hannibal's forearms on the wheel. Despite the heat, he still wore a light shirt but had rolled the sleeves up; something he only indulged in while cooking. His hair was slightly askew, sunglasses firmly set upon his face, high cheekbones on display and long legs tapping the rhythm. Such a beautiful man … magnificent … and dangerous.

They had talked at length of her feelings – the baby, new responsibilities, their choice not to have a family, Will's distance – but Frances couldn't help but feel that he was keeping something else from her. Will's uneasiness was a dead giveaway; something was up, and Hannibal knew what it was. Whenever she asked, the same answer came again and again. I'm afraid it is not my secret to tell. An attempt to redirect her annoyance to Will … but she knew, deep down, that Hannibal was pleased with this bit of leverage. Whatever it was caused his eyes to sparkle.

And there was absolutely no way to pry it out from the psychiatrist … even with her womanly wiles. Try as she might, even if she played the seduction game well, Hannibal always in control. The perks of being older, perhaps … and a psychopath. But the idea held some appeal … after all, what else could they possibly do for fun, on a Sunday afternoon? What would happen if the young woman suddenly assaulted his pants right now, stuck in the traffic? A playful smirk spread upon Frances' lips; Hannibal certainly would be appalled!

She sighed then, trying to calm racing thoughts. Was it the heat getting to her, or the sudden wave of warmness the result of …? Dropping the pill seemed to have a strange effect, as control was slipping through her fingers… It was to be expected, really, since Frances knew that hormones tended to level desire and fluctuations. But phew … this was way stronger than anything she had experienced. Not even a few glasses of wine had ever unleashed her that way. And there he was, the man that danced in her desires, looking perfect beside her in his loose linen shirt.

On a whim, her hand landed upon Hannibal's leg, feeling the fine linen fabric of his summer suit. He addressed her a curious look, wondering why, after half an hour of silence, she was willing to breach the distance. The corner of her mouth lifted as she leant, dropping a very light kiss to his neck. She didn't retreat then, lips still hoovering above his pulse point. With the heat, his scent was more pronounced than usual; Frances lost herself in it. Hannibal showered way too often; it took him a day to start exuding this familiar fragrance she had come to associate with her mate … and strangely, safety.

Sniffing once more, the young woman started nuzzling his neck ever so slowly, sensually, as if she had all the time in the world and he was a piece of everlasting candy. Hannibal hummed slightly, offering his neck until the traffic started again and he straightened.

— "Almost home," he said, his voice less cool than usual.

His breathing picked up. Frances retreated a little, her hand still caressing his thigh until he shifted. Frances' eyebrows shot up; she was quite ready to have her wicked way with him … right there, right now. For a moment, she wondered if people would mind if she rode him at the back of the Bentley. Damn, naughty girl… Never one to be outwitted, Hannibal addressed his wife a faint smile. His eyes probably sparkled beneath the sunglasses when his long fingers landed on her thigh. He started a slow, tantalising caress through the long summer dress. The light fabric did nothing to quell the trail of fire that his fingers left as he rounded her knee, and slowly progressed along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Higher, and higher still, causing her breath to catch and blood to pool down in her belly.

He retreated down again and Frances almost whimpered at the loss of his sensual caress until he resumed his upward movement. Little by little, wave by wave, his fingers wreaked havoc on her senses, caressing, massaging, gaining ground inch by inch. Need created a dull ache and she closed her eyes, struggling with the sensation. At last, Hannibal steered the car to exit the highway. Frances sighed in relief; she could almost smell the lime tree that grew in his garden by now. The psychiatrist's hand didn't relent though, intend on playing this game to the end. His tantalising caress went on as the Bentley passed the second to last light. Frances bit back a groan when the last traffic light turned red … until Hannibal's hand plunged between her thighs without a warning.

Frances' body jerked, her back arching into his touch with a moan. He grinned, keeping the pressure taut.

— "You are burning today, my beautiful."

Frances' cheeks flushed in embarrassment; she had no control over that damn body and wanted him so badly! The green light caused his hand to recede and the young woman dipped her head as he reached for the remote of the property door.

He gave her an impressed look; she was nearly writhing on the car seat. It fuelled his manly pride to have her in such a state, and wasn't too surprised when she latched onto him as soon as he stepped out of the car. Frances pulled at his sleeve like a child, dragging him all the way to the front door while he fumbled with the keys, her mouth once again suckling at his neck. The offending door eventually opened and she dashed inside, divesting her handbag and heels onto the floor without a care in the world.

— "Gods, I want you."

Hannibal's eyebrows didn't have time to convey his surprise that her lips were already claiming his. Such passion! He'd never seen her so unhinged! Her need caused him to growl, calling at the beast, inside. A beast that wanted to possess and brand. And even if breeding was not possible anymore, Hannibal was too happy to provide his mate with a taste of his manhood. Reaching for the lithe woman whose curves were crushed against his chest – bless the light linen shirt, he could almost feel her skin – he picked her up, long fingers cupping her upper thigh as she explored his mouth.

Incandescent. Liquid dire in his arms, her lips releasing his as she plunged to the side of his neck, suckling and nipping, crushing her little nose into his skin to inhale him. Her muscles rippled along her upper back and he squeezed her bottom through the fluid material of her summer dress. In a moment of lucidity, Hannibal considered dragging her upstairs … too far. Already, his knees were buckling under the weight of his desire. Blood retreated from his brain, feeding his inner instinct with frenzy. His hips bucked against hers, causing her to gasp and tighten her grip.

— "Please, take me now," she whispered in his ear.

Hannibal froze, watching her offered lips, her hooded eyes in the afternoon light. So beautiful, and so willing, she was about to combust under his touch. He hooked her legs around his waist and made a beeline to the kitchen partition – this one was thick enough to resist an assault. Frances' back hit the wall with a thud. Slightly winded by the shock, she didn't get time to recover that Hannibal had plunged to her collarbone. The full contact of his body, trapping her between concrete and a hot, steaming male almost sent her over the edge.

But despite the friction, despite the scent of him, his hair tousled by her fingers, and the strong humming that ran through her veins, something was missing. Frances trapped his jaw between her palms, forcing his head up to give him a thorough, mind blowing kiss. Tongues danced, duelling in a battle of wills while her body undulated, seeking more contact, more friction. As if she could melt into him, and merge entirely. The need to feel him inside throbbed so strongly, nearly painful, calling him in.

— "Please, please," she begged anew.

Hannibal set her feet on the ground; she whimpered from the loss, only to gasp when his hands lifted her skirt and discarded the cotton underwear. She remained against the wall, panting, her eyes caught in his smouldering amber. Hannibal took a step forward, closing the distance again, his body hoovering but an inch from her. Teasing her, his breath upon her face, while he unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down. She tried to reach up to kiss him, but the psychiatrist didn't bulge, resisting easily her attempt to pull him in. A rock, unbothered by the thundering sea, watching his prey.

— "You will beg, my beautiful," he told her, his hand caressing her cheek.

For a moment, time stood still, blood pounding in their ears, need throbbing in her lower belly until she sagged against the wall, and relented.

— "Please, Hannibal. I need you," she whispered, watching his beloved features.

The psychiatrist smirked, and offered his wife a kiss that wasn't quite enough to quell the fire burning her inside out. As she moaned, licking at his tongue, his hips suddenly pressed forward. Frances gasped, feeling his readiness against her dress. Seeking more contact, her back arched against the wall. His hands dove along her shoulders, down to her waist, then to her hips. He gathered the fabric there, exposing her delightful upper thighs to his touch. The kiss intensified, more savage, her hips grinding against him until he could take no more, and tipped his manhood into her welcoming core.

— "Oh my God!" she rasped, her nails digging into his linen shirt.

Despite the savage heat that now racked his frame, Hannibal took his time, penetrating inch by inch, retreating sometimes, just to see how her eyes widened, and her hips danced to pull him in. But he was in control, and there was nothing she could do but await for his pleasure. Hannibal ground his hips against hers, pulling back once, twice, until at last, he was fully sheathed. He couldn't help the slight gasp that escaped him; the sensation of her inner core, constricted all around him, was heavenly. Frances sighed then, and lifted her eyes to watch him.

That was it. The sweet surrender. So willing, so welcoming, her body moulded around his, giving him full leeway, full control. Yet, Hannibal kept going slowly, his wide and long thrust causing her to whimper. One of his hands landed against the wall for support, the other lifting her left leg up as he took her. Tantalisingly slow, so close, her chest rising and falling against his. On a whim, he pulled at Frances' collar, deforming the extensible dress to access her shoulders. The swell of her lovely breast perked against the stretched fabric, causing his mouth to descend hungrily upon them. He licked and suckled without a care, knowing his insistence would create a mark. His mark.

Her hair spilled like a halo of fire, swinging with the ballet of his hips. Frances gasped, her hands grabbing his shirt, then fumbling around the hem to roll it up. She pulled the cloth harshly, tugging up until he relented and hunched his shoulder to allow her to tear it away from his frame. He gave a harsh thrust, burying himself deep within her core to keep her stabbed upon the wall as he passed the linen fabric over his arms. Frances arched again, her body undulating like a siren, searching for him with desperation. As soon as the shirt left his skin, her mouth latched upon his chest.

Sweat mingled with the wetness of her tongue in his chest hair, her lips glued to his skin, tasting him, licking, loving him … loving him with anything she had, surrendering her body to his in an act of pure abandon. Hannibal's chest swelled, his body on fire – it was so hot today, and her sweating form moving against him didn't help. He worked her steadily, pleasure building up in his lower belly as she wound her arms around him, searching his shoulders for support, her mouth travelling to his upper pectoral. So warm, so plush, so soft, so strong… Helpless, like a disarticulate doll in his arms. Hannibal growled, sharp canines bared as his inner beast asked for more. He reached for her thighs, pulling her up against the wall to change the angle.

A great "Oh" escaped her as she arched, calling him in, deeper and deeper until her moans turned to cries, and she abandoned the idea of control entirely. He'd never heard her so wild, so desperate to bury him inside of her, so incredibly unhinged. The woman was gone, replaced by a she-wolf animal, nails scratching, hips buckling, head thrown back to the sky, surrounded by her fiery mane whose ringlets danced with them. And her cries, sweet lady, he'd never heard how vocal she could be. She begged him, called him, then lost all manner of coherence as he pumped into her with such force that her back echoed against the wall.

It was exhilarating; he felt more powerful, even, than when he dealt the death blow upon an unsuspecting victim. To have such a strong woman submitted, begging for more, it fuelled him with fire. The thrill that kept him high pulled at the thread of his sanity, and soon, very soon, his pleasure couldn't be contained anymore. Hannibal growled, the sound echoing deep in his chest as he exploded inside of her. His hand tightened around her legs as he ground his wife into the wall, thrusts powerful and domineering, chest sweating, fingers clawing at her to keep her in his grasp. Frances spasmed then, her core clenching around him so tightly that he couldn't help the mighty cry that reverberated in his chest, all control forgotten as his seed spilled inside her plush form. His knees almost gave out; time seemed to still as they both clung to each other like a mariner to its life-belt.

Frances panted heavily, her legs locked behind his back, daring him to leave the safety of her core. He didn't want to, really, and he took a moment to catch his breath. For the first time in … forever, he had relented to his primal urges. Even when killing, Hannibal always calculated. But today … today was about reuniting with his inner animal, and it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. A warm hand caressed his shoulder, sliding to encase his nape, playing with the soaked hair tenderly. Her lips graced his collarbone one moment, her breath still short, until…

— "I love you, Hannibal. Thank you"

A shudder ran up his spine, and he pushed his head back to take a good look at her. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes shining from her high. Such reconnaissance upon her fair features. The ultimate beauty, whose inner muscles still held his manhood with tenderness.

— "You'll never have to thank me for letting me have my way with you, my beautiful."

And he dipped to her lips, caressing them slowly as if to bring closure to this very heated moment. Then his nose ran along her cheek, softly, gently, until it buried in her neck to inhale her scent. They were both mingled, now, both hers and his smell intertwined. Hannibal remained there a long time, his heart rate slowly evening, his lips gently set upon her skin as she caressed his hair. At last, he slipped out of her with a groan. Damn, his appendage was sensitive … and so was she, for she whimpered miserably.

Frances' legs were wobbly, at best, when they touched the ground. Fortunately, Hannibal had a good grip on her hips and the wall was still standing behind her. The young woman blinked. What had just happened?

Her body still hummed, her head swam, and she found the beloved features of her husband slightly amused when she caught his gaze.

— "What …?"

He tenderly brushed her cheek, his hand warm against her jaw. He should have looked ridiculous with his pants halfway down his legs, the rest of him naked. But his inflated muscles – for the exertion – and the sweat clinging to his chest only enhanced his magnificence.

— "I think you are experiencing the desires of a woman without chemicals for the first time, my beautiful."

Her eyes widened; so this was where the animalistic streak came from. Seeing Alana, the notion of a baby had called the mate inside of her. Asking for the seed of her dominant male. The ultimate male. Hannibal.

— "Waw. This non-contraception is doing wonders for me."

The psychiatrist nodded, a slight smile building as he took in her appearance.

— "And for me. I had you beg for the very first time."

Frances froze; his words called a memory to resurface. The smell of fresh hay and horses in a cold evening, before a dreadful battle against Saxons.

— "I have begged to you once, on my knees."

The psychiatrist froze, his amber eyes set upon her face.

— "When?"

— "I have begged Tristan not to throw himself in battle to protect me."

Hannibal's tongue darted above his upper lip, and he pulled his pants and briefs up to regain some composure. His eyes were dancing when they returned to her, his features carefully neutral.

— "Ah. I take it I didn't listen."

Frances shook her head sadly, but her heart wasn't devoid of fondness when she recalled Tristan's reaction that day. Anger, just another way to show that he cared.

— "Nope, you were as stubborn as I was. But enough of death. For this, I'm quite ready to grovel at your feet. You are an incredible lover."

A smile bloomed on Hannibal's face and he offered his arm to Frances like a knight of old, intent on leading her to the shower.

— "I am glad my lady is satisfied."

Her greedy look caused him smile to widen.

— "More than satisfied. You are incredibly beautiful, Hannibal. And talented. No one ever managed to make me lose control like this"

Feeling playful, the psychiatrist scooped his wife into his arms and climbed the stairs to their bedroom as if she weighed nothing. The mess would have to wait; they both needed a thorough shower.

An hour later found them both refreshed, and while Frances fished the pasta dough out of the neatly organised fridge, Hannibal set off to assemble the Italian machine that would allow them to cut neat tagliatelle. There was such habit, now, between them when they cooked together. A tandem performing a defined dance, where bodies would circle around the other, share the dishes, the spices, sometimes without even asking. A ballet, less sweaty than the previous one, but no less passionate.

— "There, my beautiful. The machine is ready."

Frances dropped a kiss at the corner of his mouth, eyeing the space he had cleared out for her to spread the fresh pasta out. The machine was a new acquisition; surprisingly, Hannibal had never taken time to bake his own pasta. He used to think the dish too mundane until Frances started cooking gnocchi, pizzas and making her own tagliatelle. Memories of his mother resurfaced – of Italian descent – and rather than refuse to dwell in the happiest years of his life, Hannibal had accepted to open this door again.

— "Thank you, Hannibal. This will do nicely"

The psychiatrist bowed at the waist with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

— "Anything for good pasta"

— "You do enjoy your Italian food," she smiled fondly.

Taking Hannibal out of his zone of comfort was definitely a victory. If she had, sometimes, messed up pretty badly when testing, he never failed at complimenting her on her Italian dishes.

— "Immensely," he answered, his voice low.

His large hand landed at her waist, pulling her against him. His amber eyes roamed her face, long fingers grazing her cheekbone and for the millionth time, Frances pitied that she couldn't hear his thoughts. Those depths remained unreadable, swirling around with a promise she couldn't decipher.

— "You were created for me, my beautiful."

Frances snorted then, tasting the humour in it. He was right, she had literally been created, a clone, to host a mind. A copy of sorts uprooted and left in a world where the soul of the man she once loved was covered in layers of madness.

— "God has a twisted sense of humour," she retorted.

Hannibal didn't take the bait, although he could feel the bitterness in her voice. Instead, he wound his arms around her and hugged her tight. Frances' tense shoulders sagged against him. His presence, his heart beating against her chest, his faint scent surrounding her was enough to rid her of any fight. She relished in the even breaths he took and the sturdiness of his body against hers, rubbing her cheek across his collar until her need for closeness was fulfilled.

— "Thank you, darling," she eventually whispered.

Her reward was a faint smile, and a kiss.

Then … the cooking started. He, working on the sauce, and she making the tagliatelle. A perfect team, whose results would probably have anyone begging for more. A team which rules were dictated by Hannibal and his maniac disorder; Frances had learnt where to store things, and how to do it. There was no leeway in the psychiatrist's kitchen. Oh, he wouldn't yell, but his thunderous gaze whenever she didn't clean up properly told her enough.

Frances had no trouble adapting to him. Early in their relationship, she had remarked how he kept his mouth shut and cleaned after her. Then, an hour, a day, a week later, an off comment would be uttered about it. Sly, polite, yet cutting. Hannibal would use his psychiatrist persona to hurt, feigning to use aloofness. Using his empathy and his keen knowledge of the mind to manipulate feelings. The same incredible levels of empathy that allowed him to blend into society.

Without it, Hannibal would have been a psychopath. Without it, society would have exposed him easily. But the psychiatrist always knew what to say, exactly, to cause a reaction in front. He played of his charm and charisma, attuned to others' feelings, to quell their senses. His persona was off-putting; it didn't matter. With a few smiles, a little food, a choice of words, people melted, burnt by his aura, consumed by his magnetic presence. Frances the first … except that she knew, exactly, the predator he was.

The young woman nodded her thanks when he passed over the knife he considered adequate to cut the pasta; she didn't even try to choose one that suited her needs. The fight wasn't worth it. Yes. Her choice not to allow a child in this environment was the ultimate sacrifice, but it was for the best. What would Hannibal's retaliation be with toys and clothes out of place? When their child would start to misbehave? Draw on a wall or scratch furniture? Throw a tantrum? Vomit on the carpet?

And even if, by the mightiest of miracles, their children were little angels, how would Hannibal's manipulative ways imprint a virgin psyche?

— "So … where to, first, my beautiful?"

Hannibal's smooth voice shook Frances out of her musings and she returned to her pasta. In a few weeks, they would be travelling away from this pristine and heavily decorated house. She couldn't wait to escape this life, for a while.

— "North, I don't want to be in Venice early September, it stinks there. And I've had enough of being in the oven."

The psychiatrist's mouth quirked at her definition of the Baltimore summer.

— "Your wish is my command."

Yeah. So far, so good, right? After all, Hannibal had not killed a man ever since she walked into his life. She was the only one who had…

As usual, please leave a review. It is always difficult to not know what people think.