It’s 10:36 PM. I’m in Greenwood, Delaware. My name is Will Graham.
I say it out loud just to keep me company: I’m back in the bedroom of that poor bitch, alone - by the way - like the gigantic antisocial idiot I am and I don’t even know why I’m here exactly. Just one of those feelings. One of those fucking feelings, you know the ones: they keep crawling on your skin like an army of centipedes, and do you know what happens when centipedes find your asshole? Oh, you don’t want to know, trust me, don’t ask. So here I am, trying to see things through before they find my asshole.
The cleaners haven’t been here yet or if they were they spent their time shooting heroin because there's so much blood still, its stale rotten smell is filling up my nostrils, maybe this would be a good time to check out of my life again, I’m so ready to throw up everything I’ve eaten in the last 3 days - except it was mostly whiskey, so I cannot really throw it up. Lucky me and yay for alcoholism.
I suddenly realize what a very, and I mean all caps VERY, good idea it was to come back here alone, when actually I’m so not over the shock I got at the scene the first time. I fucked up royally, in front of everybody: when I left the room I was covered in the victim’s blood as if I rolled in it, like my imbecile dogs when they roll themselves in every single fox turd they find in the woods. I don’t know how many foxes we have in the woods in Wolf Trap but the turds appear to be infinite in number. The team did look at me more or less like I look at my covered-in-fox-poop dogs, maybe with a tad less expectation. I mean, dogs you can train successfully, me evidently not. That’s why I’m here alone now, I cannot stand them looking at me that way again, the shame of failure on my skin, together with the fucking centipedes, but I think I just saw eyes under the bed? Did the cleaners let a fucking raccoon in? Oh my God, not the brain raccoon thing again. Please make it a real fucking monster under the bed, so I can properly piss myself and move on.
Holy fucking shitting Jesus on a cross, I got what I asked for. A thing just overturned the bed on me and run out. I tried to grab it and it peeled in my hand. It PEELED its hand in my grasp. This is not okay and I am not okay. I will never be okay. I take back everything: please give me the crazy raccoon thing again, it was quaint and kind of cute compared to this. I’m shaking like a fucking leaf, my teeth clattering so loud I cannot even feel the thoughts in my head, I have arrhythmia. I think I-
It’s 2:40 AM. My name is Will Graham. And where the fuck am I now?
It’s a big bedroom, blue walls, huge bed, the decor was obviously set up by a mad person, what with pornographic Japanese prints (those people are quite limber, and those animals too) and swords and antlers… wait, I’ve never seen his bedroom, but there is only one person I know that this could belong to: Hannibal Lecter. What the fuck am I doing in Hannibal’s bedroom this late at night? Why am I alone in it? Why the fuck am I fucking naked like a jaybird and slightly wet under this white fluffy bathrobe? Oh fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
Did I harm Hannibal? Did I… kill him? Have I just washed myself clean of the blood?
I need to sit down, I cannot breathe. I need to remember. This is a fucking nightmare. It cannot be real. It cannot be. I cannot be in it.
Breathe. Think. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It’s 2:43 AM. I’m in Hannibal Lecter’s bedroom, Baltimore. My name is Will Graham.
Control the panic. Check what I know and what I can infer: I appear to be uninjured. No bruises, no cuts, not on my hands nor on any other part of my body. No traces of a fight nor blood, mine or otherwise. I’m freshly out of the shower. I have a minty taste in my mouth. My clothes are not in this room. The bed is made. Nothing seems out of place.
Nothing violent happened in this room.
I push the heels of my hands against my eyes, I remain still in complete darkness, I need to breathe, and think, and breathe, and think. Occam's razor: there is some very obvious explanation for all of this. Easy and simple. I cannot have harmed Hannibal. I would never, ever do it. Hannibal is my friend, I care for him. A special kind of friend. I’ve had a few sex fantasies about him - a dozen? - and some of those were an itty-bitty violent but that’s just because in my professional opinion Doctor Lecter, under those ridiculous windowpane three piece suits and smooth demeanor, is a kinky son-of-a-bitch.
As soon as my legs stop shaking I will get out of this room and find Hannibal and everything will be alright.
Wait, this is the sound of a shower being turned off. I didn’t hear the water over the clattering of my agitated heart imploding. Someone is walking out from the en-suite.
Lord be fucking praised, hallelujah and amen.
Hannibal is fine and unharmed.
He’s also buck naked (I won’t ogle, I’m a gentleman) but I mean, this is his home, his bedroom, there’s nothing strange in that. What the fuck am I doing here, almost naked myself, though?
He saunters toward me, all graceful and feline, and naked - did I mention? Very, very naked. I don’t see his face because his head is buried in the white towel he’s using to dry his hair. He stops in front of me, very, very close, and lets the towel fall to the ground. I’m so relieved to see him, to see that he’s okay, that I’ve not put him in any danger, that I haven’t hurt him. Oh God, I’m so relieved.
I barely have time to ask him “Are you alright, Hannibal?”, that he gently cups my face in his big, strong hands and covers my mouth with his.
Hannibal Lecter, entirely naked in his bedroom, is kissing me, the sweaty mess also known as Special Agent Will Graham, his almost patient, almost friend, almost naked. The kiss lacks any uncertainty, it’s all soft lips, sharp teeth, wet tongue, slow and deep and proprietary. I go with it because what else? It is, honestly, glorious and the best thing that has happened to me recently, and by recently I mean in quite a fucking long time indeed. I didn’t harm him nor kill him, so I kind of deserve something nice for it - I guess? The kiss ends only because I haven’t grown gill yet.
“It was wonderful, you cheeky boy. Now stop fishing for compliments and come here…” Hannibal finally answers, just a purr in my hear, nuzzling against my temple while his hands get inside my bathrobe, sliding all over my chest, thumbs insisting on my nipples. I shudder at the electric jolt his touch sends through me.
Hannibal squints at me. “Are you alright, Will?”
“Sure, sure. I’m just a bit…” I move my right hand in the air, a windmill of haphazard suggestions.
“Don’t tell me, I was surprised that you came on to me so strong.” Hannibal’s eyes flicker with delight. “I didn’t picture you as the type who cannot even wait to reach the bedroom.”
My head is dizzy. This cannot mean what it seems. I need more information. I look at Hannibal expectantly, counting on the fact that this beautiful naked man with a hardening cock really likes the sound of his own voice.
“You are such a passionate lover, Will. A bit wild, but you will not hear any complaints about it from me.” The man practically giggles in my face, then lowers his gaze demurely.
My renowned deductive powers have no choice but to concede.
Apparently I fucked my buddy Doctor Hannibal Lecter (passionately and a bit wildly) while I was entirely out of it. Somewhere that is not this bedroom (the kitchen? The foyer? The studio? The stairs? I wish I fucking knew). I don’t remember a single thing and the lack of details is killing me. This is deeply unsettling and entirely unfair, considering all the times I jacked off thinking about him. For once that I have the guts to throw myself at someone and I don’t get a rejection (fuck you Alana, fuck you and your soft sweet lips and your niggling doubts), I don’t have any memory of it. Not a single fucking thing. Jesus, this is unnerving. Let’s look at the positives. My episodes might improve my personality: I cannot imagine trying anything with Hannibal in my normal state, not even in a million years, no matter how much I’d like to fuck him.
“So… I didn’t put you off. Or… hurt you…” I search his face: he seems so open and relaxed, all toothy smiles and soft hair falling on his face.
I stall. I need to make a decision. Either I come clean with the truth or I play along, there’s no coming back. But he’s Hannibal, my friend, I want to tell him the truth. He’ll understand.
Hannibal looks at me curiously.
“Will, are you sure you’re alright? You haven’t lost time again, right? Because if that was your behavior during an episode… God, you would need to be kept under very strict observation.” Worry clouds his face. “If you could do that without being present, you could do anything.” More silence, then, “…even be the Chesapeake Ripper yourself.”
Hannibal chuckles at the joke. I do too, even though I don’t find it fucking funny, at all. So not funny. Tragically not amusing at all.
The decision is made, there and then: I cannot tell him the truth about tonight. Ever. That would send me to the mental asylum, and people like me get in but never get out. It’s a death sentence, except worse. I cannot. I’m not a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting to pounce. Hannibal is wrong about this, I’m not dangerous, I promise, I would never hurt anyone, I know it in my heart. I know who I am. I would never hurt Hannibal and in fact I didn’t. By the look of it, I rather gave him reason to enjoy himself. And to want more of it.
I relax my face and smile as openly as I can under Hannibal’s scrutiny. I run my hands through his hair, soft like feathers, I go for a quick peck on his lips.
Hannibal seems satisfied with my reaction. He unknots my bathrobe, letting it fall on the ground. It pools around my feet, white as untouched snow, white as innocent lies that are rather different from the one I’m engaging in right now. I feel my heart thrumming in my chest, my blood sounds like the deafening wave of a roiling ocean waiting for me to jump.
He’s gazing into my eyes when he speaks, his eyes burn like coals and his voice is low and hoarse.
“Let me clear your doubts about how I feel about you, my darling Will.”
Hannibal takes me by the hand and leads me to his bed.
With wobbly legs and a fluttering heart, I follow him meekly.
Not to brag, but I consider this one to be in the Olympus of my practical jokes.
I do have a soft spot for the one I played on that arrogant cretin of Alfred J. Gallo while we were both interning at Johns Hopkins: I falsified both his handwritten notes and the computer records, and had him remove the healthy kidney of one of his patient. I also managed to salvage the perfectly serviceable kidney from the waste and feed it to him: my Rognon en Casserole Dijonnaise turned out delicious, of course. He cried so much over that dinner, at my table, while I was consoling him for the end of his career. Moving, truly. He still sends me cards for Christmas, from the hellhole he hid in, where he manages some meager family business. Ah, those were simpler times.
But this one I played on Will… truly perfection. Perfectly executed on the spur of the moment thanks to my exceptional improvisational skills. Less bloody than I usually favor, but I admit that not many of my divertissements end in such copious sexual satisfaction, so this one appropriately stands apart.
Will stumbles into my home in the middle of the night. I don’t know how he managed to drive for hours in his conditions, evidently his subconscious has already formed a solid connection between his need for help and yours truly, and I’m entirely supportive of this. He is feverish and unfocused, under shock, capable to comprehend and execute simple orders but he’s not really present. In this state nothing he sees or does will be committed to persistent memory.
So I implement my brilliant idea, just a seed of opportunity put in Will’s way, to see how he reacts to it, what he chooses. This surprising boy is a precious relief to predictability and boredom.
I guide him upstairs, into my bedroom then to the en-suite. I undress him, quickly shower him, have him gurgle some mouthwash then send him waiting for me in the bedroom. Once I see he’s coming to his senses, the game is afoot: I present myself as his brand new lover, swept away by Will’s passionate initiative.
Will has plenty of possibilities, and among all of them he chooses: and he chooses to lie. He’s clearly terrified, a panicked scent oozing from his skin, acrid and dominant even over the burning fever that is ravaging his brain. I infer, from his half questions, that he fears having hurt me above anything else - how tender and innocent of him. Once that is out of the way, he fears for his freedom. He fears being caged, studied, poked with no mercy, and he’s not wrong, it’s what would happen to somebody like him. Will is different and unique but the pigs that roam over the Earth do not appreciate his gifts, they just gnaw and chew and destroy everything beautiful. That’s why Will needs my guidance and my protection. Yes I need to break him first, and he’ll suffer through it, but then how glorious he will rise from the ruins of common morals, pure and perfect in his rage as I know he can be.
His distress is delicious, as much as his evident attraction toward me. I kiss him, and he’s sweet and yielding. I touch him, and he’s sensitive and needy. I too have plenty of possibilities: I could tell him to go back to Wolf Trap or have him sleep in the guest room, he would agree to anything I ask of him, eager to be believed and protected. But I want to see this delightful creature breathless, debauched and ruined under me, I want to break him and rebuild him, and I feel no guilt whatsoever in indulging in my desires. So I take him to my bed, and of all the choices he may take, he accepts to follow.
I take my time to taste Will’s delicious mouth. While I cup his face in my hands, his distinctive Cupid’s bow grants the tribute of teasing teeth and soothing tongue. Then it’s time to worship his lower lip, my fingers running through his curls, before I lick inside his mouth, going deeper and deeper, coaxed in by the little sighs he makes me drink out of his lips pressed against mine. He’s hungry and pliant, and soft moans escape him in response to my lips, my tongue, my teeth. I explore him unhurriedly, his fear and panic subsiding, unveiling Will as passionate and perfectly matching in desire, the most delightful ability granted to him by his unrivaled empathy, I wager.
I take my time to learn the shape of Will’s beautiful body, to caress his skin with my fingertips, to scratch long red lines with my nails while he arches beneath my touch. I want to be able to draw him just from tactile memory: volumes, planes, the way bones and muscles connect, to know where every scar is, every mark. As we lay face to face on the bed, and we kiss, bite, pull, thrust against each other, I confront the conundrum that it’s not easy for me to know where to look. Will is beautiful, in every detail, resplendent in his hunger progressively let lose, his skin sensitive and flush with desire. The way our mouths fit together, our hands, our legs, our hips, it is so immediate and devastating, it makes me ravenous and impatient. Still the part of him that attracts my gaze again and again is his face, so animated and expressive in the throes of passion, eyes heavy lidded with untold desires, cheeks flushed pink, lips reddened by kisses and bites, parted to show the tip of his wet tongue, every feature of his face a poem of asymmetry that turns into sheer perfection once you fit the pieces together. Now that his face is resplendent with the fire of want, and it is such because of me, I find it exceedingly burdensome to tear my gaze away.
I lower one hand between our bodies, I slowly caress back and forth his inner thigh, with my palm first then dragging my nails. Will growls in my mouth, then laughs, then mumbles something like I knew you were a fucking cock tease, pushing my hand up until I cup his balls, where I indulge squeezing gently and coax a low moan from him. Will removes one hand from my hair and without hesitation wraps his fingers around my cock, spreads the precum with his thumb and tentatively strokes my length a few times, gently twisting his wrist. I hum at the pleasure of his touch and it’s time I stretch over to the nightstand to get lube.
I grab both our cocks in my now slick hand: they are heavy, silky and wet, gliding easily against each other. Will’s hand joins mine and increases the pressure. Despite my desire, I maintain a lazy rhythm, waiting until it’s Will asking for more with sharp nails on my back and harder bites on my shoulder.
That’s when I realize how pleasure smells on Will Graham. It’s been on him for a while but I detect it clearly only now that fear and anxiety have taken the back seat.
Words are entirely inadequate for something so personal as the olfactory experience, they are like shadows on the wall of a cave, maybe poetry would be the less lacking art of the literary domain for this job. Better it would be to describe it with dance or music. So, in the complete absence of sufficiently precise descriptors: it’s a weak aroma, clinging close to the skin, easy to lose trace of overpowered by the strong, dominant smells of sweat and sex. It’s soft and simple. On Will, it’s the unruly zing in the wind before the autumnal rains. It’s the ozone of the electrical sparks that donated fire to primordial Earth or death to the unlucky ones that Zeus decided to burn to a crisp for his entertainment. It’s the snow-white cloud propelled by mistral winds over the salty waters of the Mediterranean. How fitting, for this beguiling creature: his eyes like stormy sky, his pleasure a harbinger of tempest. And as I breathe it in, my face sinking in Will’s soft curls, I know that I will be able to recall it and recognize it with no doubt or mistake, tomorrow o or at the end of times, while I rot buried in the deepest circle of Hell.
I make Will roll on his back and I kneel between his thighs. While I gaze at his face I caress his legs, looking forward to having them soon wrapped around my waist. My delightful boy has stopped trying to avoid my eyes, he’s flushed and overflowing with desire, accepting my hunger for him, and reciprocating it. He must see how easy this is, how simple and due and blameless it is when we are together. I lean over him to kiss him, cradling him with one arm behind his head, while with the other hand I keep exploring his thigh, his stomach, his cock, his balls. Depending on how I touch him, I get to drink from his lips different kind of little whimpers. Overwhelming tenderness almost deflects me from the plan taking shape in my mind. Almost.
With very slick fingers I stroke the sensitive skin behind his balls, drawing circles, drifting towards his hole. Will is shameless and vocal, sharing in his pleasure is a heady feeling that makes my blood sing. Very slowly I push my thumb inside of him and get it in deep. Will whimpers under me, shutting his eyes, his hands pulling me closer. I fuck him gently with my thumb, pushing deep then almost pulling out, twisting it inside of him, the other fingers caressing the sensitive skin around. I kiss his face, whispering in his ear how perfect he is, silky and warm and tight, how I can’t wait to fuck him deep and slow, drinking every sigh from his lips. I keep kissing and finger-fucking him with slow regular pushes of the thumb, until I feel him relax into it and wanting more, his hips moving on instinct.
I give him a quick peck on the lips.
He bites me, scoffs and tells me to hurry up. I confirm to him that I’m glad to see that he hasn’t lost his spirit. Which earns me some more scoffing, of course.
I want to look into his eyes while I fuck him, so I just have him wrap his legs around my waist and I align our bodies. I stroke gently the head of my cock against his pucker and the tender skin around it, leaving a wet strip of lube and precome. Will tenses up slightly then relaxes back again, as I smile at him and tell him to let me take care of him, of everything. I push against him, slowly, with constant force. As I breach him Will holds his breath. I stop there, I caress his belly and his chest, I remind him how good he is for me and as he starts breathing again I push all of my length inside. He moans, overwhelmed, closes his eyes and reclines his head back, offering me the perfect column of his throat. I latch onto it with my mouth and as I promised I start fucking him slow and deep, a fluid motion of my hips, a solid in and almost-out punctuated by the sound of our skin and our moaning. As I graze his skin I keep whispering how superb he feels around my cock, how satisfying and heavenly he is. I keep moving gently my mouth and my hands over him, and soon Will rolls his hips and arches his body in sync with mine, his face all light up by pleasure.
Praise makes crimson bloom on Will’s cheeks. So, as I keep fucking into him, I praise him.
I murmur in his ear how warm and tight and silky he feels, letting me sink in him as much as it pleases me. What a good boy he is to me, how I rejoice in splitting him open like a ripe pomegranate, licking up the dripping juices until my mouth is stained red. I whisper how he is the soft fertile ground of fall that gives way under the unyielding plough, begging to be filled with purpose and seeds that will sprout in spring. I tell him he is the clear starlit night sky flickering over me, boundless and eternal, where all dreams and nightmares are born. I tell him he is the single loose thread that unravels me, relentless and without mercy, my final undoing, and that I still would hold on to him while I endlessly fall and no God nor Devil could ever rip him from my embrace.
I feel lightheaded, I exert every ounce of self control I have, because I do want to keep it sweet and tender for my lovely boy, for now, but I also cannot avoid thinking about tying him up like a sacrificial lamb, turning his skin black and blue with bruises and biting down on him until my mouth is filled with his blood and the flesh detaches from the bone, right before I chew and swallow. I get out of my head and focus only on the physical experience: all the lovely broken sounds rolling out of Will’s chest, his eyes that flutter and cannot stay open, his hands pulling me closer and closer even when there’s no more space between us to overcome, the lewd wet rhythmic noises of our bodies connecting.
Will is on the brink of orgasm and tries to speed up our rhythm with his hips. His neglected cock has been leaking for a while on his belly: I take it in my fist and I ease it into our rocking motions. I observe and take mental notes of all the little Will specific signs of incoming orgasm: the twitch of the lips, the rhythm of his breathing, the tension in his thighs, the trembling of the hands. His hips stutter, his back arches and I feel his orgasm, his body clutching on me, squeezing me impossibly tight again and again, the loveliest grunts coming from his lips, his warm come dribbling over my hand then on his stomach. Though my first instinct is entirely against it, I make the effort to breathe deeper, keep my pulse in check, slowdown my hips, milk him gently to the last drop, make sure I see him through his orgasm smoothly and in control. Then I lean over him, over his blissed-out perfect face, I go for a peck on his smiling lips and quietly deliver my warning:
“Don’t bother asking me to stop, Will, just breathe.”
He looks at me like my words come from no human language, but it won’t be long before he understands.
I bring his crossed ankles over my shoulder and I pin them there with a hand, inching forward with my hips, raising Will’s ass a little, folding him over himself: this way I’m sheathed tighter inside and I can and do sink deeper into him. I understand oh so well the Saints begging for a miracle for the fortitude of their body and spirit, but I soldier on. I hold Will against me with my forearm across his hip-bone, and I fuck into him with forceful, sharp thrusts that echo through his body. Relentless and intense, I fuck him harder and faster than before.
Will weakly tries to rebel against this onslaught, but he has no leverage point, no way to stop me. He tries to unlock the arm I use to pin him against my cock, scratches and whimpers, and I just look at him and admire how fetching he his in pain from overstimulation and panicking at the realization there’s no way he can stop me.
Soon Will stops his useless rebellion and go limp against me, letting me handle him as I want, occasionally wailing like a puppy being skinned alive. When he’s able to keep his eyes open either he looks at me as if he wants to kill me, but only after proper torture, or bewildered in total confusion because more and more the pain is turning into pleasure. Both things are incredibly hot and right now I need to stay focused only on very frigid things. I’m getting too old for this, I’m slightly winded and covered in sweat, I feel actual rivulets of sweat running on my skin, and I’m raining it over Will. The drops fall from my face, my hair, my chest, rolling down from body to body, making Will all slick and shiny, and this is unfortunately another very hot thing to witness.
I distract myself thinking in detail about some of the horrible things in the world that make me shudder: American bread, losing my lifelong collection of business cards, overcooked pasta, veganism, Freddie Lounds, drive-thrus, the wrong wine for dinner, folk art, most of my patients.
Finally, this divine origami of flesh, blood and desire firmly wrapped around my cock that is Will Graham is getting closer to where I want him. I see it in his shallow breathing, in how his hands fist the sheets, in the wince of his face. I fold him a little more, fuck him deeper, just as fast. He growls at me, the ungrateful brat. Then, as his dry orgasm surprises him with its intensity, he turns into a writhing, mewling mess beneath me, around me. A ruined, debauched, beautiful mess - just as I wanted to see him. He’s still riding his orgasm when I seize both his hips in my hands, crossing my forearms over his stomach, I fold him over to his limit, and as I raise his pelvis up with my arms, I fuck down into him as hard as I can. I hear a muffled cry but I can’t say if it’s him, me or both. I come, too. I mark Will as mine, mine, mine, burrowed as deep as I can, the best I can do without opening him up with claws or fangs or scalpels, without ripping his heart off from his chest, without draining his blood, without leaving scars.
My pleasantly very intense orgasm leaves me temporarily blind and unaware of my surrounding. I come back to myself, panting for air, and I look at Will. His mouth is slack, eyes closed, face turned sideways. I still hold him in what must amount to an uncomfortable position now for him. I slip my cock out of him, both of us wincing, then I gently unfold him to lay him on the messy sheets. He’s boneless and soft and doesn't make a sound, just a little sigh. I kneel by his side, so I can press my hands to his hearts, safe for now, to feel its beats, fast and strong. I run my hands over his skin, covered in my and his sweat and the come of his first orgasm, caressing from his lower belly to his shoulders. I lick the palm of one hand, to see how we taste together. I lay beside Will, I pull him close and doze off, my face settled in his hair so that my lungs breathe full of him.
Of course the first thing Will does as soon as he’s able to speak again is to scold me about what a veritable asshole I supposedly am, that ungrateful boy. He rudely asks And what the fuck was that, anyway? to which I respond that certainly he’s not getting another one like it anytime soon. As he scrunches up his forehead I comment out loud how crispy and delicious his face looks and graze his brow with my teeth, which makes quick end of the argument with Will’s too scarcely heard throaty laugh and my title downgraded to entitled little shit. I also get kissed passionately for a satisfactory amount of time.
Will stays to sleep. I have to swat away a couple of nightmares - let’s not forget his brain is burning up, I might have to do something about that - but he makes a compelling little spoon. I employ most of the time to file the events of the night in my mind, and I have a distressing amount of Will Graham just being unknowingly ravishing scenes. I’m curious to see what comes next, now. I expect Will to withdraw immediately, like the timid beast he is. I will have to give him time, behave as you do with animals that need taming: be patient, let them come closer when they feel like it. I may need to wait for a while, but I’m a patient man.
Then I’ll remind him how it feels to be mine.
“Hannibal?” Will whispers with his raspy voice, after too few hours of sleep.
“I’m awake, my beloved,” I answer fervently, not exactly the measured words nor the easy going tone I had planned for.
He spins lazily in my arms until his half lidded stormy eyes can comfortably study my face. His gaze burns through the lines of time on my skin, trough my tendons, my bones, my masks. He’s quiet, serene, nothing like I anticipated, my surprising boy, and suddenly I realize that my lungs have filled again with the ozone-like scent of his pleasure and I do not exhale out of surprise, this rare gift not to be wasted, wondering why my mind is playing tricks on me, if there will ever be any other scent that makes my heart ache and my lungs wither at the idea of air that may not contain it, but no, it’s real, it’s here, enveloping me, seeping trough my skin, grinding its home into my bones. It’s just Will remembering our night together. Remembering with not a minute amount of pleasure our night together.
I’m well trained in looking stoic and I give nothing away. Maybe I might blink once, maybe my eyes go a little misty.
The corners of Will’s lips turn upward. He stretches like an indolent cat in the afternoon sun, murmurs a garbled Good morning while nuzzling against my neck. His hands grab my flanks, moving up slowly to my shoulders, feeling with open palms every inch of skin, pressing down into my flesh. His mouth is warm and wet on the pulse of my throat, with one thigh raised to my waist, in one fluid move he pulls me down against his body.
It’s going to be ten minutes, tops, before I remind my sweet lamb how it feels to be mine.