Will emerges from the bathroom with one of Molly’s pale blue towels around his waist. She’s waiting for him, dressed in a short cotton nightie and smelling of Pantene and the rich perfume she only takes out for their date nights. It trails a gauzy breath of green leaves and dark fruits.
On the bedspread, his request is waiting. Molly meets his eyes with a lipstick smirk and a cocked eyebrow. She looks good, assured, as she waits with her hands on her hips. His gaze flicks down to the pile of nylon straps that rests haphazardly beside three silicone dildoes of varying size, all the same alarming shade of violet. He huffs out a breath.
“Do I get to pick?”
She comes up behind him and lays her soft hands along his flanks, pressing a kiss to his nape.
“Of course you do, baby.”
He points to the middle one. It’s perfectly smooth and slightly curved, not too intimidating. Molly fits it into the metal O-ring and fastens the straps around her hips, then peels off her nightgown and tosses it aside. He looks her up and down, throat clicking as he swallows, and drops the towel. He’s already half hard just from the sight of it, and he crabwalks across the bed until he’s resting against the headboard, eyes full of the foreign purple jut.
Will lets his legs fall open, then strokes himself to full harness, giving her a show. When she smiles, there’s a little twist of cruelty in it that hits him low in his belly and makes him arch up into his hand.
Most women expect him to take charge in bed, to read cues and respond, but not her. Molly has a dominant streak he likes to cultivate. He finds it restful to lie back and be used, to be the object of attention and care. To be touched.
She takes his wrist and gently moves his hand away, then bends her neck so he can see the neat part in her wheat-gold hair. She ignores his cock, mouths him lower. Dainty licks soon open him up. He moans into the crook of his elbow, chasing the slick warmth of her tongue with swiveling hips. If it’s not the desperate plundering he sometimes imagines when he gets himself off, well, he’s certainly not complaining.
Molly pulls back and presses a kiss to the inside of his left knee, then slicks her fingers with KY from the nightstand. Each press inside is slow torture as she works him open, careful to avoid touching him where he really wants it—cruel Mistress—until he’s wet and so empty when she pulls her hand away.
“How’s that feel?” she teases.
“Think your cock would feel better.”
Will’s face heats intensely as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he can feel the blush prickling his chest, his neck. If Molly’s blown-out pupils are anything to go by, he must look every bit as desperate as he feels. His mouth goes dry as he watches her trickle lube on the thing between her legs. It feels strange going in, then good, if a little cold. When it finally drags along his prostate he goes still and silent with the pleasure of it, body arched like a bow.
He surges up to kiss her heavy tits, drags his nose along their undersides, grazes with his teeth and oh, she likes that. For a moment he’s content to suckle mindlessly at her nipples, before her pace quickens and makes him throw his head back, panting.
“Hah—, hah—” Shit. Oh, fuck. “Harder,” he grits, then bites down savagely on his bottom lip to shut himself up.
“Greedy boy,” she purrs, and oh, yes, he can almost hear it pitched a couple of octaves lower. A whimper spills out of him before he’s consciously aware of it.
“It seems your mind still remains prey to all sorts of marauders. A monastery with its relics ripe for the picking.”
The rhythmic creak of Italian leather brogues sounds as Hannibal makes a circuit of the room. He stops a few feet from the couple rocking on the bed, hands folded demurely behind his back. In the low light, he is little more than a looming, dark shape. “A pity. I often wonder what follows you out of the dark these days.”
“Don’t spend your time wondering about me,” Will snarls in the privacy of his mind.
“Time is all I have.” He tilts his head as though observing a particularly dynamic sculpture. “She’s awfully pretty.”
“I don’t suppose your wife knows you nearly called out my name just now while she was so diligently fucking you.” Hannibal takes a seat at the foot of the bed and crosses one knee over the other. He watches for a moment in that rapt, reptilian way of his. “Is this what you imagine I want to do to you?”
Whiskey-colored eyes meet Will’s and break away to trail lower.
“If you could see the way you look right now, you would hardly blame me.” Not-Hannibal gives one of his almost-smiles. Will squeezes his eyes shut and thrashes his head back and forth, writhing where he’s pinned to the bed, hating to be seen, not wanting it to stop. Hannibal’s attention excites him in some primal, bodily way, bringing a syrupy thrill of nausea to his stomach even as it makes his cock leap. He can feel Hannibal preening as he rises from his perch to crouch down beside him, now at eye level when Will risks a glance at him.
“Shall I keep talking?”
“Do you ever stop?”
Hannibal allows himself an indulgent chuckle at that.
“My desires are not usually so banal,” he goes on. “But I find myself craving simplicity where you are concerned.” His eyes glimmer with amusement. “And what about you? Is this little domination scenario something I could have looked forward to in another life?” Will groans, but it doesn’t come out as annoyed as he’d like. “Mm. That’s a yes, I think.”
“You’re taking it so well.” The voice at his side is the same calm baritone that has anchored him through many storms and coaxed others to swell and burst. “It’s a shame she can’t feel how tight you are. How hot you are inside.” Its pitch falls, dragging him with it, clawing. “But I could, if you let me.”
“We would have done a great many things together before I ever had you like this, dear Will. Our faces might have been made immortal in humanity’s dreams of blood.” Candlelight gleams on his lips’ red, so close to Will’s eyes. “And when the time came, when your belly was full from the kill and your hands had been washed clean, you would have begged me for this as a heart begs for the knife.”
“Please,” Will whines through clenched teeth, finding Molly looking down at him hungrily. His hands have become a pair of claws digging into the soft skin of her back with blunt nails. She snaps her hips again and again in quick succession, wrapping her slick hand around his straining cock, and his vision whites out as he comes clenching around the inert hunk of silicone. He gasps himself silent to avoid frightening her with the scream coiled in his chest.
“Sweet boy,” soothes Hannibal, breath warm on his damp cheek. He’s close enough to kiss, to bite. “I would never deny you.”
And then he’s gone.
Molly’s small, milk-pale hand on him is a jarring reminder of his current reality. The curtain of blonde hair falling around him doesn’t smell at all like wax and the mossy sweetness of vetiver. His eyelashes are wet when she kisses him.
She eases out while he catches his breath with his knees folded to his chest, the cool air stinging a bit where he’s raw and sensitized. He startles a little when she drags a fingertip through the pool of come cooling on his belly—she can’t possibly know what it does to him, having his scar touched like this. Hell, he’s not entirely clear on that himself; he knows only that it unsettles him to feel pleasure where he has grown to anticipate pain. When she brings her finger to her lips and tastes, it sends a useless throb of arousal coursing through his spent cock.
Will scrambles to his knees and unbuckles the harness where it’s digging into the soft flesh of her hips, and it leaves a crisscross of shallow red lines behind. He bends to kiss them, glancing up to see her eyelids fall and her lips part. He buries his face between her legs where she’s so wet from the teasing friction of the toy and from watching him come apart. He laps and laps until she’s crushing his mouth to her cunt with her hand coiled roughly in the curls at the base of his skull. Molly’s breath stutters, and it’s so easy, so good, making her come like this.
He should want this.
She pulls him back by the hair and goes limp against the pillows, caressing his jaw, his slick lower lip. He sucks her thumb into his mouth and hums around it, then lets it slip away.
“Did you like it?” he asks, to avoid being alone with his thoughts any longer.
“Mmm.” Molly grins up at him. “And then some.” She takes his hand and pulls him up onto the rumpled sheets with her, then matter-of-factly cleans him up with a washcloth. He feels sated and cared for, and the dark, hungry tide in him recedes to the point where he hardly feels it. For a while he simply breathes and lets the comforting curves and scents of Molly’s body fill his awareness.
“You didn’t take much convincing,” he teases, finally.
“Well, I could never resist your best feature.”
“My eyes?” he drawls, all innocence.
Molly cackles with delight at her own wickedness. Her hands skitter south to playfully grasp his hips and pull him close, and this time she’s careful to avoid the bisecting scar. It’s easy to laugh with her and wrap his arms around her shoulders. Too easy, a part of him warns.
He can’t shake the feeling that he will have to pay for this one day, and that each of these stolen moments is being tallied in some subterranean room far from the sound of water and the movement of leaves.
In his experience, payment is often exacted in blood.