NOTES: This idea came to me this morning when my iPod shuffled onto Cab Calloway's "Everybody Eats When They Come To My House". For some reason, it made me think of Dr. Lecter and the meals he's prepared for others over the years. This is based more on the book version of Hannibal and that ending.

He didn't even shut the inside door before his hands were at her hips, drawing her against him. The last of their guests had just left, praising the meal for the millionth time that evening. He'd be singing a different tune if he was aware of what he'd just had as part of his meal.

Or rather who.

"I haven't lost my touch," he said in a low voice against her ear, nipping it. He scraped the side of her neck with his teeth before biting it hard enough to leave an imprint. He didn't break the skin. He never did. Most anyone would feel fear having his mouth this close to her jugular.

Not Clarice Starling.

For whatever reason, she was safe from Hannibal Lecter's murderous lusts. It was the other lusts of his he was interested in her for. What was more, he loved her. And, crazily, she loved him, too.

"I noticed," she said, brushing her ass against the front of his pants. She was more than willing to allow him to indulge in the high that came with the evening. She felt exhilarated herself. There was something about knowing you'd pulled a fast one over someone, several in tonight's case, that was intoxicating. And arousing. She didn't partake of his offerings tonight, he didn't mind. She had in the past, just not often. He understood, or so she thought anyway.

"I've never done this before, Clarice," he whispered, stroking the bite mark on her neck with his tongue. It was a talented tongue. He had a keen sense of taste.

"Done what?" she asked.

"Hosted a dinner party with a hostess who was aware of what was going on."

"At least I'm the first in your life for something."

His hands slid to her thighs, between her legs and lower to the hem of her skirt. It was a short skirt. Long enough to be decent, but short enough that he had no problem reaching the hem and lifting it up. He didn't seem to care that the door was still open, that anyone of their guests could come back and see. In fact, that bit of risk probably titillated him.

"I always like it when you wear this kind of under garment, Clarice," he said, his hand sliding along the bare skin of her ass thanks to the thong she wore.

"Why do you think I wear them?"

"Oh, Clarice, you do know how to flatter a man."

"Flattery, Hannibal?"

"To think a woman dresses right down to her bra and panties with her gentleman in mind is a most pleasing notion."

"How pleasing?" she said, sounding breathless. She didn't understand how he could do it. One minute she was saying good night to their guests. The next she was ready for him, wanting him as if she hadn't just had him earlier that evening. In the kitchen no less, in between him cooking one thing and another.

"You want me to show you?" He slid a fingertip between her legs, parting her lower lips. She gave a little sound, shifting her hips just a little as well as moving to the balls of her feet. His voice sounded so husky, laced with desire. For her. It still floored her that a woman so simple compared to the others he knew could snare him.

She grasped the doorframe on both sides, bracing herself. She knew what would follow her answer. She was ready for it, as she always was for him. He was a strong man, though, and when on those rare occasions he allowed himself to get caught up in the moment he didn't remember to hold back. It was how she knew he really felt something for her. She'd seen the printout of the machine monitoring his heart when he'd attacked the nurse years ago. No one could have seen it coming. He was that calm, cool, and collected, biding his time. So, that he lost it with her, that carefully kept control, even for a little bit was his form of flattery to her.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Here?" he asked, dipping his fingertip inside of her. She clenched around it, an attempt to draw it deeper inside.

"Yes," she said. He was giving her an out, but frankly, she didn't care if they were caught or seen. This was their house, after all. It wasn't as if their front door looked out over a busy street. There was nothing out there but their driveway. And the wooded area that surrounded it, giving them the privacy they craved.

He didn't respond, verbally anyway. She heard the soft sound of his belt, his zipper, felt the loss of his hand against her.

That loss didn't last long, though. He gripped her hips hard enough she was sure she'd have bruises later, the were the good kind of bruises. She'd been in a line of work where she'd gotten her share of them and she didn't mind the ones received out of pleasurable moments.

And Hannibal Lecter driving into her was the most pleasurable of all.

"Always," she murmured, as he let his length remain settle inside of her, unmoving. She didn't pretend to think it was for her benefit he remained still. He liked being so completely inside of her, being joined so completely with her. There were positions that made it less comfortable than others because he certainly didn't lack at all in that department, but it was a discomfort she was more than willing to live with.

"What was that," he murmured.

"Just thinking," she whispered, letting her forehead rest against the storm door. She gripped the doorframe tightly, though she knew he would never let her go. She needed it, though. The reassurance that this was real. There were times she thought she was dreaming. She'd had so many dreams of him over the years that it was easy to see where the lines could get blurred.

These weren't dreams, though. She could never have envisioned the way he rolled his hips against her just so as he slid his hardened length out of her. She never imagined him making such sounds of pleasure as he thrust into her again, deep and hard. An observer would think he was a thoughtless lover, paying no heed to the pleasure she required. She liked it this way, though, when the situation called for it. It was times like this she was made too aware that English had not always been his primary language. Another slip of that control.

That flattered her, too. That he could get so caught up in her, in their lovemaking, that he resorted to the language he hadn't spoken since childhood.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, very distantly, she was aware this was more than a little perverse. His getting turned on by the situation they were in. A houseful of guests just having departed with the best meal of their lives still filling their bellies. Worse, she knew she should object or be offended. She could do neither. She knew what he was when she'd chosen to go with him. She knew what her life would be like with him.

She could picture his hands, currently holding her hips tightly, as he prepared the night's meal. She had watched as he did everything. He was precise and attentive to every detail, nothing was measured incorrectly, right down to the precise grains of salt.

He'd looked up from the saucepan after having taken a taste of the concoction warming in it and she'd seen a look in his eyes she knew well. She'd allowed him to take her against the cupboard, evidence of his criminal habits and peculiar tastes surrounding them. He hadn't taken the time to wash his hands before taking her and he'd seemed to enjoy seeing the fruits of his labor on her skin. She hadn't rushed up to the shower, washing away the evidence of human remains from her skin.

He pressed into her, harder and deeper, flattening her body against the storm door. Her breasts, already aching with the desire to be touched, sent a dose of arousal through her system at coming into contact with the cool glass. She gasped and he closed his hands over hers, bringing them to the storm door so her elbows were even with her head. Flatter still, as if he knew it had stoked her arousal and he wanted to prolong it. Drive her mad with it.

Almost violently he came inside of her, a not-so-gentle bite to her shoulder was his attempt at disguising it. He didn't always like the way she tore his carefully erected walls down. Vulnerability was not something Hannibal Lecter was fond of.

He kissed her shoulder then, moving to her ear, still moving inside of her, fingers probing and stroking now to bring her to her own completion.

"I hope we'll be having another dinner party again," she whispered, resting almost bonelessly against the window. She didn't think their house being surrounded by a SWAT team could have made her move just then.

"Oh, I think that can be arranged," he said with a soft chuckle. He grazed his cheek through her hair, taking in her scent. "Come now, Clarice, we have cleaning up to do."

"Cleaning up? Tonight?"

"Yes, my dear," he said, stepping away from her. He righted her skirt and blouse, though he left the bra he'd unfastened at some point undone. "It must be done. I'll try not to let it take to long. And if we're extra fast about it, you might even get a treat."

"A cookie?" she said, lacing her fingers through his, letting him draw her away from the doorway.

He chuckled, bring her fingertips to his lips and nipping at each one of them. "I was thinking more along the lines of honey."

Her eyes widened. "I think there's some of the whipped cream left."

"That would work, too."

"Are there any cherries left?"

"No, Clarice, I fear we're fresh out."

"And you said I'd never go hungry," she teased.

"I think we can come up with something."

She dropped a hand to the front of his trousers. He hadn't refastened them yet. She squeezed him. "I think you may be right."

~The End~