Stages of Love

Chapter Seven: Acceptance

The wind off the Seine felt good on her face and Clarice opened all the windows in her hotel room before kicking off her shoes and going into the bathroom to let her hair down from it’s loose chignon. She found herself humming, something that she had not done in a long time. She could not forget the look on his face right before she turned away. He had been floored. She finally managed to turn the tables on him.
She looked at her face, grinning back at herself in the mirror. She was inordinately pleased with herself.
Giving him the gun had been the perfect touch. It was symbolic of giving up her safety, her protection. She was letting him in. And she knew without a doubt that he would not hesitate to exercise that invitation.
She drew herself a bath, not hearing above the sounds of the water running the slight scrape of a lock pick, or the door opening slowly. Clarice sank into the tub, sighing as her skin touched the hot water. She leaned back and closed her eyes, humming again.
And from the shadows, Hannibal Lecter watched her.
After a half hour she got out of the tub, toweled dry and applied the hand cream to her fresh skin. The scent of lavender reached Lecter’s nostrils and he was pleased that she had used it. Still humming, Clarice slowly pulled a brush through her long hair and stepped into the silk pajamas she had bought on her shopping trip. They were deep green, like her dress, and whispered against her skin like a caress. They had been almost as expensive as the dress, but since she was spending her retirement anyway, why not have something nice to sleep in?
She switched off the bathroom light and padded out, barefoot, into her bedroom. There was enough light from the open window to see the outlines of the furniture and she made her way to the bed, but stopped halfway, and decided to go to the window instead. She sat down on the wide sill, pulling her legs up to her chest and staring out into the night.
She sensed, more than heard, him behind her but she did not turn. He was so close that she would touch him if she turned but she closed her eyes instead, immersing herself in his presence. She could smell him: smoky, alien, male. Her breath hitched as she drew that aroma into her throat. From behind her she heard a low growl and she was in his arms in a moment.
He kissed her fiercely, mouth possessive against her. Clarice felt her knees go weak and she kissed him back with equal ardor. His strong hands roved over her body, touching, commanding, unyielding. Clarice felt herself responding but something in her head hesitated. She gathered the unraveling threads of her resolve and broke from his kiss, stepping back.
This was not right. His touch wasn’t right.
She looked up at him, trying to place her finger on it. She saw the passion in his eyes and behind it, a flicker of uncertainty. She realized with a start that he had never done this before. He had never had a relationship with a woman who knew who he was. And, astonishing of all, she sensed that he was afraid. They were gambling for higher stakes than freedom or lives. They gambled now with their very hearts and that was not something that Lecter did lightly.
She knew that what she did in the next moment would forever determine the nature of their relationship; partnership or submission?
She already knew the answer.
She was not the submissive type.
“Hannibal,” she spoke softly. His eyes met hers and she let all the tenderness she felt reflect there. “No more games, remember? “
She held a hand out to him. She saw him struggle with himself, straining to part from the self-possession and isolation he had so strictly imposed upon himself all his life. Still, she would accept nothing less that a complete surrendering of himself. And, after a long minute, he reached out and took her hand, drawing her forward.
“No more games,” he whispered into her hair before his mouth came down on hers and obliterated all thought.