The click of the latch was loud in the silence that followed, a slight screech of oiled metal on metal and a solid snap as it was drawn into its catch. The door swung inwards a crack and Hannibal swallowed reflexively as Will’s scent strengthened, swirling around him in a blanket of warm air.
Will was a black silhouette framed by the window beyond, his curls a halo of firelight-tinged softness. He didn’t stir or even breathe, as if bracing for something awful to come as it had so often in the past.
“May I come in?” Hannibal asked, his words a low, throaty throb of sound.
Will considered, then nodded, a slow gesture that became decisive as he stepped back, offering entrance to his husband and his distracting Alpha scent.
Hannibal closed the door behind him and leaned on it, taking a moment to gaze at Will in all of his diffident glory.
No knight in full armor or King in royal vestments could match the effortless dignity and grace of Will Lecter-Graham barefoot in his dressing gown. From the unruly mop of his curls to the swan-like length of his neck all the way down to the tips of his toes, he was every inch a marvel in his husband’s eyes.
The smell of Will’s heat lay thick on Hannibal’s tongue, pouring in through his mouth and nose to fill him up with longing. He swallowed reflexively, testing and tasting it, every breath notching his pulse up. The Alpha in him swelled in response, a weighty drag in his groin as his whole being responded. His skin was hot, overly sensitive, attuned to every small movement of Will’s body. He felt an overwhelming urge to go to him, to run his hands over the scent glands beneath his jaw, to stroke and soothe the heated nape of his neck, to sink his teeth into fevered flesh and lay a mark for all to see.
He shifted, weak with just the thought of it, a rough, coaxing chuff escaping him.
Will closed his eyes, the low sound purring through him with delighted approval, the resonance of Hannibal’s Alpha voice tingling down his spine. His skin tightened, the fine hairs on his arms and nape lifting on a flush, another pulse of wet want pooling between his thighs. His bond to Hannibal clamoured loudly enough to drown out the desperate voices of the past which sought to intrude, leaving him with too few restraints on his hunger to be safe. He looked to one side, uncertain now what to do, but secure in the knowledge he could send him away if he wanted to and Hannibal would dutifully go.
But he didn’t want to send him away. He didn’t want him to go.
He would give Hannibal this chance and if he walked away, if he hurt him again, then it would be the last time in their lives he would ever do so. He would make his decision and never look back, however much it hurt him. Continue reading