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“She’s been spying on us,” Will proclaimed, snapping the book open to a marked page. The motion was abrupt, his fingers tightening around the paperback’s spine like it might leap out of his hands. “There’s no other fucking answer.”
The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth punctuated his words, its amber glow casting dancing shadows across the walls of their villa’s study. The room was neat, almost unnervingly so, yet there were hints of life. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, crammed with well-loved books whose spines bore creases of repeated handling. A sleek desk sat tucked in one corner, its polished surface pristine save for the faint scratches of use. Between the couch and armchair where they sat, a low table bore an empty bottle of Syrah. Clutched in his hand was Will’s own glass, nearly drained.
Will’s lips thinned as he hesitated, glancing at the page like it might bite him. “Or—and this is somehow worse—she has a very vivid imagination.”
“Her imagination always was vivid,” Hannibal said, his tone both indulgent and maddeningly serene. “She was an astute observer.”
Lounging opposite him on the couch, Hannibal was the picture of composure, his long fingers delicately curled around his glass of wine. The firelight caught in the liquid, throwing ruby-colored highlights onto his hands. By contrast, Will’s knuckles were pale where they gripped the book, and his cheeks were pink both from the wine and the indignation bubbling up inside him as he stared at the book in his lap: Crimson Desires , a gaudy romance novel written by none other than Alana Bloom.
Will narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass. “Astute observer? You mean because she used to—?” He gestured vaguely, his free hand twisting in the air as though to banish the thought.
Hannibal inclined his head. “Our intimacy was brief but memorable. It seems I left an impression.”
“An impression?” Will repeated with a sharp snort, tossing the book down onto his lap. “She basically wrote your greatest hits—and my humiliation—into a damn romance novel.” He picked up the book again, flipping to a random section with a vengeance.
Clearing his throat, he began to read, his voice thick with mockery. “‘Dr. Theo Laurence’s movements were deliberate, his fingers lingering on James’s skin as though savoring a symphony composed of sensation. James shivered under the precise, surgical touch.’” Will’s lip curled as he met Hannibal’s gaze.
“‘Precise, surgical touch,’ Hannibal. That’s you. There’s no way she wasn’t picturing you.”
Hannibal smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine. The rim of the glass caught the light, a faint red stain marking where the liquid had touched his lips. “A not un flattering portrayal,” he said, setting the glass down on the table with care. “Though I suspect she embellished certain aspects.”
Will let out a dry laugh, flipping through the pages again with a roughness that made the paper rustle dramatically. “Embellished, huh?” His eyes darted across the lines, scanning with mounting irritation. “Let’s see just how much.”
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the fire and the rhythmic rustling of paper as Will’s fingers moved more slowly now, his brows furrowing as he skimmed. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes catching on something that made his lips twist.
“Oh, here we go,” he muttered, his earlier sarcasm faltering as he settled on the passage. “Let’s see what else Dr. Laurence and his faithful CIA agent husband —” Will looked pointedly up at Hannibal, “—are up to.”
Hannibal merely tipped his head in acknowledgment as Will began to read.
“‘Theo’s hands skimmed over James’s chest, his touch firm yet reverent as though committing every curve and plane to memory. James shivered beneath him, his breath catching as Theo’s fingers brushed across his nipples, teasing until they pebbled under his touch.’”
Will glanced up briefly, his brows knitting, but then he pressed on, his voice growing quieter and more reluctant. “‘Theo leaned down, his lips closing around one, his teeth scraping lightly as James gasped, the sound soft and desperate, his back arching helplessly into Theo’s mouth. Theo devoured him, one side and then the other, until James was trembling, his chest slick, his nipples dark and tender beneath Theo’s relentless tongue.’”
Will snapped the book shut with a decisive thud, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the floor for a moment. The firelight played tricks on his skin, but it couldn’t disguise the faint flush creeping up his neck. His chest rose and fell too quickly, and despite his best efforts, a disconcerting awareness bloomed under his shirt. The phantom brush of Hannibal’s gaze seemed to linger there, leaving his nipples tingling uncomfortably.
Inhaling deeply, he finally looked up at Hannibal, his expression carefully neutral but for the glint of mock offense in his eyes.
“So,” Will said, his voice deadpan, though his mouth twitched faintly, “your fascination with nipples extends beyond me?”
Hannibal’s lips curved into a smile, the firelight catching in his eyes as he studied Will with obvious amusement. He didn’t rush to reply, instead letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Will shift in his seat.
“Or perhaps,” Hannibal said at last, his tone unhurried, “she simply imagines that I have a particular fascination with yours.”
Will raised an eyebrow, his suspicion deepening as he leaned forward slightly. “And what put that idea in her head, hm? Seems like she’s writing from a more... personal experience.”
Hannibal’s gaze held Will’s steadily, his expression composed but faintly amused. “Alana may weave fantasies—”
“Grounded in reality,” Will interrupted with a grumble.
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of sternness passing across his face like a heavy cloud over still water. The firelight glinted off the sharp angles of his cheekbones as he raised his chin, his voice calm when he continued.
“But your reality,” Hannibal said, his tone taking on a softer, more intimate edge, “is unparalleled.” He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but precise, his gaze unrelenting as he spoke. “Your breath, your body, your responses. You’ve held my attention entirely, Will, in ways Alana could never begin to understand.”
His gaze dipped then, traveling the length of Will’s frame in a way that made the room feel warmer than the fire alone could account for. The silence stretched until Hannibal’s eyes finally met Will’s again.
“And I assure you,” Hannibal murmured, his voice a low, velvet promise, “I have no need for hers—or anyone else’s.”
Will swallowed hard, caught off guard by the blunt intimacy of the statement. His immediate instinct was to scoff, to dismiss it, but his body betrayed him with a quick, involuntary shiver that he hoped Hannibal didn’t notice. “Jesus,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “You don’t have to make it sound like a damn love letter.”
“Would you prefer a simpler truth?” Hannibal asked, tilting his head. His lips quirked, a faint smile full of amusement. “You, and you alone, are the subject of my... fascinations.”
Will groaned softly, though his lips twitched, caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Okay, okay, Romeo,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “I better be.”
Hannibal’s smile widened just enough to reveal a hint of his teeth, his voice dipping into something teasing but warm. “Rest assured, Will,” he said, his tone almost playful, “no one else could possibly inspire such devotion. Though I can’t help but note you’re deflecting rather artfully. Should I infer that you find this topic... unsettling?”
“Unsettling isn’t the word I’d use,” he grumbled, unwilling to elaborate.
Hannibal leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on his knees, his glass dangling loosely from one hand. “Perhaps,” he began, his voice carrying just a hint of mischief, “you’d like to distract yourself by continuing your review of Alana’s literary efforts?”
Will snorted, shaking his head. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, but his hand still went for the book, resting haphazardly on the table. He flipped it open, the sound of the rustling pages sharper in the quiet room.
“I swear, we must both be masochists,” he added, glancing sideways at Hannibal. “Why else would we keep going with this?”
Hannibal didn’t answer, though his lips quirked faintly around the rim of his glass as he took another slow sip.
Will sighed dramatically, straightening in his chair as he began to read aloud, though his voice carried a note of reluctant curiosity. “‘James sat shirtless in the dim light of Theo’s study, the soft glow of the lamp catching in his eyes—a shade of blue so vivid they seemed almost unearthly in the gloom. His hair, a tousled crown of chocolate curls, framed his face, unruly and untamed, softening the sharp planes of his cheekbones.’”
A brief pause followed. His voice faltered, then steadied as he cleared his throat and continued. “‘The light traced the lean muscle stretched across his chest, the smooth, sinewy lines of his torso rising and falling with every breath. Theo’s gaze lingered, drawn to the faint scars scattered across James’s pale skin, each one a testament to his survival. Here, the faint ghost of a knife’s edge; there, the puckered remnants of a gunshot. Each mark told a story that Theo longed to unravel.’”
Brows furrowing, Will glanced up, his expression teetering between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “She’s really leaning into the tragic-but-beautiful thing,” he muttered. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying a smile he tried to suppress.
He let his attention drift back to the text. “Theo leaned closer, his touch firm yet reverent as he explored the trembling lines of James’s body.”
The words slowed as Will read them aloud, his voice faltering slightly. His grip on the book tightened as though bracing himself for what came next. “‘Theo swallowed James’s length down, his movements slow, savoring every inch as if he were tasting something rare and decadent. James’s hands gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, his chest heaving as Theo’s tongue flicked—’”
Will’s reading abruptly stopped, the words catching in his throat as his face turned scarlet. He slammed the book shut with a decisive thud and pressed it to his lap as though he could bury it there.
There was a moment of silence, heavy but charged, before Will finally broke it, his voice rough and strained. “Well. That’s... detailed.”
Across from him, Hannibal tilted his head. “Please, don’t stop on my account,” he said smoothly, though the edges of his lips twitched as though he were fighting back a smile.
Will scowled, his grip tightening on the book. “Sadist,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real heat in the accusation. He cast a wary glance at Hannibal before sighing and flipping the book open again. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when this gets worse.”
He returned to the passage, his voice more clipped now, as though powering through might lessen his own discomfort. “‘Theo’s hands tightened on James’s hips, pulling him closer as his lips continued their relentless exploration, drawing sounds from James that he barely recognized as his own.’” Will huffed a humorless laugh, muttering, “Relentless exploration, sure. That’s one way to put it.”
Hannibal smirked but said nothing, his gaze fixed firmly on Will, the firelight painting flickering shadows across his face.
Will continued, his voice faltering only slightly as he reached the next line. “‘James arched helplessly, his breath catching in gasping bursts until—’” His eyes widened slightly as he read ahead, and his voice dipped into a reluctant murmur. “‘Until the sounds built into something desperate, rising to a sharp, high-pitched cry, fragile and raw, breaking free as Theo’s name fell from his lips.’”
Will froze. His voice faltered entirely, the words dying in his throat as though he had just read his own deepest secret aloud. The book felt suddenly too heavy in his hands, and he stared at the page, blinking as if trying to convince himself that the words weren’t really there.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to Hannibal. His face was a deep crimson, his breathing uneven as he tried to find his voice.
“She—how—” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “How does Alana know about that? She’s never heard me—” He broke off, the sentence crumbling under its own weight. His hands gripped the edges of the book, as if the physical object might shield him from Hannibal’s knowing stare.
Hannibal’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a new sharpness in his eyes, something predatory and faintly dangerous lurking just beneath his otherwise smooth expression.
“It seems,” Hannibal said, his voice deceptively calm, “that our dearest Alana and Margot have been comparing notes.”
Will groaned, the sound low and guttural, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. The mention of Margot brought back memories he had buried as deep as he could, but Hannibal’s words dug them up like a surgical scalpel.
“Jesus Christ.” Will’s hands raked through his curls, tugging harshly at them. “That was years ago,” he muttered, his voice fraying at the edges. “How does she even remember that?”
Hannibal’s lips curled faintly, the expression maddening in its careful composure. Without a word, he rose from the couch, his movements fluid as he crossed the room toward the small wooden rack near the hearth. The soft clink of glass broke the silence as Hannibal retrieved a bottle. He studied its label with the care of a jeweler appraising a rare gem.
Will scowled, his frustration mounting as the quiet stretched. “You’re taking this way too well,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.
The pop of the cork echoed in the stillness. Hannibal poured the wine with precision, the deep red liquid glinting in the firelight as it swirled into the glasses. “You’re memorable in bed, Will,”
Hannibal said, his voice low, the words cutting with the same precision as the corkscrew he set down. “I can hardly fault Margot for remembering. Although...” He turned, holding both glasses, his eyes lingering on Will, glinting with something unreadable. “That doesn’t mean I approve.”
Will flinched, the words landing heavier than he wanted to admit. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw like he could scrape the heat from his skin. “Great,” he muttered, his tone bitter, “That’s just—great.”
Hannibal crossed the room, his steps unhurried, like a predator taking its time with prey that had already been cornered before setting Will’s glass down on the table with meticulous care. Lowering himself onto the couch, Hannibal took a sip of his own wine, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face, sharpening the curve of his lips as he drank, serene as ever.
By contrast, Will was a storm of restless energy. He shifted in his seat, his fingers clenching and unclenching against the edges of the book still balanced in his lap. His legs bounced faintly, betraying his unease. The contrast between his tension and Hannibal’s composure was almost unbearable.
“Relax, Will,” Hannibal murmured, his tone softening just enough to make the words almost soothing—if not for the faint thread of amusement woven through them. “You must remember that what you read is not reality. It is filtered through Alana’s perspective, colored by her experiences, her desires.” He took another slow sip of wine, his gaze steady. “A little artistic license is to be expected.”
Will barked out a sharp laugh, humorless and strained. “Artistic license,” he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He grabbed the wineglass Hannibal had set in front of him and drained half of it in one long pull, the liquid burning its way down his throat. His gaze flicked sideways toward Hannibal, who watched him with maddening calm. With a grumble, he took another swig and set the glass down harder than necessary.
“This isn’t artistic license,” Will snapped, the words tumbling out sharper than he intended. He shoved the book off his lap and onto the table, glaring at Hannibal with a mix of irritation and something more vulnerable, more raw. “This is borderline autobiography.”
Hannibal tilted his head, setting his glass aside. “We are all shaped by those we touch, Will. Whether we intend it or not.”
Will shook his head, his hands raking through his hair again, the motion jerky and frustrated. His fingers tugged briefly at the curls as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You make it sound so poetic,” he grumbled. “I’m just saying it’s weird to read about myself in—” He gestured vaguely toward the book, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right word. “In... that.”
Hannibal didn’t argue, merely watched as Will straightened, his movements taut with tension. Will reached for the book again with a sharp, almost reluctant motion. His hands were unsteady as he flipped it open, the pages fluttering beneath his fingers. His breath grew uneven as his eyes scanned the text, his muttering growing louder, more agitated, with every line he read.
And then he stopped.
“For fuck’s sake,” Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
Hannibal tilted his head, studying him. “Something intriguing?”
Will’s voice slowed as he read aloud again, this time quieter, as though he could scarcely believe the words on the page. “‘Theo revealed himself with an elegance that took James’s breath away. The other man’s body was as perfect as a sculpture, every inch a masterpiece. And yet it was Theo’s cock that was the true revelation. His length was smooth and proud, a testament to his perfection, utterly drenched with an excess of anticipation.’”
The book fell slack in Will’s lap. He stared down at it for a long moment before speaking again. “She even wrote about your overactive Cowper’s gland.”
Hannibal’s lips curled into an unabashed smirk, one brow lifting in amusement. “It seems Alana is quite... thorough in her depictions. A rare appreciation for anatomical precision.”
Will grumbled, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at Hannibal. “Yeah, well, maybe she should appreciate keeping some things to herself.”
Flipping the pages with renewed suspicion, Will’s eyes darted across the text. “She’d better not have turned me into some tragic, misunderstood caricature—” He froze mid-sentence, his brows furrowing. “Christ.”
Hannibal, who had reclaimed his glass of wine, raised a brow. “Something evocative?”
Will’s tone turned incredulous as he began to read aloud, his voice thick with sarcasm. “‘Theo entered the clearing, his gaze locking onto James, shirtless and wild, surrounded by a ring of wolves. ‘They understand me in ways people never could,’ James said, his voice heavy with sorrow.’”
Hannibal’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though picturing the scene. Will shot him a glare but continued. “‘Theo stepped forward, undeterred. ‘Then let me teach you the ways of men,’ he replied, cupping James’s face. ‘You are no beast.’”
The book snapped shut with a sharp thwap as Will launched it at Hannibal’s chest. “If she calls me a sexy wolf-boy one more time, I’m setting this on fire.”
Hannibal caught the book easily, the movement as smooth and unhurried as ever. He ran his fingers over the cover with deliberate care, his lips curling faintly. “A lone wolf tamed by civilization—poetic, if somewhat heavy-handed.”
“Poetic?” Will shot back, his flush deepening. “It’s insulting . I mean, surrounded by wolves? It’s like she thinks I’m one bad day away from running off to live in the woods for good.”
Hannibal took a measured sip of his wine. “She has, perhaps, exaggerated your affinity for the natural world. Though I must admit,” he added, the faintest glint of amusement sparking in his eyes, “there is something compelling about the idea of you as a misunderstood... lone wolf. ”
Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, don’t you start.”
“As you wish, darling,” Hannibal said smoothly, leaning forward and plucking the book from Will’s lap with an air of practiced ease. “Let us see what I might uncover within these pages.”
Will groaned again, his head tipping back briefly as though appealing to the ceiling for patience. When that failed to materialize, he huffed loudly and reached for his wineglass, the cool stem grounding him for a fleeting moment. He took a long sip, the dry, bitter edge of the wine lingering on his tongue as he cast a wary glance at Hannibal over the rim of the glass.
Hannibal, unbothered, flipped through the book with the deliberate ease of a scholar examining a rare manuscript. The soft rustle of the pages filled the quiet room, blending with the faint crackle of the fire.
Will drained the rest of his glass in another swig, his jaw tightening as he set it back on the table with a clink. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he muttered, his tone half-accusatory, half-resigned.
Hannibal didn’t reply immediately. His lips quirked faintly, the firelight catching the faint curve of his smile as he continued to thumb through the pages. The wine he’d been sipping all evening left a subtle blush on his cheekbones, softening his sharp edges with a strangely indulgent air. When his gaze sharpened suddenly, his stillness became louder than any word.
“Oh,” Hannibal murmured, his voice low with intrigue. “This is... imaginative.”
Will raised an eyebrow, already regretting letting Hannibal take control. “What now?”
Hannibal’s lips quirked as he began to read aloud. “‘Theo’s hands were deft, sliding beneath James’s jacket as he pushed him against the cool tiles of the opera house bathroom. The music from the performance swelled faintly in the distance, but neither man cared to listen. Their own rhythm was all that mattered.’”
Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but Hannibal was unperturbed, his tone growing richer, almost playful, as he continued. “‘Theo’s mouth captured James’s, all composure abandoned, his tie hanging loose and askew as James clutched at him, their bodies moving in a frantic, desperate dance. When Theo spun James around to rip his pants and boxers down and finger at J—’”
“Jesus!” Will interrupted, throwing up his hands. “She’s got us screwing in a public bathroom now? At the opera? What is this, some kind of twisted fanfiction?”
Hannibal tilted his head, entirely composed, his amusement glinting like the edge of a polished blade. “Is it inaccurate?” he asked mildly.
Will glared at him. “Inaccurate? We’re at the opera, Hannibal. Alana’s imagining us as the stars of her own porno in a space where Puccini is happening!” He waved a hand in frustration, his voice rising slightly. “Do you even realize how loud that would be? The acoustics in those places are designed to carry sound, not... moaning!”
Hannibal’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with an infuriating mix of mirth and something darker. “I suspect that only adds to the appeal for her. A crescendo within a crescendo, as it were.”
Will ignored him, jabbing a finger toward the book in Hannibal’s hands, his complaints coming in rapid-fire bursts. “And why is James—me—always the one getting shoved against a wall? I mean, come on! She’s always imagining me—him—bottoming. That’s just not true!”
Hannibal lifted an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “I imagine it is because James, like you, possesses an air of vulnerability that Theo cannot resist.”
“Vulnerability?” Will snapped, his voice cracking slightly as his indignation spilled over. “You mean ‘pushable’! She’s got me pinned against every available surface in this thing. It’s like her brain can’t even fathom that—” He gestured broadly with both hands, searching for words, before settling on a petulant, “We take turns!”
Hannibal’s grin widened at that, his eyes glinting with amusement and something more dangerous beneath the surface. He set the book down on the arm of the chair, leaning forward toward Will, his tone deceptively mild.
“Do you feel misrepresented, Will?” he asked softly, his voice carrying that velvet edge that never failed to make Will’s pulse stutter. “An artist’s interpretation is rarely perfect, after all.”
Will glared at him, his heart rabbiting in his chest. “I feel misrepresented,” he shot back, “because apparently Alana thinks you’re the only one in charge. She’s never seen you when you’re—”
He stopped abruptly, the words trailing off as Hannibal’s smile shifted into something sharper, more intimate. Hannibal leaned closer still, until the firelight cast shadows across the angles of his face, his gaze steady and unrelenting.
“When I’m what, Will?” Hannibal asked, his voice low, curling around the question like smoke.
Will shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. He looked away, his fingers tugging absently at a loose thread on his sweater, before glancing back at Hannibal and finding no escape.
Hannibal’s lips quirked again, faintly predatory, as he leaned back and retrieved the book from where it rested on the couch. His fingers curled lightly around the cover, almost reverent. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone casual but loaded with meaning, “we should continue reading. Alana’s interpretation may yet surprise us.”
Will groaned, scrubbing his hand over his face before letting it fall to his lap in defeat. “Why do I let you do this to me?” he muttered, glaring at the fire as if it were the source of all his frustrations. Meanwhile, Hannibal flipped leisurely through the pages, his expression composed but for the faint warmth of the wine still lingering in his skin.
After a few moments, Hannibal stilled, his gaze narrowing on a particular passage. His eyes moved across the text, one corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile—or something sharper. “Ah,” he said softly, the sound weighted with intrigue. “This is certainly... inspired.”
Will’s brow furrowed as he turned toward him. “What now?”
Hannibal didn’t immediately reply, instead beginning to read aloud in a voice as smooth as velvet:
“‘James hesitated at the threshold, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his body framed in the doorway like an offering. His voice was barely above a whisper as he said, I’ve never done this before. ’”
Will froze, his mouth slightly open, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and rising dread.
Hannibal continued, his tone unbothered but taking on a faintly amused lilt. “‘Theo smiled, slow and indulgent, his gaze raking over James as though savoring his nervousness. I’ll take care of you, Theo said, his voice a low promise, a steadying hand guiding James inside. You only need to trust me. ’”
Will shifted in his seat, the fabric of the couch creaking softly beneath him. His face rapidly reddened, growing hotter with every word. “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “No, no, no...”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, but his voice remained calm as he read on, the weight of the words falling like stones into the charged silence. “‘James fidgeted under Theo’s gaze, his wide eyes and soft gasps painting a picture of innocence so convincing, even Theo’s pulse quickened.’”
Will groaned audibly, dragging his hands down his face. “Why does this keep getting worse?” he muttered.
Hannibal continued without pause, his voice dipping lower as though savoring the words. “‘Theo’s hand cupped James’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the pinkened skin there as he murmured, Good boy. James shuddered, his voice breaking as he whispered, Thank you, Daddy. ’”
“ Nope! ” Will blurted, his voice cracking. His hand shot out, slapping the book shut with a decisive thud. “Absolutely not. You are not reading any more of that.”
Hannibal blinked at him, his composure entirely intact, though his lips quirked faintly. “I see Alana has struck a nerve,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying a subtle thread of amusement that made Will’s face burn even hotter.
Will glared at him, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for something to say. His fingers twitched against his thighs, then raked through his curls in an abrupt motion, leaving them sticking out at chaotic angles. Finally, he settled on folding his arms tightly across his chest, as though that might physically shield him from Hannibal’s gaze.
“It’s not a nerve,” he grumbled, though his voice faltered under the weight of Hannibal’s unrelenting stare. “It’s—it’s just weird, all right?” He shifted uncomfortably, his foot tapping against the floor as if the movement might help dissipate his rising embarrassment.
Will’s voice dropped lower as he muttered, almost too quiet to hear, “Weird that she’d imagine me saying something like—like that to you.”
He broke off, grabbing his wineglass from the table with a jerky motion. The rim clinked against his teeth as he took a long, desperate swallow, the sharp tang of the wine doing little to soothe the heat spreading through him. He set the glass down harder than necessary, the sound punctuating the strained silence.
“I mean...” Will gestured vaguely toward the book with one hand, his eyes darting anywhere but at Hannibal. “ ‘Daddy’? Seriously?” His voice cracked slightly on the word, and he winced, his fingers curling against his thigh.
“I must admit, Alana’s inclusion of the... paternal dynamic is unexpected.” Hannibal paused, letting the words settle like the weight of a blade pressed to skin. His eyes flicked over Will as though daring him to react. “Perhaps it reflects something she believes about your nature.”
Will’s head snapped up, his wide eyes locking onto Hannibal’s. “My nature ?” he echoed, his voice pitching higher with indignation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Hannibal closed the book slowly, resting it on his lap as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His movements were measured, almost gentle, as he studied Will with an intensity that made the space between them feel suffocating.
“She sees you,” Hannibal said softly, his voice low and insistent, “as someone in need of guidance. Of structure. Of...” His lips curled faintly, the words sliding out like silk. “Discipline.”
Will recoiled slightly, his body pressing back into the couch as though he could escape the weight of Hannibal’s gaze. “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “She doesn’t know me like that.”
Hannibal tilted his head, his voice dipping into something darker, something quieter. “Doesn’t she?”
Will opened his mouth, but no words came out. Hannibal leaned closer, their knees nearly brushing now, his presence almost overwhelming.
“She has always been perceptive,” Hannibal continued, his tone turning speculative. “Perhaps she noticed things you weren’t yet ready to admit to yourself. The way you respond to control, to authority. The way you yield when trust outweighs resistance.”
Will’s face burned, the heat spreading from his chest to his neck and ears. “That’s not—” He shook his head sharply, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She’s projecting or something. It’s not—”
Hannibal’s voice cut through Will’s flailing excuses like a blade. “ Is it not? ”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Will’s breath quickened, his chest rising and falling as though the air had grown too thick to inhale properly. The images Alana’s words had conjured loomed large in his mind, sharpened further by the velvet weight of Hannibal’s tone. He hated how easily Hannibal could strip him bare, how the man needed only a few words to unravel him completely.
“You’re absolutely impossible, you know that?” Will muttered finally, his voice raw and defensive. His hand reached for his wineglass again, but his fingers trembled, and he abandoned the attempt halfway, clenching his fist in frustration instead. “You’re just enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Hannibal leaned back slightly, his smirk deepening, the firelight glinting off his eyes like embers stirred by the wind. “Immensely,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.
Will’s lips pressed into a tight line, his glare sharp enough to wound. “Give me that,” he snapped, leaning forward and yanking the book out of Hannibal’s hands with far more force than necessary. The paperback’s spine creaked in protest, his fingers curling tight enough to leave impressions in the cover.
For a brief moment, he stared at the book, its garish design catching the firelight. The sensible part of him screamed to throw it into the flames, to watch it curl and blacken until nothing but ash remained. He flexed his hand, the thought so vivid it felt like an itch beneath his skin.
But instead, that same sick curiosity that had kept him in this unbearable conversation compelled him to open it again. His movements were tense as he flipped through the pages, each rustle of paper too loud in the silence. He sighed heavily, muttering under his breath as his eyes scanned the text.
At first, he skimmed quickly, skipping over Alana’s florid prose with practiced irritation. Then his movements slowed. His fingers curled tighter around the edges of the book, the knuckles whitening.
Will’s cheeks darkened, warmth creeping up his neck as he inhaled sharply. His lips parted, and when he finally began to read aloud, his voice was slower this time, more hesitant.
“‘James’s breath hitched as Theo pressed him against the cold surface of the desk, the doctor’s hands pinning him with effortless strength. Papers scattered to the floor, forgotten. Theo’s voice was low and commanding, his words curling like smoke around James’s trembling form: You’re going to stay exactly where I put you. ’”
Will froze mid-breath, the book slack in his hands.
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Go on.”
Will swallowed hard, but his voice didn’t steady as he read the next line. “‘James could only nod, his knees buckling as Theo’s hands pushed his thighs apart, the desk creaking under their combined weight. The ache of want was eclipsed by the sharp ecstasy of Theo finally—’”
The book snapped shut in Will’s hands. His breath came quicker now, uneven, and he stared at Hannibal, his expression caught somewhere between mortification and dawning horror.
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, his questioning look tinged with smugness, as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He said nothing, his silence loud enough to make Will squirm, the firelight catching the faint curve of his lips.
Will burned with embarrassment, the heat searing up his neck and cheeks until it felt like it might consume him. How had Alana managed to pluck that fantasy right out of his mind? The image in her prose was so vivid, so precise—it felt as if she’d somehow seen him, years ago, sitting in Hannibal’s office, stewing in want and guilt as he struggled to suppress thoughts that refused to be silenced.
He shifted in his seat, gripping the book tightly as though it might anchor him. Was I that obvious? The thought dug deep, panic knotting in his chest like a vice. Had he somehow telegraphed his desire, his pathetic need for Hannibal to turn him over and fuck him across the desk, to claim him in the very space meant to keep their interactions professional?
Will shook his head sharply, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “It—it’s a lucky guess,” he stammered, though the words sounded weak even to him. “I mean, she’s probably just...” His voice faltered, the sentence trailing off as he struggled to find a believable explanation. “It’s just coincidence. That’s all.”
Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression maddeningly calm, his voice smooth and unhurried when he finally spoke. “Coincidence?” he asked, arching a brow. “Or perhaps Alana was simply astute enough to recognize your fantasies for what they were. It would seem,” he added, his lips curving into something sharper, “she shares them.”
Will stared at him, speechless for a long moment, heat rising in his neck and cheeks like wildfire. The remembered fantasy lingered—Hannibal, unbuttoned and immaculate, bending him over the cold surface of the desk. The thought had plagued him during their sessions in Baltimore, unbidden but impossible to ignore. The way Hannibal stood behind his chair, how his hands brushed so deliberately against the leather as he moved to sit down. How his voice, low and steady, filled the room with an authority that dared Will to do something reckless.
Will shook his head, as though trying to physically dislodge the memory. “How much time,” he began, his voice uneven, “do you think Alana has spent fantasizing about us?”
Hannibal tilted his head, his expression thoughtful, considering the question with infuriating seriousness. “If this book is any indication,” he said, gesturing idly toward the now-abandoned paperback on the couch between them, “she has been fantasizing about us for quite some time. Likely for most of the years we’ve known her.”
Will grimaced, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch cushion as if anchoring himself. The idea clung to him, unwelcome yet undeniable, like a hand ghosting over his skin. Alana, poised and composed, letting her thoughts stray into territory so intimate it turned his stomach—and his blood hot.
Hannibal remained composed, leaning back slightly, his wineglass balanced delicately between his fingers, the firelight catching the faint red stain left behind. He took a small sip, his gaze flicking briefly to Will, assessing. Always assessing.
“We both know Alana was attracted to you,” Hannibal continued, his voice smooth and deliberate, his words deliberate as a blade’s edge. “And to me. At one point or another, she was likely trying to decide which of us she wanted more.” His lips curved faintly, a small, private smile that stoked the growing heat in Will’s chest. “It seems she chose not to choose.”
Will’s breath hitched slightly, his teeth gritting as a storm of emotions churned inside him. Horror? Absolutely. Arousal? Even more so, though he hated to name it. The idea of being watched, imagined, dissected—of someone, anyone, crafting their desires around him and Hannibal—unsettled him, but it also sparked something deep and primal.
But something sharper and hotter carved through him like a blade, its edge unrelenting.
Possessiveness.
It was irrational, and he hated it—hated the way it curled low in his stomach like a living thing. The idea of Alana, even hypothetically, even fictionally, laying claim to Hannibal in her fantasies stung far more than it should have. Hannibal was his, in every meaningful way, and the thought of sharing him—even in the echoing recesses of someone else’s mind—twisted something deep in his chest.
Will turned his head sharply, his voice tight and accusing. “You’re pleased,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Hannibal’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of amusement lighting his expression. “Pleased?”
“Yes,” Will snapped, shifting closer, his voice gaining momentum. “That she’s been obsessing over you—over us—for years. Don’t try to tell me you aren’t.”
Hannibal’s smile widened, slow and dangerous. He set his glass down on the low table with deliberate precision, the sound of the base tapping against the wood seeming impossibly loud in the room’s heavy silence.
“I am merely enjoying the image of Alana Bloom, a woman of considerable poise and intelligence, indulging in thoughts of us,” Hannibal said, his tone low, resonant. He leaned in slightly, his knee brushing Will’s as the distance between them shrank. “She must have found the dynamic... compelling.”
“Compelling,” Will echoed, his voice cracking slightly. His gaze flicked to the book lying haphazardly on the couch and then back to Hannibal, his breathing quickening. The wine coursing through his veins did little to quell the pulse thrumming low in his stomach, matching the rhythm of his erratic thoughts. “I can’t decide if I’m horrified or—” He broke off, the rest of the sentence hanging precariously between them.
“Or aroused?” Hannibal finished for him, his voice dipping into something darker, richer, the sound more felt than heard.
The word cleaved through Will’s defenses like a scalpel, leaving him raw and exposed. He hated how easily Hannibal could unearth the truth of things he hadn’t even named for himself. A warmth uncoiled inside him, treacherous and insistent, feeding on the thought of Alana’s careful, reverent attention.
His chest tightened, his stomach churned, but the heat blooming low in his abdomen was undeniable, impossible to ignore.
“I don’t—” Will started, but his voice caught, the words crumbling in his throat.
Hannibal leaned closer, his arm brushing Will’s as he shifted toward him. The firelight flickered in his eyes, reflecting something dangerously intimate, something that made Will’s blood hum beneath his skin.
“You don’t have to choose,” Hannibal murmured, his voice silk-soft but unyielding. “Horror, arousal, possession... They are not mutually exclusive.”
Will’s breath came quicker, shallow and uneven as he tried to hold his composure. Hannibal moved closer still, his presence enveloping, his thigh pressing firmly against Will’s now. When his hand brushed Will’s, just briefly, it sent a jolt through him, and the last threads of his restraint frayed.
“I’m blaming the wine for this,” Will finally rasped, his voice rough, trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t admit aloud.
“You may blame whatever you wish,” Hannibal replied, his tone inviting yet uncompromising, his gaze fixed on Will’s scarlet face.
The last of Will’s hesitation shattered. He reached for Hannibal, his fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt collar. The kiss was hard and desperate, their mouths colliding with a force that stole the breath from both of them. Hannibal’s hand found Will’s jaw, his fingers curling there as he deepened the kiss, drawing a low sound from Will’s throat.
The friction of their bodies—too hot, too urgent—turned the quiet intimacy of the room into something electric. Will's pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but Hannibal's presence, his touch, the impossible reality of the moment.
They pressed closer, the couch creaking faintly beneath their shifting weight as Will slid a hand to Hannibal’s chest, gripping the fabric as though anchoring himself. Hannibal responded in kind, his hands slipping to Will’s waist, pulling him closer still until there was nothing between them but heat and urgency.
The kiss broke only for a moment, their breaths mingling, rough and uneven. Hannibal’s gaze was molten, his lips curling faintly as Will stood abruptly, dragging him to his feet by his shirt.
“Come on,” Will muttered, his voice thick with need as he tugged Hannibal toward the bedroom.
Hannibal followed without protest, his hands steadying Will briefly at the small of his back before allowing himself to be pulled along, their movements uneven and hurried.
The firelight cast their retreating figures in warm, flickering shadows, their laughter dissolving into murmurs. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire. Crimson Desires rested on the couch, its pages still brimming with possibilities yet unexplored.