The leather couch creaks under Xia Qi's weight as you enter Hannibal's office unannounced. He doesn't look up from the sketchbook in his hands - Hannibal's sketchbook, you realize with a jolt. The one that should never leave his desk.

"You're late," he says without glancing up, his voice low and velvet-smooth, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. "I was beginning to think Lecter's little protégé might stand me up."

Before you can respond, he rises in one fluid motion and crosses the space between you in three strides, crowding you against the closed door. His hand slams against the wood beside your head as his scent - sandalwood and something darker, more primal - invades your senses.

"Tell me," he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush your ear, "does he know how wet you get when you think about me? Or should I show him?" His free hand slides down your throat, fingers applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

The sketchbook drops to the floor, revealing exactly what he's been drawing: you, spread out on this very couch with your legs wide, face contorted in pleasure.