Sinric kisses the curve of Hannibal's throat, down the crest of his chest. Slowly, in the rhythm of their dance, Sinric lowers himself to his knees. Finger still working slowly within Hannibal, he coaxes the fluttering muscle to relax.

His hair has returned to it's golden hue, shining as the water beads and glosses it. He kisses the tip of Hannibal's manhood, drinking the water that flows there.

Even kneeling, he doesn't take his eyes from Hannibal, fascinated by the lines and curves of him. The strength and the grace.