Strange Bedfellows
Our clothes strewn about are the only things that mar the militaristic perfection of my apartment. I don't know why the thought occurs to me, but it does. A warm, soft female curves against my body, and I look at the woman in my arms. It was such an unexpected turn of events that I don't even really understand how we got here. From the security summit to the lobby, from the lobby bar to the car, from the car to the elevator; and so on, with clothes being shed hastily once we reached my place. How the hell did President Paylor end up in my bed?
She stirs. "Mmmm. Go back to sleep, Soldier Hawthrone. That's an order," she murmurs.
"Yes, Commander Paylor," I reply with a bit of a smile.
I close my eyes and try to do as I'm told, but I can't. The strangeness of this whole turn of events is still too much for me. She isn't the first woman that I've slept with since taking my position as Chief of Security three years ago. They have come and gone with such swift regularity, that I hardly even take the time to remember their names. But this time is different. I have the President of Panem naked beside me. A woman that I have liked and respected without question since the first time I laid eyes on her.
It all started with a dull meeting. We've had weekly phone summits for the last two years, and before that, I spent at least an hour a day detailing my progress with restructuring the Peacekeepers and training new military recruits. The summit was just for the cameras. It was meant to show the people that we are still hard at work making a better world for them. Though most of the unrest has been settled, there are still a bare handful of Old Capitol loyalists that stir things up at times. If Plutarch has done anything right, he has managed to keep the government looking good in eyes of the masses. Such a good job, in fact, that I don't mind playing the part every so often. Still, it can be taxing at times.
I suppose that's what really set things rolling. Once the cameras were put away and the crews gone, the President asked me to join her for a drink. The request was somewhat surprising given the way most former Thirteen residents feel about liquor, but I accepted. We shared a few glasses of expensive wine from the new vineyards in Eleven—a lucrative, but controversial new venture. I think there was a time when I would have balked at the idea of wasting money on something like that, but I no longer cared. I sipped the deep, red liquid carefully and watched as Paylor did the same. It might have been around the second glass when I realized that when she was relaxed, Paylor was an attractive woman.
Her dark hair was pulled into a tight twist at the nape of her neck and she wore only the barest trace of make-up. She didn't need much. At thirty-eight, she was relatively unlined by the stresses that would have turned most people's hair stark white. I kept staring at those unflinching, brown eyes and at her naturally red lips. She wasn't a beauty in the sense of the over-done Capitol woman. No, she had an appeal all her own. She didn't need a man, but it just made you wonder if you could be the man she wanted.
I still don't know what prompted me to ask her back to my place, nor what prompted her to say yes. I am also still hazy on who kissed who first in the back of the car. All I know is that at some point, we began a passionate kiss so deep that it had my cock aching for release. The chauffeur will probably have stories to tell, but who would believe it?
Even now, I barely do. With a trained stillness, I manage to wait until morning to delve further into the matter at hand. The morning sun begins to shine through the slats of the blinds, and we both sit up groggily. Paylor disentangles herself from the sheets, and I do the same. We both say next to nothing for a few minutes.
She is retrieving her bra from the arm of a floor lamp as I watch from my couch. I didn't bother to put on clothes. Modesty seems a moot point at this late hour.
"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?" she asks with her hands resting on her slender hips.
"I am still in shock at bit, to be honest," I admit with a sigh.
"Do you regret it?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment. I am not really sure how to answer it. Do I regret it? Finally, I shake my head. "No," I reply. "Do you?"
"I don't think so. Though I probably should be ashamed of myself," she adds with a wry smile. "I'm almost old enough to be your mother."
"I haven't felt young in years." I'm not sure if I am telling her this to alleviate her guilt or to make myself feel better.
She dresses quickly without any more talk about our situation. I am amazed at how swiftly she can contain the lush strands of her hair back into the twist. Years of practice, I suppose.
Before she walks out my door, she turns to me. "You know this can't happen again."
It happens again two months later in the Capitol.
It's the anniversary of the new Republic. A gala is held in the Congress building, or what used to be known as President Snow's glorious mansion. Dignitaries and officials from all over the country come to celebrate. There are festivals raging throughout all of the districts, but this is the finest of them all. Thirteen's frugality seems to have mostly melted into the background with only a few concessions to get rid of the more wasteful behaviors. (There will be no one purging this feast, like the one Katniss told me about.)
The President arrives later in the evening. I can't help but feel a growing heat as I watch her mingle with the guests. Her dress is black silk that covers one arm and leaves the other bare. I don't pay attention to women's fashions, but even I have to admit it's a beautiful dress. She is fittingly elegant while still maintaining an authoritative air. I am beyond caring about propriety. My eyes devour the way her body moves beneath the fabric. Instantly, I am taken back to watching her parade around nude in my apartment. I want her more than I am willing to admit. Her gaze finds me in the crowd. Though her bearing doesn't display the slightest hint that she shares my desire, I know that she is thinking about me, too.
We see each other a few times in passing, nodding and acknowledging when necessary. Every time, I feel the spark within me ignite a little more. This isn't love. It's lust. I want her and she wants me. How could it be wrong?
I meet her in the Presidential suite. Our clothes fall away like they are melting from our bodies as we make a path toward the bed. My lips barely leave hers as we move. I feel like a man dying of thirst in the desert who's finally been given a drink. My body is more alive than I think it ever has been. I don't hold anything back once we hit the bed, and it seems like it is all over too quickly.
Afterward, she lays with her head on my bare shoulder, tracing the lines of the scars covering my back. "Must have been some flogging," she comments. Those are the first words said since we finished, and they catch me just a bit off guard.
"I almost died," I mutter in reply. I don't like thinking about those scars. They remind me of too many things I wish to forget, of people who paid the price for my arrogance. I roll onto my back to block her view of them, and note that her body isn't without blemish either. I reach out and caress a puckered burn mark on her left side.
"I got that not long after meeting you for the first time," she tells me casually. "I really thought you two wouldn't make it the whole way through the war... Well, maybe her, but I thought you'd be a goner before too long."
I frown. "Why's that?"
"Because I could always tell that you were the hero-type. I don't know too many heroes that are still alive and kicking."
I don't tell her otherwise. Why would I admit to the truth? I've gotten too damn good at running from it over the years to face up to it now in front of the President.
"I should get dressed," I say, sitting up. "There'll be hell to pay if I'm seen leaving in the morning."
"So this is how it's going to be," she says with a wry chuckle. "I have to say that a girl usually hopes for more romance."
"Is that what you want from me?"
Paylor shakes her head. "I think that ship sailed a long time ago, and to be honest, I'm not even all that sorry."
"I can relate to that," I admit as I settle back down beside her.
"Doubtful," she says with a dark laugh. "You'll find some nice girl who makes next to no demands of you. Maybe you'll even really love her more than you did Katniss."
Suddenly, the pieces fall together, and I see the finished picture before me. "That's why we're here. Neither of us will ask for anything more than this," I point out.
"Now, you've got it, soldier. Loneliness can throw together some very strange bedfellows."
"Strange bedfellows," I repeat with an amused snort. "That's one way of putting it."