Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart."
Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately."
"Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta.
I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us.
- The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
and we tumble to the ground (and then you say)
"What's wrong?" Peeta asks.
"Nothing," I answer.
We walk out past the end of the train, and though I'm nearly certain the Capitol's microphones won't pick up our voices from here, still no words will come. How can I say what I'm feeling to Peeta? How can I explain that my feelings don't run quite as deep as I'd pretended to the boy who risked his own life for mine without a second thought?
There's only one answer to that question: I can't. At least, not until we're back in District 12 and things have calmed down. In a few weeks, when the cameras have gone and I'm back to my surly, plain-faced self, Peeta will realize that I'm not who he thought I was. And we'll get on with life as best we can.
As selfish as it sounds, I'm not completely unaffected by the thought that Peeta's adoration for me will fade. There were moments in the arena when comforting Peeta, flirting with Peeta, touching Peeta, felt so natural that I wasn't completely certain that I was putting on a show, after all. Even if we're not truly in love, I care for him. And maybe, if things were different…
"Penny for your thoughts?" Peeta's soft timbre breaks me out of my thoughts. He leans in to my side affectionately, brushing a wisp of hair away from my cheek.
"They're worth at least a hundred now. Didn't you know I'm a victor?" I joke half-heartedly. Peeta smiles.
"I guess that makes me the only one who could afford them."
"You and Haymitch," I point out.
"He's saving all his pennies for his next drink." I don't have a good retort to that, so I just smile a little and focus on the little bouquet of wildflowers in my hand.
"Are you excited to go home?" he asks, leaning back on his elbows in the grass.
My forehead creases slightly as I consider the question. On the one hand: of course. This is what I'd wanted. I'm coming homefrom the Hunger Games. I'll have enough money to feed my family for the rest of our lives, and then some.
But on the other hand…I don't know for sure what I'm coming home to. My mother and Prim, sure. But how will the rest of District 12 treat me? Will I still be able to hunt in the woods and barter for goods at the Hob, or will my notoriety make it too great a risk?
And then there's Gale.
"Yes," I say simply. "Are you?"
"Very much," he says with a contented sigh. He pauses for a moment. "I'm really looking forward to meeting Prim."
It's not something I'd really thought about before, but the idea of Peeta and Prim meeting in person makes me feel a little funny inside. Prim's so guileless, I'm sure she thinks everything that happened between Peeta and me was entirely genuine. Then again, so does the whole country, apparently.
"And I'm excited to introduce you to my brothers," Peeta adds, flashing me a grin as he squeezes my hand. "But most of all…" He lowers his voice. "I can't wait to get you alone." He punctuates that remark with a soft kiss right on my neck, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
My fingers tighten reflexively around my flowers. I'm not shocked that Peeta, a sixteen-year-old boy, would want to…do things…with me that we couldn't do on camera. In waking, he was a perfect gentleman. But in sleep, his hands sometimes wandered beneath the cover of our shared sleeping bag. And after his body had started to recover from infection in the arena, I'd woken and felt his interest pressing against me every morning.
No, what surprises me is the way my own stomach flips in response to the brush of his lips against my skin.
"We should go back in," I say, climbing hastily to my feet. "Effie's probably ready to blow a gasket."
"Okay," Peeta says easily, taking my hand as we make our way back to whatever it is that awaits us.
"But I'm tired, Effie," I protest, my tone on the verge of a full-out whine. "They've already got shots of me dancing, eating, talking…"
It's been eight days since our train pulled into the station at the edge of District 12. Eight days of photo shoots, meet-and-greets and parties that last long into the night. If these parties were for the people who actually live here, I might be willing to indulge them. But most of the crowd is Capitol types, Peacekeepers and wealthy officials enjoying an exotic foray into one of the "outer" districts. It's their only opportunity to meet the star-crossed lovers in person since they won't be important enough to score an invite to any of the parties during our Victory Tour six months from now.
So I'm done for the night. They've taken what I'm willing to give. All I want to do now is go home, get out of this dress and these heels, and collapse into bed.
At least I'm not in a ball gown this time. Apparently there's no need to get that fancy all the way out in District 12; even our highest ranking Peacekeeper is a nobody compared to the lowliest Capitol hanger-on. Instead, the skirt of my forest green dress flares over my hips, ending midway down my thighs – shorter than I'm entirely comfortable with, but a welcome change from the long, flowy fabrics I've been tripping over for the past several weeks.
"Katniss, darling, this party is for you." Effie's just barely suppressing her annoyance at my petulant behavior, I can tell. "These guests are here for you. If you leave now –"
"They won't know the difference," Haymitch interrupts, the ice cubes in his glass clinking softly as he sways slightly on his feet. "They're all three sheets to the wind, are you shitting me, Effie?"
Narrowing her eyes, Effie crosses her arms over her chest – not an easy feat, given the stiff, shiny purple fabric tightly encasing her arms. "Even if that were the case, neither her mother nor her cousin are here tonight, and you're drunk, which means I am the only appropriate escort, and I simply cannot enable that kind of breach of etiquette."
"I'll walk her home," Peeta says immediately, stepping up beside me. His fingers brush lightly against the bare skin at the small of my back, sending a pleasant tickle down my spine. Ever since my mother decreed I was "too young" for a boyfriend in front of the press, we've become a bit more physically distant, which means Peeta likes to take advantage of these little opportunities to touch me when no one's looking.
"Oh, Peeta, not you too," Effie sighs dramatically. She knows to expect this from me, but Peeta is usually game for whatever small talk she steers his way. Honestly, I don't know how he has the energy.
"My leg's really starting to bother me, Effie," Peeta says apologetically, scratching just below his knee, where his prosthetic is strapped on to what's left of his real leg. "I've got to give it a rest."
Our eyes only meet for a split second, but it's long enough for me to know he's fibbing. Talking about Peeta's fake leg is a surefire way to convince Effie to let him do whatever he wants. It makes her so uncomfortable that she'll agree to anything as long as it means she doesn't have to hear him talk about it anymore. Effie purses her lips. "But Katniss' mother –"
"Oh, let the kid take her home, Effie," Haymitch says, rolling his eyes. "They'll be followed by cameras the whole way anyway." The realization that he's probably right makes me feel a little sick.
With a heavy sigh, Effie acquiesces, and leads us through a few last rounds of goodbyes. I follow Peeta out the door when we're finally permitted to leave, our hands clasped together. Sure enough, a pair of cameramen trail after us, just a few feet behind. My throat tightens. I just want them to leave. I want this to end. I want to be normal again.
After a few minutes of walking in silence, Peeta leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. "You want to ditch them?" he whispers.
I do. More than anything. I nod, wary of what will happen if they overhear.
"Can you run in your shoes?"
My face falls a little; the ridiculous shoes strapped onto my feet have thin heels of at least four inches, and making my way down the gravel road towards the Victors Village is challenging enough even at our leisurely pace. "No, I don't think so."
"Okay." He keeps his voice very low. "When I bend over to tie my shoe, hop on, okay?"
I don't quite catch on to what he's suggesting until he's already bending down towards the ground. "Ugh, stupid shoelaces," he says loudly, I guess for the benefit of the cameraman. He glances at me, and it finally clicks. I scramble onto his broad back, throwing my arms around his neck, and shriek a little as he pops back up and takes off at a run.
"Peeta!" I wrap my arms around him tighter and he hitches me up a little higher, darting down a dark alleyway between the shops surrounding the town square. I have no idea where he's going – but Peeta grew up running through these little streets, and I trust that we'll end up somewhere the cameramen can't find us.
Peeta runs for another minute or two before slowing to a stop, gently lowering me to the ground. He leans back against a brick wall, breathing heavily. My veins are humming with adrenaline. We look at each other for a long moment, until I finally say, "I can't believe we just did that."
He bursts out laughing, and it's so infectious I join him with my own chuckles. I've never really seen Peeta laugh before: he does it with his whole body. He straightens up and pushes off the wall, moving closer to me.
"I'm tired of people watching us all the time," he says. "I thought it would end once we got back."
"Me too," I admit glumly. "Just one more week until the Harvest Festival, I guess."
Peeta nods. "You know, I think this is the first time we've been alone since the Games," he says.
"We weren't really alone then," I remind him. "There were cameras everywhere."
"Okay, first time we've ever been alone, then," he concedes. He's very close now. So close that I can see how his eyes have darkened, more black than blue in the dim light of a streetlamp. "I've missed you."
My nerves prickle under my skin. "What do you mean? We see each other constantly."
"Yeah, but…only with all those people around." Peeta pushes a stray hair that had fallen loose during our escape behind my ear, and his hand lingers, tracing down my cheek and then falling to cup my shoulder.
He leans down and fits his mouth against mine.
Normally, kissing Peeta is nothing special. Our kisses must number in the hundreds by now. It's not unpleasant – from my very limited experience, I've deduced that Peeta's at least pretty good at it – but it's just another part of our routine, like holding hands and hugging. Frankly, I'm not sure why the Capitol audience still wants to see us locking lips at this point.
But this time…I feel that thing again. That pleasurable twist low in my stomach, the one that I felt during one of our kisses in the cave, and when he kissed my neck by the train tracks. It's a good feeling – but at the same time it leaves me craving more.
So when Peeta brushes his tongue against my lower lip, I open my mouth to deepen the kiss, letting him in. A quiet groan rumbles in his throat, and he backs me up slowly against the wall, one hand sliding up to cradle my head protectively from the rough brick.
So this is what it's like to kiss Peeta away from the cameras.
He kisses me, deep and slow, and when he finally pulls back, he drops his forehead against mine gently. "I've been dying to do that since we got back here," he says, the longing evident in his voice.
Me too, I almost say, but it's not true, is it? The words are pure instinct: I'm so accustomed to playing my part as the love-struck schoolgirl that I'm still putting on a show, even when there's no one to watch it.
No one except Peeta, that is.
He seems to be waiting for me to say something. "I – I can tell," I say stiltedly. It's enough, I guess, because he tilts his head and kisses me again.
We stay there, pressed up against the brick wall, shifting and sighing against one another for…well, I don't know how long. All I know is that I like it. Romantic words and longing looks and dreamy confessions of love – they're not my strong suit. But when we're kissing like this, I don't have to think about any of those things. I don't have to think about the threat I saw in President Snow's snake eyes, or Haymitch's warnings, or the people we're hurting with this charade.
All I have to do is feel. And it feels good.
Eventually Peeta breaks away, moving his lips to my neck. "Come home with me," he murmurs into my ear.
My stomach tightens. "What?"
"Come home with me," he repeats, pulling back slightly to look at me. The corner of his mouth tugs up. "I want to be alone with you."
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry as the implications race through my mind. "But – what about Effie?" She'll throw a fit if she finds out my escort and I took a detour…to his empty house, no less.
"Forget Effie." Peeta presses a soft kiss to my neck, lingering there longer than he did that day on the train tracks. "Come home with me," he says a third time, nuzzling his nose into my hair.
My eyes flutter shut as he kisses me again, his tongue dipping into my mouth, sliding past my own. The kiss goes on and on until I start to feel woozy, desperate for oxygen. I pull back, the fabric of his shirt clenched in my hands. Something is different tonight. We're different tonight.
"Okay," I say, gasping for breath. "Yes."
The Victors' Village isn't too far from town, but after a few dozen feet of wobbly footsteps in my heels, Peeta picks me up and carries me there, cradled against his chest. I wrap my arms around his neck for balance and rest my head on his shoulder. He's much cleaner now, of course, but beneath the smell of the Capitol-provided soap and shampoo is a familiar, musky scent that I recognize from the arena. No matter what they do to him, they can't entirely mask over what's uniquely Peeta.
The Village is silent, the only sound our breathing and the slightly uneven crunch of Peeta's footsteps on the gravel. We both tense up a bit with guilt when we pass by the house I share with my family, but the lights are already turned off, so there's little to worry about. Mother and Prim must have gone to bed already, assuming I'd be home late.
Peeta lowers me gently to the ground when we reach his front porch. Neither of us speaks as he fumbles to unlock the door.
"Stupid thing," he mutters, jiggling the key in the lock. "I, um, I don't usually lock it," he says, but I recognize the nervous tenor in his voice, and my heart pulses with a sudden rush of affection.
"It's okay," I'm saying just as he jerks open the door. With a deep breath he steps aside, waving me in.
"Ladies first."
Hesitantly, I step over the threshold.
Even in the dark I can see that Peeta's house is just like mine: a sitting room to the left, a kitchen to the right, and a staircase to the second floor right in the middle. He flicks on a light and I wince, squeezing my eyes shut against the brightness.
"Welcome, welcome," he jokes, his voice lilting in a vague imitation of Effie on the day we were reaped. I smile faintly.
Peeta's hand ghosts over my lower back and he leads me into the kitchen, pulling out a stool for me to sit at the kitchen island. "D'you want something to drink?" he asks, pulling two glasses from a cabinet over the sink, identical to where I keep mine.
"Sure."
"I only have water," he admits, pulling a filter pitcher out of the refrigerator. I hadn't even known those existed before the Games – hadn't known there was anything wrong with the tap water we drank and bathed in every day – but there is a matching one in my own kitchen, three doors away.
"That's okay." I accept my glass, grateful, and drink deeply. We smile at one another over the rims of our glasses, the edges wet and slippery with condensation.
I swirl the tip of my finger along the side of my glass, absently forming shapes on the cloudy surface. Peeta is staring at his own glass, lost in his head. He'd been so confident – brazen, even – when we were out in the alleyway, adrenaline pumping through our bloodstreams. But now that he's got me here, he seems to have no idea what to do with me.
I'm about to admit that I'm tired when he finally speaks. "These houses are too big for one person," he says.
It's true. They've each got four bedrooms – enough for a family of eight, if it came to it. And Peeta lives alone in his. For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe he didn't want to live here alone. Maybe his family just didn't want to come.
And in that one small but crucial way, I am lucky, I suppose. To have a sweet, loving sister like Prim. To have a mother who's finally starting to try, even if she more often than not fails.
I slip off of my stool and move to the other side of the island to stand beside him. "It's stupid, but…" he trails off, giving me a shaky smile. "I kind of hoped you'd be living here with me when we got back."
His admission takes me by surprise – we're so young, for starters – but I wipe any trace of it from my features. "It's not stupid," I say, taking his hand.
"I hate sleeping without you," he says, frowning as his thumb brushes over my palm. "I have nightmares."
"I do, too," I whisper, embarrassed to confess such a thing. I've had them for years – since my father died in the mine explosion – but since the Games, they've multiplied tenfold. The dreams about his death were at least predictable. There are only so many ways a coalmine can explode. But the new dreams are a horrifying swirl of dead Tributes and fire and mutts, knives and wasps and dripping fangs. I never know what's coming.
"God, I missed you so much," he repeats his words from earlier, pulling me against his chest in a tight embrace. And I understand, now, what he meant before: he missed this closeness. This understanding, from the only other person in the world who's ever gone through what we went through together.
"I missed you, too," I mumble into his chest. I did. I do. Wrapped up in his arms, tucked away from the cameras, I realize that this is the safest I've felt in months.
We stand there together, swaying slightly in place, clutching one another. His body has changed in the weeks since we won, grown broader, stronger. But the steadiness I sense in him now was always there, even when he was hovering on the edge of death.
Peeta's heart beats in his chest, a low thrum under my ear. Slowly, the comforting cocoon we've tangled ourselves in threads tighter into tension. His heartbeats come quicker.
Eventually, I feel Peeta shift against me. His arms loosen slightly, one hand sliding gently up my back. He tilts his head, and I feel his lips brush against my neck. It feels like a question.
I hold very still, my breathing shallow. But when he drags his lips across my jaw to meet my own, I don't pull away.
It's a new kiss: not the one from our cave, and not the one from our stop in the alley earlier in the evening. It's slower. Deeper. Peeta's learning my mouth, the shape and the feel and the movement of it, and I'm learning his, too.
Peeta's tongue enters my mouth again and he moves it in and out, over and over, in a mesmerizingly slow rhythm. I match his movements with my own, an odd sensation growing in the pit of my stomach as we sigh against one another.
We never did this in the arena. For all our declarations of longing and lust, the star-crossed lovers were chaste. But these kisses – they don't satisfy me, not entirely. This is an entirely new kind of hunger, gnawing at my core.
Peeta grazes my lower lip with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth, drawing out a soft whine from the back of my throat. When I try doing the same thing to him, I'm rewarded with a low groan that reverberates through my entire body.
Dimly, a part of me realizes that our bodies have joined the rhythm, our hips rocking together in a slow, steady motion. When I feel him start to grow hard against my belly, I pull back, taking in a sharp breath.
Peeta gazes down at me through heavy-lidded, half-focused eyes. "I'm sorry," he says, but he doesn't move away.
And neither do I.
Our lips meet again, eager, sloppy, hungry. Peeta's hands drop down to the small of my back and he presses me against his arousal. A little shock runs through me as I realize that it doesn't scare me. I like it. I like that I'm doing this to him.
Peeta breaks the kiss, breathing heavily against my lips. "Do you…do you want to go upstairs?"
Does it even matter where we go in this empty, sterile house? We could have privacy anywhere we wanted. I agree anyway. All I know is that if Peeta stops touching me, it'll break the spell we're under. I'm not ready for that to happen.
He untangles himself from me and pauses for a moment, then bends slightly and sweeps me up into his arms for the second time tonight. I bury my face in his neck until we reach the second floor landing, and then scan the hallway as Peeta carries me into his bedroom. It's the same room that I sleep in at my house.
Though the rest of the house looks mostly untouched, his bedroom seems more lived-in than mine, mostly thanks to the easel set up in the corner and the little jars of paint strewn across the desk beside it. I'm surprised that he wouldn't just use one of the empty bedrooms as a studio; but then, if his nightmares are as bad as he implied, he probably doesn't want to go roaming in the dark hallway when he needs an escape.
Peeta stops just inside the door and sets me down before flicking on a dim overhead light. "So this is my room," he says, a light flush settling on his cheeks. "Obviously."
The rush of passion that swept us up here seems to have waned for the moment, and I step closer to the canvas in the corner, squinting my eyes. "Is that…?"
"You," he confirms, stepping up behind me so close that I can feel his body heat.
I lean in, studying the canvas. He hasn't started the actual painting yet – but there I am, in rough pencil strokes, sitting cross-legged on a sleeping bag with a plate of food in my lap. He must have been remembering the day we received that feast from our sponsors, the lamb stew and rice and bread and cheese. It was as good a day as you can hope for in a weeks-long fight to the death.
"It looks just like me," I say, slightly awed. I knew that Peeta had chosen painting as his talent; I just hadn't known that he was actually good at it.
"Well, I've got you on my mind all day," he says softly, winding one hand around my waist from behind, his palm coming to rest just below my belly button. I relax back into him, a tingling feeling below the spot where his hand sits. "I'd love to draw you for real, if you'd let me."
"Maybe."
His little finger slips beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing idly against the sensitive skin of my stomach. And just like that, the hunger is back. I'm the one to initiate this time, twisting around in his arms, meeting his lips. Peeta keeps his embrace tight around me as we kiss, backing up slowly towards the bed.
When his knees hit the edge of the mattress he drops down heavily, tugging me after him between his legs. I bend down to kiss him, but his hands slide down my back to the curve of my ass, urging me forward. Feeling awkward, I climb onto the bed one leg at a time, straddling his waist.
He shifts backward and I lose my balance for a moment, throwing my arms around his neck. He wraps his own around my middle and nuzzles his nose against the base of my throat.
It's strange, looking down at Peeta from this higher angle again for the first time since we were in the cave. "Hi," he says softly, a shy smile spreading across his face. I wonder if he's thinking about it, too.
"Hi," I whisper back.
We're quiet for a moment, just watching each other. "Well, c'mere," Peeta says, and flops back on the bed, pulling me down with him.
I'm flush against his torso, and as our lips find each other's over and over, it's impossible not to squirm against him. His erection presses against me right between my legs, right at the spot where the mounting pressure feels so good.
Peeta groans into my mouth. "You feel so good," he says, echoing my thoughts as his hips rise gently against me. His hands slip down my waist and onto my bare thighs, pushing the flimsy skirt of my dress up as his hands slide higher. It was so hot out today that I'd refused to wear stockings, much to Effie's dismay, but she'd been in such a rush to just get me out of the house that she gave up that particular battle.
I jump when Peeta's hands cup my ass, his fingers pressing into my skin through the thin, lacy fabric of my underwear. My skirt is hitched up uncomfortably around my waist, but without its layers in the way there's almost nothing between myself and the growing hardness inside Peeta's own soft, tailored pants.
Suddenly, he changes tactics: his hands come up to my shoulders, tugging down the straps of my dress. The dress hangs dangerously low on my breasts. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, fingers running lightly over the small curves.
I nod, unable to speak. Peeta rolls to the side and I drop onto my back, letting him hover over me. He pulls the dress down slowly, his eyes darkening as my breasts are bared to him for the first time. My nipples tighten as they're exposed to the cool air, and when he brushes his thumb over one, my eyes fall shut as my head lolls back.
"Oh," I breathe out as his large, warm hands cover me completely. In a haze, I watch as he dips his head to my breast and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. "Oh," I say again, arching my back as his tongue laves over me.
Peeta moves to my other breast, his fingers replacing his mouth on the first. He pinches my nipple, then flattens his palm against my breast as he squeezes it gently.
Though at first I was unsure what to do with my hands, now they fly up to Peeta's head, and I tangle my fingers in his hair. I don't even realize that I'm tugging on the short blond strands until he releases my breast with a hard suck, saying, "Ow."
I tense, embarrassed. "Sorry," I whisper.
Peeta grins and shifts up over me. "Don't be sorry," he says, pulling my lower lip into his mouth in lieu of a quick kiss. "Did you like that?"
My cheeks flame. It's pretty obvious that I liked it. But Peeta decides to find out for himself, reaching down to rub me over my underwear. His fingers are hesitant, his eyes wide, seeking permission. I just watch him, my breaths coming sharp and shallow.
When I do nothing to stop him, Peeta slips his fingers beneath my underwear, running them lightly over the slick skin. Until a few weeks ago I was completely bare down there, thanks to my prep team, but now that we're home they don't seem as preoccupied with my nether regions. The hair is just now starting to grow back. Peeta doesn't seem to mind.
"You're really wet," he whispers, sounding slightly awed.
Embarrassment sweeps over me, but Peeta only seems encouraged by my body's clear reaction to him. He kisses me hard, his mouth open and hot, and moves his fingers experimentally against me. I gasp against his lips when he brushes past my clit, the brief touch igniting like a spark.
Peeta breaks the kiss and watches me closely as he rubs his fingers over that spot again. I squeeze my eyes shut. I've touched myself like this a handful of times, when I was left alone in the house and felt bored. Nothing ever came of it. Now, though, the pleasure doesn't just plateau – it builds.
I gasp when Peeta slides one finger inside of me. It feels foreign – but also like it's somehow not enough. "Wow," he mutters under his breath.
It's impossible to hold back the moans he's drawing out of me, and I writhe beneath him, overcome by the feeling. At some point he adds a second finger, pumping them in and out of me gently in time with the circles he's rubbing around my clit. When it becomes too much to handle, I clamp my legs together with an uncharacteristic squeal, panting.
He pries his hand from where it's trapped between my thighs. "Did you come?" he asks, looking pleased with himself.
"I don't know," I say honestly.
His forehead creases. "Hmm…I think you'd know if you did."
"Sorry," I mutter, irritated.
Peeta laughs. "No, I'm sorry. It's just not as obvious when girls do it as when guys do."
I say nothing. Peeta's mouth contorts like he's suppressing a smile and he presses his face against my neck. "Kat-niss," he sing-songs, drawing out my name.
My own lips twist into something resembling a smile. In the cave I'd seen flashes of Peeta's silly, flirty side, but now that we're really alone he seems comfortable enough to revel in it. Peeta lifts his head and smiles at me again, softer this time.
"I am sorry," he says gently. "I really, really want to make you come. But tell me if I'm going too fast."
Isn't this all too fast? I wonder. We've only known each other – really known each other – for a matter of weeks. Yet here we are, staring down a future that could amount to years and years playing the star-crossed lovers. One random, hormone-driven night of passion doesn't seem like such a big deal compared to that.
"You're fine," I say. "Do you want me to touch you?"
His eyes widen, and I nearly roll my own in reaction – is he really so surprised that I'd offer to reciprocate? He knows how I feel about owing things.
"I do," he says slowly. "But," he laughs, "I'm about to go off any second."
My own laugh quickly becomes a moan when he lowers his mouth to my breasts again. He pauses a moment to unbutton his own shirt – he's somehow managed to stay fully clothed through all of this – and pulls it off quickly before moving over me again. After teasing my nipples with his tongue and fingers, he starts to move south, but finds my dress in the way, now a tangled mess around my waist.
"Do you want this off?" he asks, fingering the flimsy green material between his fingers. I'm basically naked anyway, so I nod and he helps me shimmy it off over my hips, leaving me in nothing but my pale, lacy underwear.
Peeta drags his palm down the plane of my stomach. "You're insanely beautiful," he says.
I shake my head slightly. "Whatever." Up until now we've both been so good at keeping this encounter entirely physical, but there's a wistful edge to his tone that hints at deeper feelings.
Luckily, that's all he has to say. I jump a little when his mouth lands just over my belly button, leaving a sloppy kiss. He keeps moving down though, and when he doesn't stop, I grow tense. "What are you doing?"
"Ah…" Peeta looks slightly dazed, running one hand over my thigh, his fingers coming dangerously close to my center again. "I kind of wanted to go down on you."
My face must do something crazy in response, because he sits up immediately. "Do you not want me to?"
My body certainly does: my core is nearly pulsing with need. But practically speaking, it seems so…weird. Does he really want his mouth down there?
When I ask him, his answer is an emphatic yes. So I shrug, and lay back against the pillows. "Okay," I say, hoping he can't hear the slight tremble in my voice.
His tongue touches me first; he drags it over my folds and then stops for a moment, like he's tasting me. He must like it, because he does it again and again and again, lapping up my wetness. It feels strange, but nice; it's nothing earth-shattering.
Then his tongue finds my clit. And then he actually sucks it into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the sensitive little nub. My hips buck so hard I'm afraid I'll give him whiplash, but he just presses my thighs down with his hands, lapping intently between my legs.
The feeling builds – and builds – far past the point that I've ever let it before. I can't see straight, can't think straight. With my hips pinned down under Peeta's strong hands, the rest of my body thrashes for release, my head flipping back and forth on the pillows, my fingernails digging deep into the plush comforter.
When he finally brings me to the crescendo, it's like nothing I've ever experienced: like an earthquake rolling in waves through my body, shaking, shuddering, starting from the point where Peeta's mouth engulfs me. If I had the capacity for thought, I'd be glad there are no neighbors around to hear my shriek.
Peeta crawls up the bed to lie beside me, his mouth wet and shiny. "That had to be an orgasm," he says, panting slightly.
I nod, sucking in a deep breath. "Yeah…yeah, I think so."
He kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips. It's odd, but also oddly arousing. Still in a haze, I drop my hand down between us to cup his erection through his pants. "Why are you still…?" I ask tiredly.
Peeta closes his eyes and groans a little as I rub my palm against him. After a few moments, he unbuttons the pants and pushes them down around his thighs, along with his boxer shorts. So there it is: his cock. It's bigger than I expected.
He takes my hand gently and wraps it around his length, his breathing shallow. I watch in fascination as he moves our hands up and down together. It feels like he's growing even harder in my grip, if that's possible.
Peeta lets his hand fall away and drops his head back against the pillows as I continue. After a minute or two of pumping him, I bite my lip, hesitant. "Should I use my mouth?"
Peeta looks up at me and laughs weakly. "If you want. But this feels good, too."
I'm not completely ecstatic about the prospect of his cock in my mouth, but he did give me my first orgasm with his – so it's only fair. I bend down and lick the tip of him lightly. It's not a bad taste – just a little salty. I do it again, more slowly this time, and Peeta moans softly.
"That feels really good," he assures me. Feeling a little more confident, I enclose my mouth around his head, sucking gently.
"Ahhhh," Peeta groans, his eyes shut tight. "Yeah, that's really good."
I try taking him deeper into my mouth, but end up gagging when he bumps against the back of my throat. "It's okay," he says, brushing his fingers against my hair. "You can just – just use your hand –"
It's a lot easier that way, with my hand on the base of his cock and my mouth covering the rest, so that's what I do, trying to suck him in the same rhythm that my hand uses as I work his shaft. Peeta tangles his fingers in my hair, and after a few minutes his breathing grows noticeably ragged.
"I'm gonna come soon," he says in a rush, his fingers tightening painfully against my scalp. I kind of like it, to be honest – knowing that I'm the reason he's so off-kilter. I start to suck his cock harder, determined to make him fall apart the way I did for him.
Peeta's hips thrust up into my mouth a few times and then his entire body tenses, a strangled sound rising from his throat. His semen is hot and salty against my tongue, and I try to swallow it all quickly.
Once he's finished, I sit in place awkwardly, unsure ofwhat I should do. Peeta lies with his arm across his eyes, gathering his wits, then tugs at my arm. "C'mere."
I lie down beside him, letting him pull me flush against his bare chest. He kisses me. "Thank you," he murmurs against my mouth.
I kiss him back lazily, feeling relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his hand as it skims lightly up and down my back. Much sooner than I expect, I feel his cock twitching against my thigh. I break the kiss and raise my eyebrows in surprise.
Peeta flushes a little. "You're really sexy," he says defensively.
I laugh. "And really tired."
"Understood. I'll behave." He kisses me once more, but keeps it short, and shifts onto his back, pulling me in so that my head rests on his chest. I can feel the slow thud of his heartbeat just under my cheek. His other arm rests over my stomach.
I know I shouldn't, but I let my eyes drift shut and snuggle against him, ready to sleep. I'll probably regret this in the morning, but at this moment, I think I deserve the rest – and the comfort – that I know I'll find in Peeta's arms. Tomorrow we can deal with the fallout. With the fact that I am a liar; with the fact that I will let Peeta touch me and kiss me, but I'll never let myself love him.
I'm just about to fall asleep when he whispers the words I'd desperately hoped would never come.
"Do you remember what I said in the arena?"
My eyes flick open, my heart pounding. I know exactly what he means, but I play dumb. "You said a lot of things in the arena."
"When I thought you had to kill me. Right at the end," he says.
When he said that he loved me, he means. That he didn't want a life if it was without me. That I'm everything to him.
"It was true," he says. "I love you."
"Peeta, I'm tired," I say softly, but when his body grows tense against my back I know it was the wrong thing to say.
I'm too afraid to turn around and see how I've hurt him. "I…I meant things that I said, too," I say, trying to soften the blow. I hadn't said much at all, though, just protested through my tears while Peeta tried to convince me to shoot an arrow through his heart.
And Peeta knows it. "Okay," he says, and lets it drop. Though he doesn't speak again, I can tell he doesn't fall asleep for a long, long time.
Neither do I. I spend the night wrapped in his arms, blinking back tears, clutching his hand, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
This was originally written for the Fandom 4 LLS charity drive. I'm considering a part two, not sure when that will be finished, though.
I hope you enjoyed it, and would love to know what you think! :)