A/N: Well, then. Howdy do young gents and ladies? I'm slowly coming back into this community, with fervor, and I didn't want to leave this story hanging, along with you guys who follow it and love it oh so much. Though, no doubt I've lost a couple of you along the way, and I'm sorry about that. I hope my sporadic updates help ease the pain a bit heh. This chapter turned out a little sexier than I originally intended, but I'm sure not many of you will mind, right?
Hope you guys like.
Chapter Four: When Sex is Involved, Where Does Reason Go?
Trying to live the life you once led with one arm that was permanently fixed at a right angle was no laughing matter. Most of the time. Other times it was inherently hilarious. Especially during my math class – which Cato was a part of, of course. Our Algebra II teacher, Mr. McGuff, suffered from a mild case of short-term memory loss. With my arm being the way it is, he would call on me constantly, thinking I had the answer to every problem he would write on the board.
"No, I'm not raising my hand, Mr. McGuff," I'd reply, patiently, to which he would blink his eyes a few times in confusion, behind those ridiculously wide-glassed lenses, before nodding in slow realization and continuing on with the lesson. This never got old. Well, maybe one day it did when Clove decided it was in everyone's best interest to be extremely nasty to me in the morning, but after hearing Cato's poorly-stifled chuckles directly behind me after our weekly "McGuff Mishap" there was really no way to hate any single day.
It's been seven weeks since the first day of school. The days flew by like a chicken trying to escape its penned-in confines – which is a fancy way of saying "not fast at all." Yoko still hated my guts, Cato only acknowledged my existence every so often, and once a week every week I'd have to remind Ms. Adams "What am I doing here? You need more guidance than I will ever in my entire life." On my last day of hospital relaxation I was told it'd take six weeks for my arm to completely heal – hairline fracture of some sort, and considering my age, weight and overall healthiness, it wouldn't be long now.
Actually, it would be today – a Thursday.
The phone rang, 4:36 PM. Apparently, according to my mother's excited shrills, the x-rays came in: I was in the clear to get this suffocating eyesore off my body and into the trash where it belongs. Well, I might save the part where Cato had so discreetly written "Can't wait til that cast is off ;)" somewhere near my elbow when I wasn't looking. Until then, our happy little family hopped into Dad's SUV, strapped ourselves in, and headed for the road.
"So, honey, are you excited about getting your cast removed?" my mom asked, a little too cheerfully.
"Well, if you call being constantly irritated by random strangers waving at you while walking to school at seven in the morning, then yes: I am excited." I rolled my eyes – of course I would be excited. Who wouldn't be? I mean, with Cato practically caressing the back of my head in math class accompanied by the lack of release for nearly two months? Then yes. I am "excited."
"You've been missed at the bakery, bud," my dad informed me. And, oddly enough, "I missed being there," I let him know, truthfully.
"Well, as soon as that thing's off it's back to work for the both of us!" What. I turn my gaze to the rearview mirror, hoping to catch a hold of my dad's grey eyes. He looks at me for a second, probably by accident, 'cause, you know, review mirrors aren't typically used to accost your father. He smiles at the eye contact for a second and looks back to the road.
"Wait. So, you're saying, as soon as I get back from getting this damned thing off I have to go straight to the bakery?" I asked, pleadingly. That wasn't the first idea I had in mind, not in the least. Not in the least.
"Peeta, you know we've been short-staffed. I know you've heard Mom and I talk about." I see my mom nod enthusiastically in her seat, like being included in our conversation could be the highlight of her day. "Marianne quit last week, and the week before that we had to let Stefan go. Did you know that he was a-"
"Gay porn star?" Well, it was kind of hard to miss when you're a hormonal, homosexual teenage boy. "Yes," I finish, not further explaining how I know that. That would be one conversation I would never knowingly run into with my parents – least of all my dad.
"Yeah, can you believe that? I didn't want to let him go, but what if he was to cut his hand on the bread slicer?" he asks. He makes a left, and we're here. Engine: off. "What if he had…you know…"
"AIDs?" my mother asks, tactfully. "We'd get sued up the bajingo." Before my mom can explain to me what exactly a bajingo is, I hurriedly unfasten my seatbelt, open the car door and rush the shit out of there.
Ding! Already? I rush past my father and into the kitchen, where my third batch of baguettes, that hour, are now oven-crispy, golden, and smell oh so good. Put on oven mitt; pull the oven hatch down; grab tray – Sstt – get burned; set bread on counter-top. I package the batch up, in neat white paper bags, rub at my sweaty forehead with my flour-coated apron, and set them back on the counter in the corner of the room.
"Hey Dad, is that it?" I call out from the kitchen, breathless, hoping to whatever God is present at this time for him to reply with a simple "yeah."
"Yeah, Pee-" Well, that's all I need to hear. I take off my apron with more difficulty than expected, it getting caught around my neck, flustered, before I finally manage to wiggle out of it and hang it on the hook nearby. Breathing a sigh of relief I rush back up upstairs, on my way to my incredibly-missed room.
Our home is abnormally huge when compared to our neighbors'. Most of them live in a humble one-story building, just the bare necessities of a home. The way I see it, we've got a two-story place, with the bakery adding another floor, right below our "first floor." The, technically, second floor of our house would look equivalent to the first of any other home: living room, kitchen, dining room, some bathrooms here and there. The third floor holds our bedrooms: three of them to be exact, though the third is merely a guest room. I'm guessing Dad uses that whenever Mom and he get into fights, or just simply when she crosses the, exponentially retreating, annoyance threshold, which can't be too few and far between.
It's not like we're well off or anything. Well, kind of sort of, anyway. Awhile back my mom underwent some boob job surgery. She had an infection afterwards, and was rewarded a few hundred grand. We don't rely entirely on it, though – only when someone falls and nearly kills themself, or when someone else decides their skin is a little saggier than it should be. Other than that the bakery allows us to live pretty comfortably.
Reach stairs; begin ascension; reach 5th step – trip, fall, bump on the head – get back up, palm on skull; reach door; open, step through, close.
It only takes, what, three steps before my mom spots me. "Hey, Peeta!" I avoid eye contact, on a mission to reach the promised land. "What do you- Are you okay, sweety?" She must have noticed my wincing and the placement of my hand.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I reply through gritted teeth.
"Oh, that's great. So, what do you think of this-"
"Looks perfect on you," I interrupt her, still avoiding eye contact, and already knowing the ending of her sentence will either end in: A) Top, B) Pair of jeans, or C) Slutty piece of cloth that could barely be defined as underwear.
"Yeah? I think the sequins really bring out my eyes." Well, sounds like a top, but I wouldn't put it past her if it were one of the other two.
"Great." I briskly walk past her, take a right, hang to the left and enter my room. My damned sanctuary. The last ounce of energy my body is containing is immediately released as I close the door, which barely shuts, and plop onto my bed.
Head-first, my landing would probably receive a 7 on a scale of 10.
I grunt to myself, which is mostly muffled by the pillow that is slowly suffocating me, and roll over onto my back. What a day. Not to sound pretentious or anything but I really don't know how my dad has made it as far as he has without me, considering the amount of people working for us right now – which I could now count on a single finger: himself, myself, and the town drunk Haymitch, who probably consumes more than he produces. It feels great to get back to work again, but I could live without the exhaustion afterwards. I need a massage.
A thought, which even for me is ridiculous, enters the sea of crazy that is my brain as I dig into my right pocket and pull out my phone. I search through it for Cato's number, which isn't too hard to find considering it only holds two C names, with the other being my crazed Aunt Coocoo. Her name isn't really "Coocoo," that's just what I have her saved as considering she once tried to rob a bank with a rubber band and crowbar. Yeah, not the sharpest tool in the shed.
Before I make a potentially horrible decision I thumb past Cato's name on my iPhone and stop at Keira's. Hit call. It only rings once, unsurprisingly, before she answers.
"PP! Where have you been all day?! I needed to talk to you about Ricky's possible herps issue." Which happens to be something I do not want to talk about anytime soon. Or preferably ever.
"Listen, Keira. I'm kind of worn to the bone right now and I was just looking to get a little advice out of you."
"Of course you were." I hear a flush in the background, which doesn't bother me the least. Ever since we were little we'd never mind if one or the other was bare-booty naked and on the phone like most people would. It only brings a smile to my face before I dismiss it.
"Well, I was released from prison today and I was wondering if I should give...Cato a call?" I ask, nervously. Ever since our hospital jamboree Keira's mental image of my tall, blond and handsome...friend-boy was forever cemented as: "A no good spineless vag-tool who'd probably wind up in jail within the next few years." I've been desperately trying to fix that. If that's false, anyway. Which I hope it is.
"Uh. Why?" she snaps back.
"I want a massage," I plead.
"Peeta. You do know what I can do with these hands, right? Other than kill a man with half a pinky?"
I roll my eyes at the hyperbole. "Sure, but not exactly...that kind of massage." Pause. "You know?"
She thinks to herself for a moment before she answers with...a question.
"How did you even get his number, anyway?"
"I'm not exactly clear on that. I never asked for it and he never offered." An explanation comes to mind. "I think he took my phone from my backpack during math class a few days back. He probably saved his number then." That made sense. I nearly suffered a heart attack that day when it wasn't where it was supposed to be.
"Yeah, 'cause he's too much of a chicken-shit to ask you for yours."
I sigh. "Come on, K. I'm just looking for an answer here. And keep in mind I might not even go by it."
"Then why call me anyway?"
In my best heartbroken voice, "'Cause you're my bestest friend and you give the bestest advice?"
"Hm. I am pretty great, ain't I?"
"You should know the answer to that."
She sighs. "Fine." Pause. "How good was it last time?"
"Oh God, Keira. It was like a unicorn, riding a unicorn, while sipping on rainbows," I answer truthfully. "It was amazing." My mind is ravished by our last lustful encounter, and I'm reluctantly thrown back into the conversation by Keira's chuckle.
"You know that sounds super gay, right? Even for you?"
"Bite me."
"All right," she begins, taking a deep breath. "I say go for it. But, Peeta – please keep your wits about you. I know you've been smitten with the guy since, well, forever-"
"He's liked me since then, too!"
I can actually feel the roll of the eyes and the slight shake of the head she's giving me right now. "Either way, PP, he clearly doesn't want to go public. Think of it as just sex, like one of those cheesy romantic comedies, but without the falling in love part."
"Well, you never know-"
"Did you want my advice or not?" she interrupts me, voice stern. "I'm just trying to look out for you. I don't want you to get your heart broken."
She has a point. A huge "stick me with that thing and it'll probably come out the other side" one. If Cato didn't want to go public... Is that why he blew off his second confession? Did he realize all the high school drama shit we'd have to go through before I did? Would those situations even bother me?
I slowly nod my head in understanding. "I know. And you don't know how much I appreciate that. Thanks, KK."
"Well, you're very welcome," she replies, snobbily. "That'll be $300 and 23 cents. I take cash, credit-"
"I'm sure you say that to all of your clients. By the way, have you heard from Yoko lately? She hasn't called or texted me since D-day."
"No, me neither." That's a surprise. "She's been giving me the stink eye every time I pass her in the hall."
I sigh. "Yeah, me too..."
"Oh, don't worry about it. She'll come around. She always does." And that's the truth.
"Thanks again, Keira."
"Don't mention it. And, hey! Don't forget the lube! You do have-"
End of that phone conversation.
With my phone still in hand I go back to scrolling through my contacts. Cato. Debating on whether or not I should actually call the guy, I opt for the more impersonal texting route, that way I can actually formulate some of my thoughts before drooping down into a puddle of lust and affection at the sound of his voice. I take in a deep, deep breath, like I'm about to be submerged underwater for the next 17 hours, and get to typing.
Hey. Cast's off. Got any plans?
I think that's simple enough – nothing needy or anything, just a little fact and an honest question. I'm guessing he's probably sitting in front of his 360, playing…Madden or God knows what, wearing nothing but a plain white T and some briefs, phone thrown across the room-
Suddenly, the loud boom of a thunder clasp startles me to awakening. Right. That's just my phone's text alert. I've always loved sitting near a window on a cold, dark night, the only form of light coming from the many different forms of sprites raining down from the heavens. It's comforting. I reach out to my phone, slide it open and-
I'll b there in 15
Oh. Oh…
Oh.
Without really meaning to I throw my hands in the air, balled up in two strong, excited fists, my phone flying across the room and loudly thunking the wall it collides with. "Yes!" I hiss out. After punching the nearby air in the gut a few times, I shake myself off, regaining my composure and walk over to where the phone now rests peacefully near one of my dirty shirts. I pick it up, and-
Cool. See you soon.
"I can't believe this is happening," I mumble to myself. A nice pinch on the ass proves otherwise. I look to the digital clock on my nightstand, with bright, neon-green numbers reporting 10:23 PM. All right. I got 14 minutes to clean this shit up. I look around my room, analyzing and formulating an elaborate and detailed plan on how exactly is this gonna work? Dirty clothes go flying; shoes get tossed to some God-forsaken corner; pens and papers get neatly shoved into the drawer. The blankets on my bed are pretty all over the place, so I move them around to make it look like I just woke up and lightly threw them to the side. I don't wanna overdo it or I'll look like some kind of Ted Bundy killer freak.
I rush into my bathroom, tussle with my hair a bit, before I hear a faint knock, knock.
Heart pounding, palms sweating, I pat myself down and head over to the far end of my room, where the sliding glass door is located. Yes, we're three-stories high, and Cato is not hovering before my window. I insisted on a porch, deck-esque sort of thing to be attached to my room, one of the only more expensive things I've ever requested from my parents. And, come on – the place is great for parties.
Stroll slowly in front of door; breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out. Push aside orange curtains; grab handle; hold breath; pull to the right…and there he is. Brown leather flip flops. Fluffy, new-looking and probably expensive pair of grey sweats. Plain white T, that may or may not be one size too small for his frame. That blinding smile, those brilliant eyes, the golden spiky hair, that beautiful man.
I'm stunned into silence, taking in this God before me, wanting to come into my room.
"Hey," he says.
"Hi," I say. We stare each other down for a few seconds, breathing each other's presence in, his hands in his pockets, my hand still holding a death grip on that damn handle.
"So…" He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking past me into my room. "Can I come in?"
"Well, you can, but I'm not so sure if I really want you to."
"Oh, okay," his shoulders slump, his hands now to his sides. "Guess I'll be on my-" I let go of the handle, my lifeline, finally giving in to the idea of this boy entering my sanctuary. I grab a hold of a hand, and with as much force as I can muster pull him inside. He glides by me, looking over his shoulder with a smile on his face.
"Don't be an idiot," I reply, smiling. I close the door, slowly, turn around and… Here we are.
"Wow," he lets out, examining the room. I examine it with him, with a new set of eyes, putting myself in Cato's shoes, trying to understand what it is he's seeing. "I like your room," he says and looks back at me. "It's very…orange."
Orange walls, orange laptop, orange pillow sheets. Did you go a little overboard, there?
"Yeah. My favorite color."
He plops down onto my bed, bopping up and down for a few seconds as the mattress's metal springs squeak, attempting to conform to his weight. "Oh? That's good to know." He smiles up at me. "Guess mine."
I walk over to him, stopping right in front of his parted legs, the heat from them transferring to me, fast. "Hm." I playfully tap my chin a few times, thinking so intensely. "You look like a-" I look back to him "-red type of guy."
His eyebrows raise, his head slowly nodding up and down. His feet take the opportunity to wrap around the backs of my legs, while his monstrous hands find their way to my hips. "Well. You're pretty good."
I place my hands above his, tightly gripping around them, giving him a sly, devilish smile and shrug. "I know." It's then that he grunts, huskily, those bright pearls coming into view, before he finally pulls me down and on top of him. My head knocks into his, my damned clumsy self, but Cato laughs it off anyway. Our faces are inches apart now, our individual puffs of breath now mingling together, becoming one. His hands leave my hips, slowly reaching up the small of my back, underneath my shirt, nails dragging, surely leaving red streaks of pleasure, my eyes boring into his. It's then that I realize I must smell like ass, coming back from a 5-hour shift of constant bread baking.
I push myself off of him, gently, our hips and groins still aligned and touching, when I say, "Hold on. I just got off of work. I'm all sweaty and gross."
"Mm," he mumbles to himself, his lips thinning slightly in thought. He then launches his torso up, our chests now colliding, his head nestled into the crook of my neck. I lay there, paralyzed, as he takes in the deepest, strongest breath I've ever seen – or felt, in this case – and grunts, again, that grunt that sets my soul aflame. "You smell just fine to me," he whispers into my ear. I can feel the growing stiffness in his sweats, barely contained by the flimsy material, against mine, when he so seductively licks the back of my earlobe, causing me to shudder from head to toe. He brings his head back down, and our eyes meet for a brief moment. He rests his forehead on mine, we breathe, panting, and then-
He brings up his chin, slowly, and I whimper at the touch of his chapped, wanting lips against mine. God, I've missed this way too much. My upper lip is caught in between the two of his, as he pulls back and comes forth, me reciprocating his movements, his tongue ghosting across my now parted lips, and Lord they're both tangling together now, saliva swapping, moans escaping our souls. A gorgeous minute or two after this he pulls back, and we're both panting heavily now, our eyes meeting in pure heat, and he smiles wide, and I smile wide, and now he's reversing our positions, and I'm under him, and he's not even hovering over me but more pushing me back into the mattress, nearly crushing me under his weight, all muscle, but I love it.
He leans in to attack me again, but I toss my head to the side, which he doesn't understand as a "Stop" as he sucks and bites at my neck.
"Cato," I pant out. He ignores the pleading and continues the assault, before I squirm under him and he relinquishes his control of my body. I stand and walk over to the other side of my bed, staring at him. He crawls into the middle of my bed, claiming it for his own, it seems, as he gets into a more comfortable position, elbow resting on one of my completely orange pillows, palm on the side of his head, and it's now that I'm regretting the prevalent choice of color, but the thought races from my mind as I catch sight of that…thing near his groin, just waiting to be released from captivity. He's clearly not ashamed, and, really, why should he be?
He catches my staring and I blush, shyly bringing my palms in front of my own erection, and he chuckles.
"What's wrong? It surely looks like you're enjoying yourself," he says, gesturing to my lap with his head, as he plops his skull down, chin first into the bed, his hands now straight to his sides, giving me puppy dog eyes.
I shake my head, turn around and walk towards my bathroom. "Can't I at least brush my teeth before one serious make-out session? Jesus." I reach the door, and he huffs, before I walk inside and shut it tight.
With a rejuvenated, minty-fresh scent now enveloping my body, I play with my hair again a bit, make sure I'm good to go, open the door again and-
Cato's back is resting against the plethora of enormously-downed pillows behind him, the tip of his head just below the top of the bed's headboard. His hands are behind his head now, propping it up gently, with his arms stretched out wide, relaxing, his large biceps on show just for me, his thin white shirt being forced upward, slightly exposing his rock-solid abs and…outie bellybutton? There's the grimmest sort of a smile on his face, and it's then that I notice: "Where'd your sweats go?"
He looks down to his lap before looking back at me, a slightly discouraged look coming to his face. "What? Am I missing something here?"
I shake my head. "I just didn't exactly peg you as the type to wear whitey tighties." His smirk returns as I slowly stroll to the foot of my bed, taking in the sight of this God-like blond, brown-eyed, trouser-less man in front of me, on my bed. I crawl toward him, in only my boxers now, coming to rest my behind on his lap. I can feel that he's soft again, his manhood resting peacefully under my weight. We lock eyes.
"I locked the door…" he whispers. "If that's okay."
I give him a chaste kiss to the lips before reaching over to my nightstand, pulling out the materials necessary and answer, "That's perfect." And, really, who can deny that adorable pout and slowly but surely stiffening beast beneath them?
1:48 AM. At least, that's what I think the clock reads. My head is thrown so far back, and with such force, it's a miracle I made that out at all. Thankfully my nice, comfy mattress doesn't feel like concussing me tonight.
I finished about three minutes ago – if my counting of Cato's thrusts is anything to go by. The back of my skull is so deep into the blankets now I'm afraid I'll leave a permanent crater. I can't control the arch my body's now formed in, my shoulders supporting most of my weight against the bed – along with Cato's two hands encompassing the small of my back. My whole being is continuously rocked back and forth, the power from Cato's movements shifting around my internal organs, no doubt. My inner thighs are dangling besides his outer ones as he's lifted me up, pushing in and pulling out a few more times before he's grunting and moaning my name, and damn if I've ever heard anything so amazing in my life, because Liszt's got nothing on this boy.
He sighs a couple of times now, before finally calling it quits and lying down beside me, nuzzling my neck from behind, much like that final day at summer camp.
"Mm. So how many times does that make it now? Four or five?" I ask in a hoarse whisper.
I can feel the smile contort his lips as he places a soft, sweet kiss to my neck. "I don't know. I lost count after our floor exercise." I chuckle alongside him and thank God for a teenager's stamina and tightly locked doors.
"I'm glad you came," I tell him, my voice filled with more vulnerability than I'd prefer.
"Heh. I'm glad you came, too," he jokes, and it takes me a second to realize exactly what he's saying, so I jab him in the ribs with my elbow for his insolence. He lets out a few gaspy chuckles before falling back into place. We lie there for a few minutes – him noticing the bump on my head, the burn on my arm, and giving both tiny, respectable kisses – as sleep is threatening to force us into the throes of slumber, before I realize-
"Mm, I should probably get going," Cato mumbles, beginning to pry his limbs from my body as if he were reading my every thought. I turn around to face him in a hurry, which causes him to sigh and place his golden head back onto one of my pillows. We look into each other's eyes before I break the silence.
"Why don't you stay the night?" I offer, because I've never done this before and I clearly know what I'm doing. "I know we've got school tomorrow, but you can borrow some of my baggy clothes." He wiggles his nose at that, like wearing the clothes of Peeta Mellark is some sort of crime against nature. "You can use my toothbrush?" He raises an eyebrow, not impressed. "Or...we can take a shower together," I say in a low, raspy tone. His eyes instantly widen at the thought, and I know I have him there. He smiles and leans in for a slow, final kiss which I return, before I place my head on his firm yet comfortable chest, his steady heartbeat and the sound of his stable breathing slowly lulling me to sleep.
"I would love that."
I wake up from a dreamless slumber, the most restful I've had in ages it feels, with Cato's strong arms securely wrapped around my body, holding me close to his own. It's the second time I've been granted the privilege to stare down at his peaceful, angelic face, the rising sun casting shadows across my room with just enough light to see his face clearly. I smile to myself, forgetting Keira's warnings of rejection and broken hearts, because it's all completely worth it for a chance to see what I'm seeing.
I glance at the clock – 6:31 AM, and I thank my internal alarm thoroughly for what I'm about to do next.
Being a teenaged boy I've got a fairly decent understanding of the anatomy of one, and how the morning tends to bring out...the hardness we can't quite control. As I've guessed, my left hand informs me of Cato's own issue, so I grab the opportunity before it slips away.
With my head under the covers it's become slightly difficult to see exactly what I want to see. My mouth's initial placement is somewhere between the bellybutton and groin area, I'm assuming, so I lower myself down, planting soft but long kisses along the way, as I finally come to a light patch of hair that tickles my lips, surrounding his throbbing erection that's now resting upon my left cheek. His musky scent drives me wild; I feel like an untamed animal then, and I'm not entirely bothered by the thought. I give the head a gentle kiss before nearly swallowing it whole, a new technique I picked up from last night's session.
Bob up, bob down; place his right jewel in my mouth, suck on it briefly; follow procedure for the other. Kiss the left side of his shaft, then the right; mouth rod again; notice Cato's breathing has picked up. He's moaning softly now, just coming into consciousness when I feel a hand grab onto the back of my head, skin and hair separated by sheets, pushing me down further, as far as my gag reflex allows me.
"Sorry," he whispers. "Just couldn't help it."
I come off with a loud pop, saying "It's okay," before going back to work. Cato begins lightly thrusting into the back of my neck, which is good, really, because it's not used to such strenuous activities this early in the morning. With each thrust there's a moan, and I can tell he's close, it's always the same with him: increasing volume, speed and amount of moans, and he's coming now and I'm about to lift myself up to avoid it when-
Knock, knock, knock. "Peeta!" I'm paralyzed by fear as wave after wave of his essence fills my mouth, and I'm forced to swallow it all as I dare not move with my door now opening, thanks to that damned key she has, and really who carries around that shit at 6:30 in the morning.
"Cover your face with a pillow!" I hiss out softly, my moving lips occasionally brushing against his softening pole.
"Morning, dear! I don't know why your door was locked but I just wanted to-" She pauses for a second, and I think Shit shit shit I'm found out before she continues. "Peeta, have you been working out?"
"Mhm!" Cato mumbles through the pillow, that fearless angel of mine.
"Well, I think it's paying off," she compliments. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I'm cooking a big breakfast so you better get your ass out of bed soon."
"Mhm!" Cato mumbles again, and I make a mental note to remember that particular noise as it seems to dispel frightening motherly creatures from my room.
"Okay, honey. I'll see you soon." And then she's gone as soon as she came.
I throw the covers above me off with such a force they nearly go flying from the bed. Cato's face is still covered with the pillow, and what a shame that is.
"Is she gone?" he asks, voice muffled.
"Mhm," I echo him and he laughs, bringing down the pillow to rest beside him, greeting me with that wide smile that I'm sure I must be mirroring.
"Well, I guess that's one way to wake up." I shake my head before leaning over his torso, and we kiss. It deepens without the intention of doing so, with me rubbing a nipple of his and he gripping the back of my neck, tightly, holding our faces together like they were never meant to be apart, breathing harder than is required.
Sooner or later it ends – I can feel Cato Junior slowly coming back to life as it kisses Peeta Junior, and I force myself off the bed, pointing to the bathroom.
"Feel like getting that shower ready?" I tease him. He doesn't verbalize any answer, just looks at me with lust-filled eyes and grunts before running to the bathroom and turning the faucet on.
I smile to myself, shaking my head with a low level of conviction. I stroll over to my computer/homework desk, flipping on the lamp beside my laptop. Falling into the chair before me, my laptop's now open, and it's straight to writing.
When Sex is Involved, Where Does Reason Go?
Yesterday was my get-out-of-jail day. The torture one goes through while 25% of their body is covered in fiberglass is nothing compared to the feeling of it finally coming off. For seven long weeks I was subjected to this torture, and just yesterday I was freed from it.
I feel like a different person now. I feel I've grown more over the past two months than I have in my entire life. Of course, that could be just unadulterated passion from last night – and this morning – talking.
The boy who's had my heart for almost eight years now, Cato Morley, joined me and slept in my bed last night. It took three full hours to conclude our activities, and at the moment I couldn't regret it.
There's my subconscious to worry about, though. Twenty minutes before Cato entered my room I called Keira, the best friend I might as well call my sister, and she reminded me of a few things I dared not to remind myself. Things like D-Day, our hospital encounter, where Cato couldn't come clean with his feelings for me. Though I understand the turmoil he must be going through, with his image and reputation to uphold. I silently thank Clove Nieves for publicly outing me, leaving me choice-less in the matter. But, should I really stay with a guy who would barely even acknowledge my very being in public? Is Keira right, and will my heart be broken into millions of little pieces in a matter of seconds?
Right now, the answers remain unclear. But, I'll leave those questions to Future Peeta for now.
Save, publish, sign out, close laptop.
