A little smut for the weekend anyone?...
October – Part 3
PPOV
I hate going to these kind of things. I wish I could just turn up smile at a few people, so they know I was there, and leave straightaway again.
But of course things can't be that easy. Nothing ever is.
My parents live about an hour away, in one of the outer districts of the capitol. That's where the bakery is based. Tonight is being held in a nearby hotel and all the guests will be staying the night. That's me, Katniss, my parents, my brother and his delightful wife - thankfully without their even more delightful kids - and about 300 other 'close' acquaintances.
God, what a right royal disaster this evening is going to be! I have fat chance of convincing Mark or my parents that Katniss is my girlfriend. No matter what Katniss says, Mark knows it's not true after the other day in the café.
And I know it's totally wrong of me to worry about this, because let's face it if anyone is going to embarrass themselves this evening it's going to be me, but I really really hope Katniss has got something suitable to wear. I've never seen her in anything but leggings, biker boots and miniature skirts before. And whilst she looks incredible in them, they're not exactly going to be appropriate for tonight.
Unbelievably my tux still fitted when I tried it on, well as long as I don't button the jacket up. I haven't had a need to wear it since the celebration of dad's MBE award five years ago. That was the last time I had to endure one of these over the top shindigs.
The train is late, which seems like an omen. I call my parents to let them know we won't be at the station at the time I originally told them. Even over the phone my mother has the power to reduce me to a twitching, spitting, abuse-spewing mess. I get a sinking feeling that as awful as the phone conversation is, the rest of the evening can only go downhill from here.
I'm already way past bursting point when the train arrives. I shout out "Fucking Cunt," as we board and then appear to call Katniss a 'slut' and tell her I want to 'come on her tits', whilst struggling to get our bags into the overhead luggage rack.
I can feel ever single pair of eyes in the carriage on me as I take my seat, and I can both hear and imagine their comments. "What the hell is wrong with him," "freak," "come on, let's move to another carriage," as well as the obligatory sniggers.
I stare out the window at the platform, glad when I feel the train start to move. Not that it makes any difference. I'm still stuck in here with the stares and the whispers.
"What are you looking at?" Katniss snaps. I turn to find her glowering at the woman in the seat across the row from her. "Haven't you ever seen anyone with Tourette's before?"
The woman hastily and guiltily looks away. I almost feel sorry for her, because the thing is, the answer is probably no. It's only natural for her to be curious about what's wrong with me, to presume I'm some raving nutter, but then that doesn't make her prolonged staring any more excusable. Acceptance of mental illness of any kind still has a long way to go and if you ask my mother that's what I am - mentally ill - that's what she tells people. It makes my lack of verbal and physical control easier to explain away to her friends. I've always had the feeling she wished there was some institution she could have hidden me away in when I was younger.
I press my fingers to my lips, struggling to contain the words bubbling up inside. My eyes blink and and my head jerks upwards. If there's anyone looking from outside I probably look like I'm having a seizure of some kind.
"Hey, are you all right?" I feel a gentle touch run up and down my arm, wrist to shoulder. I take a deep breath and nod, inexplicably already feeling calmer.
Katniss doesn't stop stroking my arm until the tics and jerky nodding is all but gone. She smiles at me, and perhaps I just prefer to believe it, but it doesn't look like pity.
"The phone call to your parents didn't exactly go well then?" she asks. I shake my head in response. "You don't get on," she surmises correctly. "That's why you don't go home very often?"
"It's easier on all of us that way," I explain.
"Have you always had it, Tourette's I mean?"
"No. It's genetic, hereditary even, although I'm not sure who else in the family has had it. So I was born with the chance of developing it. But the symptoms didn't start until I was about 13 or 14." I'm surprised I'm telling her this, I usually hate talking about it, but its strange, talking to her - focusing on this instead of the other people in the carriage - feels almost relaxing.
"And so what? You just woke up with it one day?" She asks, with surprised interest.
"No, it's not like that. Or at least it wasn't for me. It started with the tics, just slight involuntary movements of my head. I just thought I was tired or I'd screwed up my neck, pulled a muscle playing rugby or something. But then the blinking started. And it was like I could feel this pressure inside me, building up. I heard someone once describe it like being a balloon, swelling and growing till you hit the pressure point and you burst. That's when the verbal outbursts started. Of course it had to be swearing," I add wryly.
"Except Fish!" she grins, teasing but not malicious.
"Yeah, except Fish," I return her smile. "Sometimes there are other random things, verbal tics can come and go, like if something is really on my mind and bothering me then I might end up saying that a lot. But mainly it's the swearing. I wish it wasn't. It's not directed at anyone personally, They're just words. It's like sneezing, sometimes you know it's going to happen, sometimes it takes me by surprise. Either way it's very hard to keep it in and just trying can be really exhausting, physically and mentally. But I feel like I have to because there's always someone that doesn't understand and gets offended or wants to make it physical."
"You've been beaten up over it!" she gasps.
"More when I was younger. It's why I started taekwondo and then got into kickboxing, I didn't want to be such an easy target. I still tend to avoid situations that I know have the potentially to be volatile, where there will be a lot of drunks or blokes throwing their testosterone around. Like football matches or the pub at last orders."
She nods looking lost in thought, staring at my arm it seems.
"Is there a cure?" she asks, coming out of her daydream. "Can you take anything for it?"
"I saw a lot of expensive doctors when I was younger. I think my mother was hoping there'd be an overnight cure. I tried some different drugs, things that suppressed the urges but they made me feel like a zombie so I stopped taking them."
"So you'll have it forever then?"
I swallow and the consistent gentle bobbing of my chin, that has continued whilst I've been talking to her, suddenly takes a more pronounced jerk upwards. I really wish I could give her a different answer. "I guess so, there's some research to suggest that the symptoms become less pronounced as you get older. Some people even grow out of it all together, but not everyone," I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. I stopped believing that I would grow out of it a long time ago. I've had Tourette's for ten years now and I'm resigned to having it for a lot longer but it's still hard to give up completely, not to harbour some hope, no matter how unrealistic that it won't last forever.
Katniss falls silent, and I let my gaze wander to the fields and trees flashing past the window, trying to ignore the heavy silence but in no mood to fill it myself. I know I should be thankful that my symptoms, compared to a lot of other people's, are comparatively mild but sometimes its hard not to let it get to me. Daily life, not just trying to suppress the outbursts, but simply surviving with the Tourette's can be so tiring.
"So what is this thing we're going to tonight? Is it your parents' wedding anniversary of something?" she asks eventually, her tone lighter like she's drawn a line under the last conversation and moved on. I'm grateful for the change in subject.
"It's the bi-centennial celebration of the founding of the family company."
"Really? Wow that's impressive. What do they do?"
"Oh, right I suppose I didn't explain. My…my family they own…M-Mellark bakery." The tic that had completely abated resurfaces, making me blink and nod, until her hand starts smoothing up and down my forearm. Again, inexplicably, it soothes me.
"Mellark bakery?" I can see her mulling it over and then the light bulb moment when it clicks. "Mellark as in Mmmmmm Mellark bread?" she asks, rubbing a circle on her stomach as quotes the company ad line that has been used in one various form or another for the last 60 years.
"That's the one."
"Mmmm bread! Your family owns Mmmm bread?" Her face lights up, as she stares at me with an excited disbelief.
"Uh, yeah I guess so." Although I can't imagine Mark introducing himself as the Chief Financial Officer of Mmmm Bread. The idea of it printed on his business cards makes me smile though.
"It's just that's what we used to call it when we were kids. You know because of the Mmmmm. She automatically rubs her stomach again and gets a tiny bit of a blush on her cheeks as she does.
"So your family?" she says, her forehead furrowing with whatever the question is she's considering. "They must be totally loaded?"
"You could say that," I blink uncomfortably.
"So are you rich?" she asks, completely shocked.
"No. I mean I'm not living on the breadline or anything." She rolls her eyes at my unintended pun. "But I don't work for the company. I don't hold a position or shares, not any more. My brother, Mark, he's in line to inherit all of that."
"And you're okay with that?"
"More than okay. He's welcome to it," I tell her honestly.
She's quiet for a while but I can see from her continued frown she's still thinking about it, and it's not long before she asks, "Not any more? You said not anymore like at some point you did hold a position and shares in the company."
Damn, did I say that? I really didn't mean to. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hold it then let it go again. Hell if that wasn't the time when it felt like all this started in the first place. Logically I know The Tourette's was inevitable, but sometimes it feels like it was that point in my life that was to blame.
Her small hand is running a soothing course up and down my arm again. When I open my eyes I'm met by her apologetic face.
"Sorry, I'm being rude. Just tell me to butt out, if I'm being too nosey."
"It's okay, you're not," I dismiss, even though she is and I wouldn't normally answer this question. In fact not many people, apart from those from my past like Delly, know about my links to Mellark bakery at all.
"I didn't want to go into the business, well no that's not true. I did but not the way they wanted me to."
"Your parents?"
"My parents, my grandparents, everyone. It was just automatically expected that I would be involved in the running of the business, you know the boring, managerial, number crunching stuff. And it just wasn't me. Its perfect for Mark, he's always has been this hyper-intelligent, driven, high achiever and I'm not. And that's fine. He was the academic one and I was the sporty one. Rugby, wrestling, running, any sport really. I was on pretty much all the school teams. But my family had other ideas, they wanted to set me on this path toward a career that just wasn't me. I didn't want to study economics or business management. I wanted to actually do the baking. God you should have seen my mother's face when I told her that! "What in the actually factory, with the factory workers!" Like I'd just suggested I go and work in an ebola camp or something?
"There were a lot arguments for, I don't know, about three years, and eventually I just dropped out of school and I signed up on a catering course. I knew they'd be angry, I guess I just underestimated how much. I thought it would all blow over after a few months, but no. It was their way or not at all. If I turned my back on the family business I was turning my back on the family. I was dishonouring the entire Mellark ancestry and insulting everything my forefathers had worked so tirelessly to create. Really, I don't know what the problem was? It wasn't like I was going to run the company, they already had Mark to do that.
"But they said if I wanted to leave I'd have to sell my shares in the company and give up any rights to future income from the bakery. I don't think they thought I'd go through with it. That just the threat would be enough to change my mind, but it didn't. I used some of the money to buy somewhere decent to live, put myself through study, and saved the rest. Until Delly came up with the idea to open the café."
Katniss is staring at me like I just grew another head, her mouth is slightly open. I flex my fingers, dying to reach out and close it.
"Your family basically disowned you."
"Not entirely, I'm expected to go home at Christmas."
"They disowned you," she continues, ignoring my last comment, "and cut you off."
"It's not like they threw me out on the street without a penny."
"Just because you wanted to go on a catering course?"
I shrug.
"It's not just your brother," she says. "I think the whole lot of them are shit-sticks!"
"And you haven't even met them yet!"
She stares at me still irate and then dissolves into giggles. I didn't think Katniss Everdeen would be the kind of girl to giggle but she is. And it's utterly adorable.
.~.
KPOV
I've never been to a hotel like this before. I've seen places like it on TV but it's not exactly the sort of place I usually stay. My budget is much more suited to backpackers hostels. In Thailand I slept rough on the beach for three nights until I heard that some French girl had been attacked. I have definitely never, ever stayed anywhere like this before. The hotel is basically an enormous stately home, no scratch that, it's more like a grand old palace.
Perhaps I should have been expecting it when, instead of catching a taxi from the station, I found a chauffeur driven car had been sent to pick us up but this place is still beyond any expectation.
"Please let me show to your room Mr Mellark." A porter rushes to take our bags as we step out of the car, the door of which is being held open for us by our driver.
If I thought the outside of the hotel was impressive its nothing compared to the inside. It's like stepping back into old world grandeur: marble floors polished to the point of reflection, gold gilt gleaming from the stairs and light fittings, and deep, rich, plush soft furnishings. It's like being on the Orient Express or the Titanic, mixed with what I imagine a gentleman's club at the turn of the last century would have looked like.
But the outstanding thing about it is, that apart from us and the staff, there's not a soul here.
"Where are all the other guest?" I hiss at Peeta out of the corner of my mouth, feeling conspicuously out of place amongst all the excessive opulence.
"There aren't any," he whispers back in the same manner. "My parents have hired the entire place, the other guests aren't due to arrive for a few hours. But I was 'summoned' early," he grimaces and then his chin jerks up. After he got it under control on the train, his facial spasms and tics almost completely disappeared but I can feel him tensing up beside me as we ride up in dark wood paneled elevator.
The bell-boy leads us to our room and points out some of the amenities, but I'm not paying attention I'm far too busy looking to listen. We don't have a room, we have suite. A frickin' suite! The living area is almost larger than the ground floor of Aunt Haze's place. There's a bathroom - with a spa bath, a separate shower and double basins – that is definitely twice the size of my bedroom at Jo's house.
I dash to the bedroom to check it out, not caring if the bell-boy is staring at me. Peeta appears at the bedroom door a moment later, apparently having got rid of him.
"Shit Peeta! Look at this place!" I laugh and he laughs with - and probably at - me and my childish amazement. "Just look at this bed! It's huge!" I say, throwing myself down in the centre of it and destroying the elaborate arrangement of about a thousand throw cushions that have pointlessly been piled there. Even lying spread-eagled on my back, stretching out my fingers and toes, I'm miles away from reaching the edge of the bed.
"Do you think we could order breakfast in bed?" I ask, eyeing up the massive flat screen that's set into the wall opposite the foot of the bed
"Um, yeah…if you…you want to," Peeta agrees, before his chin juts awkwardly. "W-we have about an hour before people will be starting to arrive and…" he presses his fingers to his lips and blinks hard, trying to contain his outburst. "… another hour after that before the dinner starts. I suggest we …. FUCK… we get washed up and ready, and then I have to go and see my family before the guests… FUCK FUCKING SLUT…turn up."
I kneel on the bed in front of him and stroke his arm. "I'm…I'm sorry," he stammers.
I shake my head and offer him a smile, "You don't have to apologise Peeta, I know you can't help it." He nods, but looks sad rather than consoled.
I open every complementary bottle in the bathroom. Everything smells gorgeous and it's definitely all coming home with me tomorrow. I'm tempted to use the small swimming pool sized bath but opt for a shower instead. It takes me ages to work out how to use the bloody thing but eventually I've got three different showerheads spraying and massaging my body. It feels heavenly and I take my time washing my hair.
Peeta swaps places with me and uses the bathroom when I finish. I'm dressed and I've dried my hair, when the bathroom door opens and Peeta re-emerges fully dressed.
Oh fuck! I am in serious trouble!
He's my boss, he's my boss, remember I can't fancy him, he's my boss, I silently remind myself. So why the hell does he have to look so damn good in a tux?
Screw it! Peeta is not my boss, not really, he's Hazelle's and Rory's, not mine. I'm only working for him for a short while. Would it really be so awful if I slept with him, just once, whilst we're here at the hotel? Its not like we're at work right now. I've been ogling him dressed in white t-shirts and aprons for weeks, exercising superhuman restraint not to come on to him, but dressed in that suit - looking insanely hot - I think he would test the abstinence of a nun. And I am not a nun.
I realise he's just sort of staring at me, frozen to the spot, and I'm struck by a sinking, self-conscious doubt about the way that I am dressed.
"Is this okay? I wasn't sure what to wear but Jo lent me the dress, and she goes to these sort of things all the time with her firm. She said it would fine." Jo convinced me the midnight blue dress suited me even though I wasn't sure about it. It's longer than I'm comfortable with and I'm scared I'm going to trip over it at some point. But when she said it made my tits look great, I had to agree. Only now, the way Peeta is looking at me, I wish I'd chosen something else.
"Jo?" is all he says. Not "don't worry you look great" - just Jo?
"Yeah, Jo - Joanna, I'm staying at her house at the moment. She's a lawyer at some big firm, and she has to attend these kind of flash evening events all the time." Jo is aiming to be the firm's youngest partner ever and she's committed to kissing a lot of ass, for a limited period, to get her exactly where she wants to be.
"Johanna," he repeats.
"So is it okay? I brought a back up dress, it's a bit more cocktail than evening soiree but I wasn't sure if…"
"No, it's great. You look great." His eyes scan over me and then come to a stop on my chest. I make a mental note to thank Jo.
Peeta's cheeks redden as he hastily looks down at his watch. "Do you want a drink before we go? I think I need a drink," he says quickly, his chin repetitively jerking upwards.
Peeta opens a few cupboards, before he uncovers the minibar in the lounge area. "Uh…we've got…vodka…gin…rum…" He calls out, as he scans the rows of little bottles.
"I'll have a rum and coke."
I grab a couple of glasses - real glasses, made of real glass, not those disposable plastic ones that usually get left in bathrooms of the kind of hotels I stay in - and Peeta pours me a rum then adds one of those miniature cans of coke. He pours the contents of a mini whisky bottle into his own glass, stares at it for a moment and then pours in another.
'W-w-well here's to what…FUCK…is almost certain to be one of the …FUCK…worst nights of my life," he says raising his glass.
"Seriously? Come on, we're all dressed up and I have to say I think we both look shit hot," I respond, drawing a breathy snort of amusement from Peeta. "We are staying in possibly the fanciest place I am ever going to set foot in, we are about to be served what I'm certain will be an incredible meal and you know what the best thing is?" I leave a dramatic pause, raising my eyebrows at him daring him to guess but he doesn't take the bait. "It's all free! So I suggest we make the most of the free bar and enjoy ourselves, all at the expense of your parents." I get a real smile from him then.
"Cheers," he clinks his glass against my extended one. "To you," he toasts. "I both thank you for coming to this with me, and apologise that you had to come to this with me."
I shake my head. "Thank you for bringing me. And seriously, it's not going to be that bad.'
I've changed my mind by the time we head down to meet his parents due to the phone call Peeta gets to summon us. I don't hear what the person on the other end says, but Peeta's blurts out "Fish," about six times in a row when he hangs up and I doubt he can see straight he's blinking so hard.
"You don't have to come with me. You can stay up here until the guests arrive," he tells me, but I refuse his offer. I'm sure his parents are expecting to be introduced to Peeta's date and honestly he looks like he could do with the moral support.
We both knock back another round of dutch courage from the mini bar - another double whisky for him and a shot of vodka for me - before we head out.
His family is waiting for us in the main reception room. It is immediately clear where Peeta and Mark get their good looks from. Mr Mellark is older, thicker set and a lot less athletic but still just as handsome as his sons and Peeta's mother is utterly stunning. She must have been an absolute head-turner in her youth. She is still slender, polished and her hair just as golden as Peeta's, although I reckon there's a strong probability that at her age her colour owes more to a bottle than to nature. Yet despite her obvious beauty there's something unattractively cold about her.
Mark is stood with another blonde that I presume is his wife. She looks us up and down, gives us a tight-lipped smile, and manages to look down her nose at us, all at the same time. She's like a younger version of her mother-in-law. It appears they're cloning the Mellark wives like Stepfords.
"Peeta," his mother says, and offers her cheek for the kiss he dutifully gives her. "And you brought a date!" She sounds surprised, but not in a pleasant way.
"That's not a date. He pays her, he'll have hired her for the weekend," Mark assumes.
"Oh my god," his mother gasps, "you brought a prostitute with you?"
I'm pretty sure all the blood has drained out of my face. I know my mouth is certainly hanging open. I've never been so insulted. By the time the blood returns to set my cheeks angrily on fire, Peeta has already responded.
"Kat…Katniss works with me," he states.
"Oh no, this isn't one of those work-place harassment cases you read about in the paper is it?" she asks, with a horrified expression.
I can see why Delly hates the Mellarks so much, Peeta's mother is unbelievable. We've been in the room for less than a minute and she's already managed to insult me beyond belief and Peeta is rapidly being reduced to a mass of tics and spasms before my eyes.
"Peeta and I have been dating for a couple of weeks," I assert indignantly. I don't know if I succeed in convincing his parents, but Mark scoffs loudly, "Sure you have."
Peeta's chin juts upwards as he loudly swears, "FUCK! FUCKING SHIT-STICKS!" I know its involuntary but I don't think I could have put it better myself.
His mother's face contorts in pure distaste, like she's been sucking a lemon. "Peeta! Haven't you taken your pills?"
"Not yet….FISH!"
"Amos talk to him," she says clutching at her husband's arm in distress. "He can't possibly go in there tonight like that. He has to take his pills. Talk to him Amos, make him see reason, they can't see him like that!" She talks as if Peeta isn't still in the room.
"Peeta," Mr Mellark says in an oh-so-reasonable voice, stepping forward to place a hand on his son's shoulder. "You know tonight is likely to be too much for you otherwise, take the pills son, you know you'll regret it otherwise."
Peeta closes his eyes and nods. "I'll …I'll …F-F-fish…I'll go do it now.'
His head twitches and he blinks furiously all the way up in the elevator. He doesn't even try to hold his lips together letting the curses flow freely.
I follow him into the bathroom where he gets a bottle of pills from his wash bag.
"What are they?"
"Prescription meds, they suppress the symptoms," he explains.
"But you don't want to take them, do you?"
He sighs heavily and stares at the bottle. "They don't just dull the symptoms they…f-fuck…pretty …fuck…much dull me completely too."
I remember what he said on the train about them turning him into a zombie. "Then don't take them."
"I don't see I have a choice," he says, sounding completely defeated.
"It seems to get worse when you're nervous or stressed right?" He nods. "But this helps doesn't it?" I run my hand up his forearm. "It helps to calm you?" He nods again in confirmation.
"I'm going to be right beside you all night. If it gets too much to handle then we'll leave. But please, don't turn yourself into some zombie just because they want you too." I take the bottle from his hand and toss it into the furthest corner of the bathroom and then taking his hand I say, "Come on let's go get drunk."
We take a long route down to the function, exploring the hotel first. We find a library on the first floor full of plump velvet upholstered seats, a terrace on the ground floor that leads down to sculptured gardens at the back of the hotel and a covered swimming pool with a glass roof exposing the night sky so guests can swim under the stars.
By the time we make it down to the reception rooms, they are brimming with the buzz of voices of people shoulder to shoulder.
I look to Peeta just as his chin throws upward and I slip my hand into his. I swear he's going to make it through tonight without the help of those drugs that so horrified Delly if it kills me. I run my free hand up and down his arm. He looks at my hand first and then me and I give him what I hope is a reassuring, 'fuck what everyone else thinks' smile.
A few people recognise Peeta, I guess it's not hard considering the strong family resemblance. He's the spitting image of Mark, only without the pompous air of superiority.
"Amuse-bouche," a snooty waiter offers, holding out a silver platter. The second I taste it I'm reminded what a long time ago lunch was, but the tiny morsel does nothing to elevate my sudden hunger.
"Amuse-bouche? Whatever happened to canapés?" I ask, searching the room for something more substantial to eat.
"Oh darling, no one does canapés anymore, they are so pedestrian," Peeta says, affecting a tone frighteningly similar to his mother.
"Whatever, I wish these were bigger," I grumble.
Peeta laughs and drags me in search of another server with a tray. By the time we've cornered some poor waiter and I've eaten practically the whole platter, people are starting to be ushered into the dinning room. We give our names and are directed to our seats. I don't think we could have been seated further from the top table, we're practically in the kitchen, but if it bothers Peeta he doesn't say. We are seated with two old relatives who seem to think that Peeta is called George and two twin second-cousins-twice-removed, or something along those lines, and their wives.
"Seriously Castor and Pollux, like as in the stars?" I whisper after we've been introduced, "Their parents named them after the Gemini twins? I don't know whether to think that's really cool or really pretentious?"
"Knowing their parents I'd go for the latter," Peeta smiles.
It doesn't take long to realise that the old ladies are too deaf to strike up a conversation with and the twins don't want to talk, not even to their wives. We haven't exactly found ourselves on the party table, but on the plus side it does mean Peeta and I don't have to suffer through any awkward conversations about our supposed relationship.
The first course is delicious but almost as tiny as the amuse-bouche and I practically hoover it down.
"Did you even stop to chew? You might want to pace yourself, there are another eight courses to go you know," Peeta teases, with a cheeky grin.
I narrow my eyes at him. "I think I preferred it when you were too nervous to talk to me," I retort, but I can't prevent the smirk that accompanies my response.
Peeta just laughs, "It must be the dress, you're a little less scary without the boots."
"Hey, I'll have you know I could inflict some serious damage with these heels if I wanted to," I warn, turning to the side to lift my hem to my knee, exposing the shoes I borrowed from Jo.
Peeta closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his lips to stop whatever outburst is brewing inside him. There's a thrill from knowing that there's a strong probability that it's the sight of my legs in these heels that are the reason for his reaction. But I know he doesn't want to cause a scene, so I quickly lower my dress again, run my hand soothingly up his arm and change the subject.
I get him to analyse the next course from a professional point of view, and then encourage him to spill any juicy gossip he has about the guests surrounding us.
His parents, brother and sister-in-law are seated at the main table at the front of the room. Peeta tells me that the familiar looking man sat next to his mother is the current Minister of Finance, Seneca Crane, and next to him is his wife. Then there is Claudius Templesmith the CEO of Templesmith's, the largest chain of supermarkets in the country, and sat beside him is his new, very young, wife.
Peeta quickly moves on to the other tables, filling me in on feuds, business rivals and warring relatives that have to be kept on opposite sides of the room, divorces, well known affairs and even a few suspected children who are the result of those affairs.
"Wow, you lot are like a soap opera," I laugh, shaking my head.
We commandeer the bottle of white wine on the table, no one else seems to be drinking, and by the time the cheese course is served I'm not exactly drunk, due to how much food I've managed to polish off, but feeling very happy.
"Surely no one would notice if we snuck off now?" I venture.
But Peeta shakes his head, "We have to stay for the speeches."
As if on cue, a spotlight is trained on the top table and the Finance Minister gets to his feet. He gives a very long-winded, boring speech that whilst being about the Mellark business, also manages to glorify himself at the same time.
And then its Peeta's father's turn. He's a much more enigmatic talker, starting off with a few anecdotes that raise a collective chuckle from his audience. He talks about the history of the company and how much they owe their success to the hard work of the previous generations. It's when he starts talking about the good work that he knows will continue in the future with the next generation, to ensure the continued success of the Mellark name, that I feel the movement next to me and I know that Peeta's tic has resurfaced for the first time in over an hour.
"Stand up," Amos Mellark addresses to Mark, and his son gets to his feet. "And Peeta is also with us this evening." Mr Mellark continues and points out in our direction. A second light falls on Peeta so immediately that they must have been planning this. I smooth my hand over Peeta's arm but he's rigid, so I lean forward and press a kiss to his neck. I don't care whether everyone can see - illuminated as we are - because it seems to be just the distraction that he needs. He's still gazing at me in surprise after the beam fades. His father is still talking but I'm not listening, I'm far too distracted by the beautiful blue eyes searching mine.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks.
"God yes!"
Again the hotel is deserted, everyone else still in the main dining hall. I kick off my shoes and we practically run to the lift, giggling with a naughty elated feeling of playing truant. Once inside though we both fall silent, watching each other as we lean on opposite sides of the elevator.
The ding as we reach our floor breaks the serious moment and somehow my hand ends up in his as we hurry down the corridor.
He kisses me the second we're in the room and I sigh melting into him. I've been waiting and wanting this to happen since the first day I saw him, and it's a relief to finally allow myself.
With the help of my impatient hands, he shrugs of his jacket. Whilst he's ridding himself of his tie I start work on the buttons of his shirt.
Damn if his body isn't everything I fantasized it would be!
"Oh my god Peeta, what are you doing in that kitchen to get these?" Its supposed to be teasing but I just sound breathy and desperate.
"Kickboxing and training everyday after work," he responds in a distracted manner as his hands run down the back of my dress once and then again. "How do I get you out of this thing?" he asks with a frown.
I lift one arm to reveal a side zip and he obliges by unfastening it and then lifting it up and over my head, leaving me standing in my matching deep blue underwear and heels.
"Fuck," he utters and I'm pretty certain that this time it's not involuntary but completely intentional.
There's only the slightest question in his eyes as his arms slip about me to unfasten my bra. He swallows as he pulls back to look at me, as I let my bra fall away and then he kisses me again. His mouth slanting over mine as my lips part for him, eager to accept the strokes of his tongue. His palms cage me and knead me with the delicate roughness of slightly calloused fingers. I moan into our kiss, feeling just as much of a slut as his outbursts have often called me.
I can't stop touching the delicious abs I've fantasized about on so many nights. I duck my head and kiss them, running my tongue over the definitions and I feel his muscles tense and tighten beneath my touch.
I make quick work of his belt and zipper, his trousers slipping down to his ankles on their own while I take his boxer briefs with me as I fully drop to my knees.
Now it's my turn to swear. "Fuck Peeta!" My dreams haven't been doing him justice.
I hear him suck in his breath when, almost reverently, I run my fingers and then my tongue along his significant length. The moan he lets out when I take him in my mouth is near animalistic, and seems to resonate between my thighs. His grip in my hair tightens to borderline painful, but there is no way I'm going to stop now, not when I've been dreaming about this for weeks.
"Katniss, I'm close," he warns.
I pull back completely looking up at him. "Stroke yourself," I tell him, "I want to watch you."
He looks a little taken aback but complies, taking himself in his hand. "I want you to do it Peeta. Just like you said."
His eyes, which had been half veiled behind heavy lids, are now wide open as he stares at me in disbelief, his hand still moving. "you want me to…"
"Tell me what you want Peeta?"
He shakes his head as if he still can't believe what I'm saying, but his hand picks up pace, stroking himself with vigour. "Fuck Katniss," he curses with a guttural moan, "I want to come on your tits."
He moans again as he comes in warm spurts over my skin. The look on his face and the overwhelming sensation of it all nearly has me coming apart with him.
He stands there his cock still in his hands unable to take his eyes off me. "Holy shit," he whispers and its sounds like a prayer rather than a profanity.
He seems mesmerised for a moment, before he snaps out of his daze and bends to hand me his dress shirt so that I can wipe myself clean.
He offers me his hand and helps me up from my knees and as he does his head jerks slightly, "When I said it… at the café…you have to know it was just words. I…I wasn't expecting this to happen."
"I know," I say, reaching out to stroke his arm right up to his shoulder and then over his bare chest. "But are you honestly telling me you haven't thought about it?"
"I've thought about it practically every night since you started working at the café," he admits.
"Me too!" I can't help smiling at his shocked expression, nor as I continue, "It wasn't the only thing I thought about."
He raises his eyebrows, and with a wolfish grin agrees, "Me neither." With that he grabs me and all but throws me on to the sofa. "I've thought about doing this a lot." It's my turn to be shocked as he drags my underwear down in one abrupt movement, then with his hands on my knees, he spreads me wide.
He pulls me forward by the hips, so I'm sat on the edge of the cushions and then he kisses my inner leg just above my knee. He moves slowly upwards one small kiss at a time, until the anticipation has me practically panting for him.
I let my head drop back, as his tongue finally swipes across me and an embarrassingly loud groan escapes me. Followed by another and another until I'm beyond caring what I sound like.
For someone who has so little control over what comes out of his mouth, he certainly knows what to do with it.
He sucks, licks, nibbles and teases my sensitive skin, front to back, leaving no inch of me neglected, whilst I buck and ride against his mouth, fisting in his hair. All the time loudly letting him know exactly how fucking amazing he feels.
His fingers, joining his ministrations, pumping in and out of me, are my final undoing and I cry out his name. My eyes slide closed as I feel him kiss my inner thigh again and I smile when I feel his naked body joining mine on the sofa.
I give a contented murmur as I snuggle against his warmth and drift off.
I think promised someone an eventful chapter - what d'ya think eventful enough?
Anyway I hope you all enjoyed it – please let me know if you did. I think there's someone out there reading, but I'm not entirely sure. I'm much more inclined to update regularly if you let me know you want to read more.
Have a happy Halloween
p.s. MBE = Member of the Order of the British Empire: a special honour that is given in the UK to someone who has achieved something special.