Moonlight
"They want us to kiss."
His feathery words coast through the darkness. They rob me of breath in this blacker than black place, rousing me in ways that make me glad we can't see each other. I feel the heat exploding in my cheeks, swelling in my breasts, and pooling in my stomach. The nymphs' request is wholly unexpected, yet I accept it as real because this is a world where everything is natural no matter how wicked.
They want us to kiss.
I accept it for other reasons, too. I think about the millions of little moments Peeta and I have shared since he found me poisoned in the forest. I think about his fingers toying with the green silk of my nightgown in the atrium. I think about our night in the palace when I thought he was my best friend and I sleepily clung to him, targeting his skin with my lips. I think of how I couldn't tell the difference between my fantasy and reality, the dead boy and the living boy.
I think about last night when he spied me in the water, how instead of being embarrassed, I felt excitement wondering what he saw, even though I tried to act indignant. I think about the knob of his shoulder against my head as I rested it there. I think about my wet body and his dry one as we sat by the lagoon. I think about how easy it was to tell him about my losses.
I think about how intense things got in the book maze. I think about his head inclining toward mine, his mouth slightly parted, his blue eyes smoldering.
They want us to kiss.
I think about the silence that envelops us now. In the darkness, I realize the silence isn't apprehensive. It's anticipatory, because this probably would have happened anyway. In spite of the Labyrinth's allure, in spite of my heart being chained to someone else, and in spite of what Peeta has done to Prim, this would have happened eventually.
At least it feels that way for me. I would have ended up kissing him at some point, on impulse or out of frustration. In the lagoon, I was jealous. The jealousy pricked me like needles every single time the conversation slanted toward love or his human mystery girl. Even now, I'm jealous of her.
But I don't know what Peeta's thinking or wanting or hoping for. I'm betting it's not to fulfill the nymphs' request since things were already awkward between us after our near-miss in the Library-From-Heaven-Turned-Hell. And plain and simple, he just doesn't want me that way. Even if we already almost did this, he'd been entranced by the Labyrinth at the time. Not by me. He hadn't really wanted it. Not the way...not the way I did.
They want us to kiss.
"We don't have to do this," he tries to reassure me.
His gallantry makes my gut twist. It's an obligation for him. I should feel the same way, but what's the use in going there? It's the exact opposite for me.
"We don't have to," he repeats, pissing me off. "They can send someone down to kiss one of us instead."
"They can what?" I balk.
"Don't worry. I'll let them do it to me."
White hot possessiveness kicks in at the thought of one of these nutty faeries touching Peeta. All I can think is, Hands off, bitches!
He chuckles nervously. That makes it worse, like he knows the insanity that's going through my head and thinks it's a riot. Like, aww, how cute! Little Katniss has a crush and won't share what doesn't belong to her anyway.
Well, screw him. Screw him nice and hard and from behind.
Dammit, he's still chuckling.
"What's so funny?" I demand. "What? You have no problem kissing a nymph but not me?"
He sobers immediately. "That's not what I meant. I'm fine kissing you."
"You're fine," I repeat through my teeth, my mortification reaching its peak.
He clears his throat, for once incapable of charming, soul-stirring prose. "Nymphs are insatiable. They'll kiss either one of us. I'm just trying to relieve you."
"And yourself."
"No! I'd rather kiss you. Believe me, I'd much rather the first time be with—"
"What?" I gasp.
Peeta goes quiet. His voice had been loud in my ears a moment ago, but his muteness is even louder. It's shy and self-conscious and...holy shit. The realization dawns on me, yet I can't believe it. It's not possible, not when a boy is this handsome, not when he talks like a poet laureate, not with his gentleness, and not with those biceps.
Not when he's a freaking seventeen year-old fae. A male fae who could hook up with anyone he wants.
"Peeta..." I begin gently. "Have you ever been kissed?"
He doesn't say anything. I have my answer. Oh, my God, I have my answer.
Although it stings, I ask, "Have you been saving it for her?"
Again, he doesn't say anything. Again, I have my answer. And it pains me. This boy is throttling me with each new thing I discover.
I've kissed enough guys. Most of them I didn't even like but figured, what the hell, right? This guy might be the one to pull me out of my grief. Which never happened.
Until this moment, I didn't think it was possible for me to want someone who wasn't my best friend. I didn't think it was possible to yearn for a different boy's mouth. But still, the thought rises like steam.
I want so badly to taste what you've never given to anyone before.
Peeta sighs. I don't know why.
Meanwhile, the darkness is rich, enjoying this thing it's created between us. A warm breeze flaps through my clothes, and my shirt beats against his, reminding me of how close we're standing. I move in even closer. I smell the inexperience radiating off him, merging with the sweet aroma of cinnamon and fresh bread.
He's in love with another girl. I'm hurt that this won't be real. But if it's between a random nymph and me, I'll sacrifice the hurt in order to offer him something good, something honest. It will be my honor. My pleasure.
He sucks in a startled breath when I reach out, locate his face, and cup his cheeks. He lets me. He allows it. When he trembles, hunger grips me, a primal need to make this incredible for him. To rock his world. To own his mouth. To brand it as mine.
Competitiveness. That's also what I feel, because if he wins this game, I want my kiss to stick into his memory and put whatever his mystery girl offers him later to shame. I want to wipe the floor with her.
Peeta tenses suddenly. So I do what I've done before with other boys to get them to cooperate: I explore without asking permission. I trap his earlobe between my thumb and index finger, delicately swabbing the earring stud, round and smooth. Then I continue, spearing my fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. Then, I wind myself against him, humming in victory when his hands find my hips. Encouraged, enticed, enraptured, I tilt my mouth upward and sketch the rim of his jaw with my lips.
"Katniss," he rasps, looping his sinewy arms around the crescent of my waist.
His touch feels impossibly good, seducing me without him even knowing it. I want more. I want him to want more. My throat tightens from how much his willingness matters to me. It's shocking and scary.
Unfortunately, the reluctance is still there. He's holding me but not crushing me. He's following my lead but not instigating. I know why. It's the same speed bump that roosts in the back of my mind. He's as confused as I am. I need to put an end to that right now. Enough is enough.
Dragging my palms back to his face, I hold his head in place, willing his eyes to cross the abyss and somehow find mine. "Okay. Pretend I'm her."
"You're her," he repeats in that gossamer voice of his.
"Pretend you care about me like no other. Pretend that you want me."
"I want you."
"Pretend, after all these years, that you can finally kiss me."
How did our lips already end up brushing? How did we end up murmuring against one another's mouths?
And how is it that he sounds as though he's not pretending?
Who cares?
"Finally," he whispers. "I can kiss you."
Our mouths seal together. My lips are urgent, while his quiver, and I draw from their dewy rims, massaging them thoroughly. With a whimper, Peeta's melts completely, reduced to putty. All thoughts mist, submerging into the opaque nothingness that surrounds us as every nerve in my warm body centers on the feel, taste, touch, smell, and sound of him.
I lick the crease of his mouth, urging his lips to split. When they do, my tongue whisks inside and flicks boldly against his. Peeta's chest hitches in surprise, his mouth widening reflexively and molding with mine as we lap up the combined moisture and the candied taste of melon.
I had intended to build up from something slow and innocent. It doesn't happen that way at all. It's like we've been waiting for this for longer than a few days. We lose ourselves in it. We collapse headlong into the hottest kiss I've ever known.
His fingers drop into the waistband of my leggings and plaster me to him. My hands thrust into his hair and tug, desperate to get closer, to open further. I hear the urgent sound of us drawing air through our noses, our clothes rustling, the tortured moan that drains from him and ripples through me. I take and take and take.
Then he takes back. Tentatively, curiously, he latches onto my tongue and sucks it into his mouth, proving he's a fast learner. I mewl, my heart puddling at my feet. We break apart a few times only to grab each other again, panting into the next kiss.
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