It's going to be a busy weekend so I thought I'd drop a quick update in now instead - just a little something to get you in the festive spirit before the weekend.
Hope you enjoy!
December - Part 3
PPOV
The restaurant closed at lunchtime on 23rd and we're not due to reopen until after the New Year. Delly and I have made the decision to close for the full holiday period for the last couple of years. With so much of our trade based on lunchtime traffic from the surrounding offices, it's pointless opening before everyone is back at work.
Delly came in on the last day so that we could give gifts to all the staff. We closed up at lunchtime and had a sit down meal with everyone, including the students that just work part-time at the weekends. Delly looked like she was ready to pop, at one point I was seriously worried she was going to go into labour, but apparently it was just indigestion.
I felt bad telling to her that I was going to spend Christmas with my parents as usual, but I didn't want to make up a whole new set of lies to cover up where I'm really going to be.
Katniss is spending the day with her Aunt and cousins, including Hazelle's eldest son Gale and his family who are visiting for the holidays. Katniss is planning on eating a Christmas dinner at the Hawthorne house and then eating another one at Jo's later on. Something Katniss doesn't seem to think this is at all excessive. "I reckon I could comfortably eat three in one day, and still have room for a couple of extra mince pies." Was her only comment, and she's probably right. For such small person she has an impressive appetite. She's teased me more than once that she's only interested in me for my cooking skills, and I'm not sure there isn't some truth in it.
Katniss has explained to Jo about my Tourette's and that I'm one of her bosses. Apparently Jo's only response was that if I was a chef I could bring the dessert.
I told Katniss I had a Christmas pudding left from last Christmas I could take along. She wrinkled up her nose at the news of a year old pudding, still not convinced even when I explained that they're always best after they've matured for a year. She was only mildly more reassured after she found out I had been feeding it with brandy for the last few weeks.
I spent this morning baking bite-sized mince pies, which are now cooled and packed up in a tin ready to take. The brandy butter has been made and all I have to do now is roll up the chocolate and hazelnut roulade. I know that Katniss likes nuts and chocolate, so she shouldn't screw up her nose at this dessert.
The ingredients are all lined up and I'm just about to start when there's a knock on the apartment door.
I expect its Mrs Maggs from across the hall. I left some of the mince pies in a box on her doormat earlier, a joint Christmas present and apology after she complained about the noise coming from my apartment late at night. I had thought that the deaf old dear wouldn't be able hear anything, despite the fact my bedroom shares a wall with her apartment, but I guess I was wrong.
"Katniss!" I'm genuinely surprised to find her on my doorstep when I open the door.
"Is this all right?" she asks. "Shit, I suppose I should I have called first, shouldn't I? Do you have company?"
"No, not at all, of course its all right. I was just cooking dessert for tomorrow. I thought you'd be at Hazelle's."
She shakes her head. "Nah, there's not really any room with Gale and Madge there, not when they seem to pop out another kid every year. Jo's out on her work's annual night of drunken debauchery and I wanted to…um...didn't feel like spending Christmas Eve in an empty house. So is this okay, me being here?" Her cheeks darken a little and she shifts awkwardly.
"Of course, I'm really glad you're here," I tell her, stepping aside so she can come in. Did she really think there was even the remotest possibility that I would turn her away? My heart sinks as it dawns on me just how oblivious she is to how I really feel about her.
.~.
KPOV
"Oh my god! What is that incredible smell?" The whole kitchen is full of the most delicious mouth-watering aroma. It's chocolate, but so much more than chocolate.
"That is for tomorrow," Peeta states, smacking my fingers away from the thin flat chocolate sponge, which is definitely where the smell emanates from. "I was just about to make the filling."
"Do you want any help?" I offer, hoping he says no. I'm pretty sure he will, he's seen my attempts to help with cooking before.
"No, but you can make some mulled wine whilst I finish this up."
Peeta places a chopping board and knife in front of me and even finds me an apron, slipping it over my head and tying it about my waist. "There, you almost look domesticated," he grins cheekily. I'm about to give him a smart answer back but he kisses me and I forget what it was I was going to say. He tosses me an orange from the fruit bowl that I smugly catch with one hand. Once I've sliced the fruit up I follow his directions on adding brown sugar, cloves, cinnamon sticks and a little muslin bag of spices to the pan of wine.
In the meantime Peeta whips some thick cream, before adding vanilla paste and grated white chocolate.
He spreads it inside the flat sponge cake, then rolls it up and dusts it with icing sugar. Then I watch with horror as he simply places the mixing bowl and utensils in the empty sink.
"Oh come on," I groan at him. "You've got to be kidding, you've got me slaving away in your kitchen and I don't get so much as a lick of the bowl?" He steps back over to the sink, runs his finger around the bowl before walking towards me, his finger held out in front of him as if he's beckoning me.
"Here," he says with a smirk, offering out his finger. "You can lick this." I could tell the smug bastard to keep his cream, but truth is I like it when he's cocky and confident. There's hardly a sign of his Tourette's when he's like this, only a slight nod from time to time that someone who didn't know better would just presume was due to Peeta swallowing heavily, like he has something stuck in his throat. It's such a change from the self-conscious Peeta that, according to him, I intimidated the hell out of when I first started working at the café. He's like a different person, if he stays like this after I'm gone he won't have any problems meeting someone else. The thought makes me swallow uncomfortably.
Taking his hand in mine I guide his finger to my mouth. Slowly and deliberately I lick the cream from his out-held finger, staring into his eyes as I swirl my tongue around its tip before sucking his digit fully into my mouth. That wipes the smug grin from his face and transplants it to my own.
"How about that drink of mulled wine then?" I ask casually, taking pleasure in seeing the way Peeta has to surreptitiously rearrange the front of his trousers as he fetches the tumblers.
We settle on the sofa and watch the end of an old movie and then channel hop about, commenting on how crap the choice of TV is. Peeta makes us toasted cheese and ham sandwiches as I ladle a second round of mulled wine into our glasses. We settle back on the sofa and watch a comedy Christmas special that gets re-run on TV every year without fail. I may have already seen it about six times before but I still find myself in hysterics. I suspect Peeta ends up laughing at me more than the show, but I don't care. As the evening goes on though, I do find myself getting more on edge.
Deciding to come round to Peeta's wasn't an on the spur of the moment decision, I planned it. A plan that seemed like a good idea at the time but which, after the lovely afternoon and evening we've spent together, now feels unnecessary. Like somehow my plan cheapens the time we've been enjoying. The later it gets and the closer it gets to us going to bed the more ridiculous the whole idea seems.
I'm still sat on the bed in my jeans when Peeta comes out the bathroom. His eyes roam over the bra I'm wearing. It's new, a deep forest green with flecks of gold stitching around the edges. I know my tits look great in it, that's why I bought it, but if I had had any doubts they would have been allayed by the fact Peeta seems unable to stop admiring me. Eventually his line of vision makes its way up to my face. "You okay?" he asks.
I nod, but he eyes me suspiciously for a second longer before he strips of his top and chucks it on to the armchair that acts as a holding station for the day's clothes. His jeans join his top on the chair and then he pauses his hands on the waistband of his boxer-briefs, looking back to where I'm still sat.
"Do you want something to sleep in? A t-shirt or something?" he asks uncertainly.
I shake my head and stand up. I feel nervous. No, more than that, I feel shy. Me, Katniss Everdeen, shy? I can't remember the last time I was shy. Maybe when I was 14 or something? I don't get nervous around men, they either like me or they don't, and I don't chase men that aren't interested in me. By the time I get to the clothes taking off stage I'm usually pretty convinced they want me. I know Peeta wants me, he doesn't hide that, so why do I suddenly feel so damn self-conscious?
I undo the fly of my jeans and halt. "Um, so remember how the other day, you were telling me how your brother ruined Christmas for you when you were little by telling you that there was no Father Christmas. And then your mother said there was no point in still giving you a stocking if you knew he didn't exist, and that you were too old for it anyway. And I said that was criminal because you're never too old for a Christmas stocking?" Peeta nods, but there's a bemused look on his face. "Well, I thought perhaps you should have a Christmas stocking this year, or maybe two." I let go of my unfastened jeans and wriggle a little so that they drop about my ankles, then kick them clear. I'm left standing in the thong that matches my bra, as well as a pair of lace topped hold ups - not quite stockings but near enough – that I've had hidden beneath my jeans since I arrived. Peeta is staring at me like he's just been hit with a freeze ray. It seems my earlier fears are confirmed, this is the worst idea I've ever had. To make things worse, if the heat in my cheeks is anything to go by, I'm also bright red. Great - green, gold and red - at least my mortification is festive!
His continued silence is unnerving. It's only when he blinks and swallows, with his familiar tic, that I feel my body relax. He steps closer, his eyes travel over me like he doesn't know where to look first before his gaze comes to rest on my chest again.
His chin juts a little as he gently fingers along the gold stitching that decorates the very edge of my bra. His delicate touch just skims my skin leaving a trail of goose pimples in its wake.
"Did you…" he blinks and his chin juts again, "…buy this for me?"
I could lie and say no or give a facetious response about doubting it would fit him, but I don't. I simply nod.
He presses three fingers to his lips as his eyes screw shut, in the painful fashion he adopts when he tries to hold his outbursts in. I reach for his fingers and his eyes open in shock.
"Don't," I say, removing his fingers. "You don't have to do that, not with me."
His body seems to relax and I think the pressure has gone until he blurts "fish" four times in a row. It's probably not what every girl dressed in her sexiest undies wants to hear her boyfriend say, but it's him and it's me, and I don't care. I just don't want him to feel he needs to hide who he is.
I lean in to kiss him and his hands find my waist as he kisses me back, but it is not long before his hands slide up, over my ribs, to my bra again.
He breaks the kiss to watch as his hands slowly glide over the silken cups, gently at first and then with increasing pressure. He bends his head to kiss the cleavage that, thanks to the clever under-wiring and padding, is spilling over the top. I gasp as he unexpectedly nips at my flesh, then moan his name as he sucks at the same spot. He pulls down the material of the cup, freeing my breast and exposing my nipple so that he can suck it greedily into his mouth.
"Oh god, Peeta," I rasp, as he repeats the action on the other side, and every muscle south of my belly clenches.
His intent gaze meets mine as he raises his head, his lips and then his tongue joining mine. His hands hold me to him, as he fills his palms with the bare flesh exposed by my thong. I press against him and he moans into the kiss.
"My Christmas stockings were never like this," he says, as his hands find the lace top of the one of the stockings.
"Well you know, you're a big boy now," I smirk, but for some reason my teasing doesn't sound as confident as normal. Not wanting to ponder the reason why I slide my hand between our bodies. I find him satisfyingly hard and straining against his shorts. Sliping past his waistband I take him in my hand, stroking then squeezing, as I work his hardened length. He moans my name and then I'm suddenly on my back, as he practically tosses me on to the bed.
I watch him, still stood at the end of the bed, as he pushes his shorts down and off, and I feast on the glorious nakedness of his hard body. I see him blink and swallow, somewhere in the back of my mind I'm aware he's been doing that all along, but it's so inconsequential I've barely noticed. He seems to be feeding on the sight of my body just as much as I am his. Almost unconsciously it seems, he begins to stroke himself as he looks at me. The wanton moan that escapes me seems to break him from his trance, and his eyes widen as he watches my fingers slip beneath the silk of my panties.
"Fuck Katniss," he growls, and I know it has absolutely nothing to do with his Tourette's. He continues to watch me as my fingers move over my increasingly wet skin, my back beginning to bow from the bed and my breathing growing heavier, all the time unable to take my eyes off of his own hand's movements as he continues to stroke himself.
"I want you Peeta," I moan. I want to feel every deliciously thick inch of him deep inside me, and just the thought has me moan his name again. He moves across the bed, straddling me as he reaches into the drawer of the bedside table to retrieve a condom. I take it from him, hastily rip the packet open with my teeth and then roll the condom down his length.
He moves down my body, first pressing a kiss to my centre through the silken material of my underwear and then running his tongue over the already damp material.
"Peeta," I plead, my voice needy and impatient.
He drags my underwear down and off, his tongue returning to repeat his previous action this time without the barrier of my underwear. I moan his name again at the sensation, but I want more.
"Please Peeta, I need to feel you."
I don't need to ask him again. With his elbows braced on either side of my head, Peeta slides slowly, deliciously inside. I groan out some garbled version of his name and grasp hold of his back, my fingers clinging to him like I'm afraid to let him go.
He retreats before pushing back again just as slowly but with more force. He continues, his pace slowly picking up speed, as my body rises to meet each of his thrusts and then I'm crying out for him to go harder.
He meets my demands until we're moving together at a desperate rate, with an intensity that makes the headboard slam against the wall, almost loud enough to drown out my grunts of exerted pleasure.
My nails dig into the taut hard muscle of his ass. His face is strained, I know he's trying to hold on for me and I beg him for more time, "Please, oh god Peeta, I just…I…oh fuck… please don't stop."
He hooks his arms beneath my knees lifting my legs a little higher, a litte wider, knowing that that angle works better for me and he's rewarded by the sudden convulsion of my body as I cry out. He comes with me, releasing the climax he's been desperately holding back.
His breath falls heavy in my hair as he lets his head fall to the bed. He makes no attempt to move away and I'm glad.
Eventually he lifts his head, looking at me with such an earnest, intense look that I'm almost driven to say something stupidly emotional that I'm sure to regret later. So instead I kiss him.
Eventually he rolls off and over to dispose of the condom, grabbing some tissues from the bedside table and wrapping it up to dispose of later. Then he's back, wrapping me up in his arms.
"I can honestly say, Santa never brought me anything like that in my stocking," He grins. "This," he runs his finger along the gold stitching of my bra, "may possibly be the best Christmas present I've ever had."
"Eek, no pressure for the real presents tomorrow then," I laugh, but I'm only half joking. I've been having second thoughts about the gifts ever since I decided what to give him.
"Presents!" His expression is one of utter horror. "You didn't say anything about presents? I didn't think that you and I…" and then the bastard starts laughing. "Oh Katniss your face. Did you honestly think I wouldn't get you something?"
"Ass!" I punch his shoulder, but we're too close for me to get a real swing so it's not hard. He wraps his arms a little tighter about me and smiles widely before it falters a little. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, his words accompanied by a jerk of his chin, "but I'm really glad you didn't have anywhere better to spend Christmas Eve."
Thing is, right this second, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. I don't tell him that though, I just kiss him again and if he works out the answer for himself then so be it.
"So?" Peeta asks, with an expression that falls somewhere between sheepish and down right cheeky, as his eyes fall to my bra. "Are you planning on sleeping in that?"
I shake my head, knowing the under-wiring would be way too uncomfortable.
"So in that case, is it okay if I finish unwrapping the rest of my present?" he smirks.