Author's Note: Thank you for your kind words and reviews for Chapter 10, especially concerning the prowess of Masseuse!Peeta. So glad so many of you want his hands on you too. Oh, if only...

I appreciate all the new follows and favorites as well, and I hope that you will enjoy this chapter.

As always, THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, and CD is all Avi's.

ILoveRynMar and Jeeno2...thank you, thank you. This chapter would not be the same without your insight.

Peeta effectively avoids me for the rest of the day. It is easy for him, initially, as I go on the first dog watch at four o'clock and by the time I arrive in mates' mess, supper has already been laid out and Peeta is nowhere in sight. I have but two hours rest before I am back on night watch. I should grab a quick nap, but sleep does not come easily. Every time I close my eyes, I picture those wide blue orbs and imagine his fingers still ghosting over my skin.

The next morning, I am irritable from a lack of sleep (and from Peeta's perplexing behavior). My watch assembles for breakfast early; we are due to work forenoon watch. I sit, sullen, dunking my hardtack repeatedly into a cup of coffee, yawning sporadically. Finnick and Haymitch flank me on either side while Brutus sits alone, eating quickly and then disappearing within minutes.

I am only half-listening to Haymitch relate some yarn about a legendary Spanish galleon. He and Finnick laugh amiably, and I think that they try to draw me into the conversation several times, but their efforts are met with little more than nods and grunts from me.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks when I yawn three more times successively.

"You could say that." I yawn again. When both men fix me with curious stares, I furrow my brows and plunge the hardtack into my coffee. "I didn't sleep well," I reply darkly. They trade a glance, and I narrow my eyes.

"What?"

"Nothin,'" Finnick drawls. I slump further into the chair, but suddenly Peeta slips into the mess, bearing more coffee. I sit up a little straighter, fingers subconsciously drifting to my knotted hair to comb its gnarled strands as best I can. I stare at him pointedly, willing him to meet my gaze.

He never once looks in my direction, setting down the new pot of coffee and grabbing the old one. I pull my lower lip between my teeth to keep it from trembling, and I blink rapidly to ward off the tears that are welling behind my eyes. I am despondent and confused.

What did I do wrong?

In my distracted state, my melancholy causes me to dunk the hardtack a little too far and my fingers dip into my hot coffee, scalding me.

"Dammit," I mutter, pulling my fingers from the cup quickly, making a fist and blowing on it in a vain attempt to cool the burn.

"D'me ears deceive me? Did our wee lassie just swear?" Finnick laughs.

"The coffee. It's hot," I reply flatly, my eyes still fastened on Peeta. He busies himself at the table, his back to us, and within moments, he leaves without ever having glanced at me.

"What's with you and Golden Boy?"

"What? Who?" I snap, turning my attention to Haymitch, who is smirking at me. Finnick chuckles easily.

"Mellark," he supplies. "Or should I say Peeta," he adds mischievously, those eyes twinkling.

"There's nothing with us," I sputter angrily.

"Didn't look like nothin.' You were staring at him like he was an oasis in the middle of a desert," Haymitch snorts.

"Do you even know what that means?" I glower at him. He ignores my taunt.

"And he didn't so much as bat one of his pretty eyelashes at you. What did ya do to him?" Haymitch probes.

"I don't know," I mutter sullenly.

"What 'appened, lassie?" Finnick asks, more gently.

"Nothing happened!" I shriek, agitated. "One minute he was touching me…and then suddenly he wasn't touching me anymore!" I immediately clap a hand over my mouth, mortified at what I have just revealed. I also realize I did not make much sense, as both Finnick and Haymitch are giving me confounded looks. "I mean, he said he could make me feel better after I hurt my back holystoning the deck and so he was rubbing my back, loosening the muscles, you know…touching me…and then…" I babble incoherently before Haymitch holds up a hand and silences me.

"So he was giving you a massage?"

"If that's what you call it." My eyes slide from him to Finnick and back to Haymitch, and I find myself mildly annoyed by the amused expressions now on both men's faces.

"What?" I exclaim crossly.

"So 'e was givin' ye a massage, and then 'e just stopped?" Finnick prods. I bob my head slightly, remembering the whispering touch of Peeta's fingers against the curve of my breast and my cheeks flame.

"You're blushin,' sweetheart."

"Shut up, Haymitch," I snarl. It only widens his grin, which he promptly hides behind his coffee cup.

"Did ye like him touchin' ye?"

"Shut up, Finnick!"

"I'm serious, Katniss. T'is nothin' t'be ashamed o'if ye did," he continues softly. The heat in my cheeks rises as I close my eyes and savor the memory of the feel of his hands on me.

"Yes, I liked it," I murmur, lowering my eyes, shame mounting within me.

I know it is immoral to have such thoughts about a man outside the sanctity of marriage. Reverend Templesmith must have preached that a thousand times. I have just never had cause to engage in such questionable behavior before. And truth be told, I never expected it to be such a blissful experience, to stir such feelings in me. Why would something that feels so impossibly right be wrong, I wonder.

"And ye say Peeta just stopped?"

I nod again. "He was working out a knot in my back one minute and then he backed away and said he had to go the next. I don't think I did anything or said anything, but now he won't even look at me!" I purposely leave out the detail that Peeta touched my breast.

"Oh you did something alright," Haymitch snickers. Finnick shoots him a reproachful glare before leaning across the table, kind eyes on mine.

"Katniss, did ye feel somethin' when 'e touched ye?"

My body thrums, energy flowing through my limbs, remembering the wet heat that had pooled between my legs the more Peeta had kneaded my flesh and the intense spark I had felt when he accidentally grazed the side of my breast.

"Yes," I sigh, ignoring the continual taunts from my conscience about wickedness.

"Well," he begins slowly, cutting his eyes towards Haymitch, who sits silent but appears highly entertained. "Peeta prob'bly 'ad a similar reaction, lassie. But, uh, with us men, we, uh-"

"The boy got excited," Haymitch interjects. I raise my eyebrows at his bluntness, perplexed by his reply.

"I don't understand."

"You will," Haymitch snorts. I glare at him, then I turn to Finnick.

"What is he talking about?"

Finnick reaches over and pats my palm. "Ye're so innocent, Katniss. 'Tis sweet."

"What the hell, Finn!" I surprise myself with the ease with which the curse words are beginning to punctuate my speech.

"Easy, sweetheart." Haymitch downs the rest of his coffee and plunks his cup down on the table just as one bell chimes loudly, signaling our watch is about to commence.

"Won't one of you explain it to me, please? What happened? Why is Peeta avoiding me?"

"He's probably embarrassed," Haymitch calls over his shoulder as we ascend to the deck and are greeted with an impossibly blue sky, not a cloud overhead, and a sweltering sun.

"Why?"

It must be said that in all my knowledge of the male anatomy (which was minimal at this point) I knew even less of functionality. I knew what a naked male should look like (thanks be to Clove Simmons and her father's book) and I knew that…organ…of theirs impregnated a woman (thanks be to a completely awkward, incredibly brief lecture that Ms. Coin delivered each year at orientation, which never deviated, not one word, in all four times I heard it) but until I boarded The Mockingjay, I knew nothing of the correlation between pleasure and the body's response to it. Sexual intercourse as I understood it was to be an act reserved for marriage and designed for the sole purpose of procreation. It seemed impractical and impossible to derive any kind of enjoyment from it.

So I am wholly unprepared for Finnick's explanation as we swab the deck together.

He uses a few terms that bring a furious flush to my cheeks and for all my efforts, I cannot keep my usually dormant imagination from conjuring vivid pictures of Peeta in exactly such a state as he describes.

A state for which, according to Finn, I am responsible.

My mouth goes dry and the strange wet heat accumulates at the apex of my thighs again.

"What…does…I mean…what does he do about it?" I sputter, dragging the mop back and forth, my mind still reeling from the visual Finnick planted there.

"What d'ye mean?" he chortles, raising one eyebrow at me.

"How does he relieve it? I mean, does it just go away?"

"Aye, Katniss. It goes away when 'e's not aroused anymore." He sloshes more water around with each push of his mop then wrings it out and repeats.

I chew on my lip, wincing as my teeth catch on the chapped skin. "Aroused?"

"'Tis the way the body gets ready for sex, Katniss." My mop clatters to the deck, and gooseflesh prickles my arms. I consider the intense sensations that I experienced at the touch of Peeta's hands on me, and I shudder in spite of the sizzling sun as I bend down to retrieve my mop. Was that what my own body was trying to tell me? That I wanted to have sexual relations with Peeta? Is that why I feel as I do right now while picturing him?

"He wants to…?" I do not finish the thought. Finnick laughs again.

"Prob'bly, lassie. He's seventeen. And 'ave ye not seen the way 'e looks at ye? That boy adores ye." A warmth spreads through me, my heart swelling at the insinuation.

"You think so?" I whisper. I hear the hope in my voice and I know I sound like a lovesick school girl, like so many of the giggling dolts I scorned at Panem.

"I know so." He winks at me.

We finish our swabbing, regretfully, because I have so much more that I need to ask Finnick, and it is markedly easier to ask these private questions without Haymitch around. But alas, we part as Finnick goes aloft to tar the rigging and I clamor to the mainyard to reef a sail. I am halfway through the task when I hear Mr. Crane calling my name from the deck below.

"Miss Katniss!" Mr. Crane, whenever not in the immediate presence of the captain, refuses to address me as Mr. Everdeen. IHe always refers to me as 'Miss Katniss.' I sigh and grip the mast tightly, lunging my body outward so that he can see me among the sea of sails.

"Yes?"

"Scrape and repaint the figurehead, if you would, miss."

"Aye, aye, sir." I exhale loudly, the gesture blowing my bangs off my forehead. The figurehead had just been scraped and repainted yesterday. By me. And the day before that, as well.

Captain Snow has been true to his word: he treats me as one of the crew. Indeed, he seems to drive me harder than the others, and I know that he is waiting, like a cat about to pounce on a helpless mouse, for me to beg for mercy.

I do not.

Nor do I give him any reason to question my work. I complete every task to which I am assigned with punctilious detail. I push myself harder than he pushes me. I'm an excellent worker, if I may be permitted to brag. And to my complete shock, I enjoy most of what I do. It's an exhilirating feeling to be part of something, to be useful.

I descend to the deck quickly (how easy the climb up and down has become the more I attempt it!) and retreat to steerage, rummaging around to accumulate the necessary supplies to scrape and paint.

As I toil under the relentless rays of the late morning sun, my thoughts are like a stray bullet, ricocheting repeatedly through my brain without finding a target. I yearn to be able to discuss what happened yesterday with Peeta.

And I contemplate what Finnick confessed to me earlier.

It sends another thrill through me to think that I caused such a reaction in Peeta. I have never thought myself particularly pretty; my features are simple and plain, and after seeing the indecent pictures the sailors pin up around their hammocks, I know I am not buxom and curvy and womanly. If that is what men desire, I cannot imagine anyone would fancy me.

But Peeta does, it seems.

A silly smile plays on my lips.

I finish scraping the figurehead and prepare to paint, extending my body along the bowsprit until I am lying prone. I hum quietly to myself as I apply stroke after stroke of white paint to the gruesome bird. Thinking about Peeta buoys my mood and I cannot even become too distressed when I accidentally drop my brush into the frothing sea as a result of my distraction.

I do not have the opportunity to speak to Finnick alone for the rest of the day. I am resolved to ask him for a word in private later when our night watch ends. I have a million questions swirling in my head, and I need at least a few of them addressed.

Nevertheless, a different kind of inquiry arises that evening when we are resting in the forecastle, awaiting night watch.

"I 'eard the captain and Mr. Crane arguin' today," Finnick declares.

"In his cabin?" Brutus wonders.

"Aye, when I was at the wheel."

"The captain never seems to come out of there much anymore," I muse, rolling onto my side, trying to knead an aching muscle at the back of my calf. My own fingers are not nearly as therapeutic as Peeta's, I lament.

"That's because he's hidin' until that nasty little welt you gave him heals, sweetheart," Haymitch laughs bitterly. "I still can't believe you did that."

"I didn't mean-"

"He's not criticizing you, Katniss," Brutus interjects. "You've got nothing to apologize for. Each one of us'd done it if given the same chance."

"Maybe not Gloss. That fuckin' coward was too lily-livered to sign the round robin," Haymitch retorts.

"Any'ow," Finnick continues. "They were yellin' and cursin' pretty good."

"Mr. Crane seems a rational, albeit submissive, man," I say, thinking again of how he chooses to address me when the captain is present versus when he is not. He has always struck me as a perfectly kind man, a true gentleman.

But I was wrong about Captain Snow, so I do not place trust in my initial impressions anymore.

"Nah, he's completely loyal to Snow," Haymitch grumbles. "He's new to the sailing world and wants to make a good impression. He'd hang the goddamn moon if Snow asked him. So I wouldn't put much stock in anything you heard."

"I don't know, Haymitch. Mr. Crane hasn't seemed like he's in agreement with all that Captain Snow has done recently. He questioned a number of his orders the day the mutiny was squashed," I offer, because I am not inclined to blindly agree with Haymitch's assumptiom. Rather, I suspect that Mr. Crane has come to a similar conclusion that I did: the captain is an unnecessarily cruel man. The first mate seems to walk on eggshells around his master.

"All the same, somethin' ain't right," Finnick shakes his head. "The bastard was cruel before but 'e's drivin' us even 'arder now in spite o'Katniss 'ere comin' t'our rescue." I flush at his compliment, but truly, I do not feel like a heroine. If anything, the praise only compounds the guilt I still feel over being the cause of all this.

"He's pressing us because he can't control the weather. The lack of wind is eating away at him. He's desperate to complete this crossing in respectable time and maintain that stellar reputation of his," Brutus counters. Finn nods at the assessment.

But Haymitch shakes his head as he strikes a match and lights a cigarette. He tips his head back and slowly exhales, a curl of smoke snaking from his lips. "He's pressin' us because of you, sweetheart."

"What?" I exclaim.

"Don't think he's not watching you, Katniss," he warns, his voice low. "He may be laying low until that gash heals, but he knows every move you are makin' right now. He's waiting."

"For what?"

"You to make a mistake," he replies bluntly, drawing on his cigarette again.

"What kind of mistake can I make? I've followed every order he's given. Even when it's a ludicrous one, like today when he made me scrape and repaint the figurehead in spite of just doing it yesterday."

"Katniss, you humiliated him in front of all of us. No one challenges Snow's authority and gets away with it."

"How did I challenge his authority?" I ask, cringing as a cramp seizes my left foot. I work my fingers over the tense skin, pressing hard while once again wishing for Peeta's magic touch. "It was completely accidental that I struck him with the whip and to be fair, I was defending myself and-"

"Not just that," Haymitch cuts me short. "When you stood before him and pledged to join us. You mentioned your father."

"Of course I did," I answer smoothly, flexing my toes several times now that the cramp has abated. "But Captain Snow brought him up first."

"That may be true, but all the same, you said your father would support your actions. That challenged Snow's authority, whether you realized it or not."

"My father would indeed agree with my reasons. He is a man of upstanding character, and he believes in justice. He would have wanted me to own up to the error of my ways by making amends. This-" I gesture broadly at my surroundings, my crew mates,"-this was the least I could do."

"Admirable, sweetheart. But nonetheless, mark my words. The captain is sitting in those fancy quarters of his, spying on you, salivating over the chance to spring on any wrong move you make. One tiny slip and he will snatch the upper hand so fast your pretty little head will spin."

I roll over out of the hammock, rising to my feet, languidly stretching out the muscles in my back. I jut my chin in the air and shoot Haymitch a proud smile. "Too bad for the captain that I don't intend to slip up."

Haymitch tosses the smoldering remains of his cigarette to the floor and quickly grinds it out. He licks his lips and does not return the smile.

"Neither does he."

I begin night watch atop the foremast, my toes curling over the foot ropes, the slightest hint of a breeze ruffling my uncombed hair. I inhale slowly; I have come to crave the heady scent of the salty sea air. It fills me with a sense of freedom that I never imagined possible.

The sun is setting in the western sky, a bulging red disk sinking into the endless horizon. Its dying rays cast paths of gold, violet and pink along the water. I close my eyes and strain my back against the mast; I imagine this is what it feels like to fly. It is exhilarating.

I could not be further from the life that I have known for sixteen years.

It terrifies me that this is the happiest I have felt in a long time.

Four hours later, my watch ends, and I tread to the forecastle, physically exhausted, but wide awake.

The rest of the watch is sound asleep within minutes, and I can't help but notice that Peeta's hammock is also weighed down, his back to me, as I close the makeshift curtain around mine. I drag my fingers through my hair, combing it as best I can before rebraiding it into as neat a plait as I can manage, musing to myself what a far cry this new nighttime ritual is from the repeated strokes of the hairbrush I used to issue prior to going to bed each evening. What a waste of time that was!

After tossing and turning for what I think is two bells, I hurl myself out of my hammock and pace restlessly about my enclosed little space. I know I should be tired. I have barely slept in the past thirty-six hours. But my body is strung taut. Every nerve feels as it could be plucked like a harp string. And I try as I might, I cannot prevent my mind from wandering to the blond sailor who sleeps just several yards away from me.

I crave a release I cannot explain.

Frustrated, I quietly draw back the curtain and tiptoe through the darkened room, the muted flicker of a lantern the only light to guide my steps. I glance quickly at Peeta, his muscled frame hunched over in sleep, his back rising and falling in rhythm with his measured breaths. I swallow reflexively and slip out into the inky night.

Without thinking, I climb the forecastle deck and linger at the quarterdeck rail just above the bowsprit. I lean against it, resting my chin in my hands as I watch the moon-kissed waves sparkle below me. The quiet, rushing sound is a lullaby, relaxing me and soothing my tense nerves.

I do not know how much time passes, how long I stand there pensive and alone, but I am so lost in thought that I never even hear his footsteps approaching me. It is his voice that startles me from my reverie.

"Beautiful night."

They are the first words he has spoken to me since last evening. I whirl about, my back against the rail. The moonlight bathes his skin in a blue glow, like some kind of ethereal being.

"I believe you owe me a star-gazing session," he whispers, taking several steps towards me, a shy smile on his handsome face.

"What are you doing here?" I accuse, immediately regretting the hostile tone that I hear in my voice. I do not mean for it to sound so harsh. But he definitely hears it too because he moves away from the rail as if it is aflame.

"I don't have to be here if you don't want me to," he answers, his own voice is thick with hurt. A tug at my heart scolds me.

"No!" I reach out and grab his elbow, stopping him from retreating any further. "No," I repeat softly, pleadingly. "I want you to be here. I just meant I am surprised you are here. You, ah, you should be sleeping."

"So should you," he counters. "This is not your watch."

"I could not sleep," I confess. "I had a lot on my mind." You, I think, heat spreading through my veins at the scandalous thoughts I was having lying awake in my hammock. You are always on my mind.

"Well let's see if we can't remedy that. You want to look at some stars? That always clears my mind."

"Okay," I murmur, my breath catching as my body becomes attuned to his, so close to mine as he settles back against the railing.

"Did you have the chance to do any sky-watching at school?"

I am glad that it is dark so that he cannot see me blush. "Not really," I confess. "We had curfew, so it was rare I was out late enough to get a good look at the stars." My heart is thumping so loudly in my chest that I swear he must be able to hear it. "Do you? Look at the stars a lot, I mean?"

"Yes, I've always enjoyed astronomy. The night sky is like one big mystery waiting to be solved."

"That's an interesting way of putting it," I muse, sweeping my eyes across the speckled heavens. He manages to make even the simplest of activities, looking up at the stars, sound poetic.

"Everything up there tells a story, Katniss," he adds. "Like that constellation right above us? See the pattern the stars make?" He directs me where to train my eyes, and my gaze follows his description, but I cannot discern anything other than winking lights in a field of murky black.

"That's Sagittarius, the archer," he continues.

"That's an archer?" I retort critically. "It looks more like a teapot." He chuckles, a wonderful throaty laugh that reverberates around us.

"Good eye. That cluster of stars is an asterism. It's a small group of stars in a larger constellation. And that's all that most people are able to recognize of Sagittarius." He pauses. "Anyway, the archer is actually Chiron, the centaur-"

"Centaurs were half-horse. How could a beast like that be an acclaimed archer?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Peeta laughs again.

"Did you interrupt your teachers this much at your school?" Again, the velvety night conceals my furious blush.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm teasing you, Katniss. Friends do joke with one another."

Is that all that he thinks we are? Friends? Do friends touch each other the way he touched me yesterday? I shake off the thought.

"Go on with your story. Please."

"Chiron was a centaur, yes, but you have to remember the ancient Greeks revered their horses. So centaurs were usually blessed with intelligence and Chiron was no exception. He taught Achilles and Heracles."

"Hercules?"

"Heracles. His Greek name. Hercules is the Roman equivalent."

"I wasn't aware there was a difference."

"There isn't really," he laughs quietly. "The Greeks and Romans both wanted things their way, that's all."

"How do you know all this?" I whisper, slightly in awe of him. I study his perfect profile in the moonlight. This man himself is a mystery.

"I told you I can read. I read a lot," he replies cryptically. "Anyhow, Sagittarius represents Chiron. He was immortal, but he graciously agreed to give up that immortality and change places with Prometheus-"

"Prometheus. He created Pandora, yes?" Shit, I think to myself, half-amused that I am swearing even in my head now, half-irritated at myself for interrupting yet again.

"Yes, he did," he smiles. "But when he took Prometheus's place in Tartarus, Zeus was so moved he placed Chiron in the heavens as a reward for his constancy."

"That's nice," I murmur absently, chiding myself for sounding so blasé.

"This is nice," he replies back, his voice barely audible. His fingers seek out mine in the darkness and he weaves them through mine, causing my pulse to quicken at the innocent contact. I swallow.

"I'm sorry I ran away yesterday," he coughs and begins drawing circles against the back of my palm with his thumb.

"I was worried I had done something wrong," I confess, my voice thick in my throat.

"You did nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, actually." His tone sends a frisson of delight snaking down my spine, raising goose bumps along my limbs.

Heat lightning throbs in the distance, staccato yellow flashes on the distant horizon. I wait for the tell-tale reply of thunder, but it never comes. The moon scuttles behind shadowy clouds, and it is several moments before it reappears.

"Tell me another story?" It is the only thing I can think to say to break the heavy silence between us. He clears his throat quietly.

"There is one I have in mind," he starts huskily, "but I yet don't know how it ends." He steps away from the rail, my fingers still linked with his, and his other hand reaches forward to brush my hair off my forehead, tucking the strands that have escaped my braid behind my ear. His fingers remain there for a minute, trailing down my jaw and coming to rest on my chin.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he murmurs softly. A gasp escapes my lips just before he uses his index finger to lift my chin. Peeta's mouth presses to mine, gently, hesitantly, sweetly. He draws back, searching my face for permission to continue.

I don't grant him a reply. At least not a verbal one. I clasp my hands behind his neck and stretch up on my toes, crushing my body against his as I clumsily slant my mouth up, begging him to possess it again.

He does not disappoint.

His mouth moves against mine eagerly and I desperately try to mimic his movements, hopeful that my woeful inexperience does not dissuade him.

It is my first kiss. As Peeta's lips dance over mine, capturing them over and over again, I am consumed by the notion that I have ever lived without this kind of contact, this emotional connection with another. His embrace is intoxicating and I know that I will never be able to get enough of it.

I cry out when his lips leave mine, my hands clutching at his shoulders to keep my legs from buckling beneath me.

"Why did you stop?" I pant, my breath coming in short gasps. He stares down at me, and even in the faint moonlight, I can see that his pupils are dilated and glazed with desire. I feel that twinge between my legs again and I want his hands on me so badly that I am shaking.

"I wasn't sure if I was overstepping my bounds," he whispers, dragging the pad of his thumb along the swell of my lower lip.

"Kiss me again," I beg. "Please."

He wastes no time in claiming my lips once more, his strong hands framing my face, cupping my cheeks tenderly. A strangled moan escapes me as he tilts my jaw to kiss me from a new angle, and it is followed by a sharp gasp as his tongue darts out to trace the seam of my lips. I am rewarded with a deep groan of his own when I hesitantly part my lips and his tongue finds the entrance it was so desperately seeking.

If I thought the sensation of his mouth on mine was intense, I am inundated with waves of pleasure when his tongue begins to gently probe the depths of my mouth, twining with my tongue in an erotic dance. I cling to him, my fingers weaving into his blond hair as his hands find purchase on my hips, drawing me flush against his body.

The meager fabric of our sailors' garb does little to disguise the reactions both our bodies are having. At first, in spite of Finnick's meticulous explanations, I am startled by the feel of his hardness against me. He shifts several times in what I can guess is a half-hearted attempt to disguise his erection, but the longer we kiss, the less he tries to hide it. It presses insistently against me. Once I get past my initial embarrassment, strangely it actually emboldens me, knowing I have caused such a stirring in him. Knowing he wants me this visibly.

I mewl as he breaks the kiss again, but his lips descend to press a heated path along the column of my throat, my head instinctively tilting back to grant him easier access. His tongue laves the skin at the hollow there, then licks along my collarbone, and a shudder convulses through me. That increasingly-more-familiar tightening coils in my belly again. My back arches, crushing my breasts against his chest, and I know he must feel my nipples, hard pebbles against the lightweight cotton.

"I have wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you," he rasps against my ear, his teeth grazing my lobe lazily. "But we should stop."

"What? No!" My protest is immediate and it earns another laugh from Peeta.

"I didn't say I wanted to stop, Katniss. I said we should stop."

"Why?"

"We shouldn't be out here too long. It's late, you have morning watch in a few hours, and I would hate to be the one responsible for your lack of sleep." He kisses the tip of my nose.

"I am a big girl, Mr. Mellark," I reply coyly. "I think I can make my own decisions." He chuckles softly and reaches for my braid, sliding the length of it through his fingers.

"Duly noted, Miss Everdeen" His lips are on mine again in an instant, and the thrilling sensation stirs once more in the pit of my belly. His mouth is pliant, surprisingly soft in spite of his chapped lips and his kisses ignite me.

And in this moment, I want nothing more than to let Peeta's fire completely engulf me.

His hands skim along my sides, one finding the small of my back while the other cradles my neck gently. We both gasp for breath in between kisses, and I surprise myself by parting my lips first and coaxing his tongue into the wet heat of my mouth. He groans. The sound of it is so delicious that I want to hear it again and again.

"Okay, this time we really have to stop," he pants, holding me at arms' length. His lips are puffy and his eyes are ravenous, but his tone is firm.

"Okay," I agree reluctantly, my voice barely audible as I try to regulate my breathing again and get my brain to return to logical thoughts.

"That was your first kiss? First kisses, I mean," he asks gently, but it is not really a question. I lower my eyes and nod.

"You are indeed a quick learner," he teases, threading his fingers through mine and swinging our arms faintly between us. "Because I have never enjoyed a kiss as much as I enjoyed kissing you."

I freeze and immediately release his hand. My chest constricts and I frown. "How many others have you kissed?"

His eyes scold me. "Oh, Katniss. Please tell me you're not thinking of that after we what just shared."

I worry my lower lip. That is exactly what I am thinking. It's irrational, and I have only just met this amazing young man, but I find myself filled with a touch of what Shakespeare (a frequent name in my pilfered literature pile) called "the green-eyed monster."

Peeta envelops me in his arms again and my body stiffens. He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks and cradles my jaw with his fingertips.

"I may have kissed a few girls," he confesses, "but I have never felt the things I felt just now. I promise you that. And I'll tell you that it scares me a little."

"It scares me lot," I reply shakily. "I did not think it was possible to feel this way about another person."

"Then I guess we can be terrified together," he smiles as he cocks his head slightly and motions towards the forecastle steps. "Come on. You need to get to sleep." I follow his lead, clutching his hand tightly as we slowly return to the forecastle.

He pauses at the door and seizes my mouth in a quick but fierce embrace.

"I meant what I said, Katniss. And if I have anything to say about it, I'm going to be kissing you a lot more from now on." He presses his lips to my forehead and lets them linger there for several seconds.

"Good night, Katniss. Sweet dreams," he whispers, slipping inside the forecastle door, leaving me to slump, breathless, against the wall just outside it, my fingers probing my own swollen lips, a ridiculously wide smile spreading across them.

"Good night, Peeta."

A/N: I hope the star-gazing did not disappoint! And it's been years since I've gotten to teach mythology, though I taught the Solar System as recently as last year, so I hope my myths were accurate. Please let me know what you thought; I love to hear from readers.

For those who are not aware, I have a new WIP that I posted last week: Windfall (yeah, what is it with me and wind?)...that story will not affect this one's updates; as I've said before, this story is entirely written. But I hope you'll consider checking my new one out too!

Thanks for reading!