The first five vignettes in this series were written for everlarkbirthdaydrabbles on tumblr, so the tone was generally fluffy (because birthdays are about happy, not angst!). Vignette 6 is a great deal less fluffy as we explore growing pains in the creation of this new family.
I wake up before the alarm, a thin grey dawn only starting to tease the horizon just beyond my bedroom window. Warm and snug in bed, I'd like to roll over and fall back asleep, wrapped in my gorgeous wife.
But when I reach for her, the other side of the bed is empty.
With a groan, I drag myself out of bed and head downstairs. I find her by the back door, lacing up her running shoes. Her glossy black hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she's wearing those spandex running pants that make her ass look so damned fine. But I refuse to be distracted by how hot Katniss is, because clearly she's sneaking out for a run.
And we've talked about this.
"Going somewhere?" I drawl, and I don't miss how her shoulders tense. She pauses before she turns to face me, arms crossed in front of her.
"I'm going for a run before work," she says evenly. "Like usual."
Katniss is stubborn and headstrong, and usually I love that about her. But right now it's pissing me off.
"I thought we talked about this," I start, calmly, but her jaw tightens.
"The midwife said it's fine, Peeta." Ah yes, the midwife, the other thing we argue incessantly about. Though I wasn't thrilled at first when Katniss decided she wanted to be followed by a midwife instead of an obstetrician, I let it go. I figured since she's the one who has to go to all of those appointments, it made sense for her to see someone she liked.
But then the morning sickness started. For weeks and weeks Katniss was sick, not just in the morning, but all day long. I fretted and fussed, suggested anything I'd ever heard of, but nothing helped. And the damned midwife only said not to worry, it was normal and she'd feel better soon, probably by the end of the first trimester. 'Eat small meals and keep active', like that was going to solve anything!
I begged Katniss to get a second opinion. She refused, saying she trusted the midwife. We argued, over and over. Every time she was sick I'd beg again. Each time she'd get more and more upset.
Katniss is four months pregnant now, and while she doesn't throw up every day anymore, she still has no appetite. She's lost so much weight that I'm really frightened. And yet she refuses to slow down.
The running is my breaking point. She asked me to understand that it helps her, keeps her mind clear and her stress low. I keep telling her water aerobics or Pilates would do the same thing without being so risky for her and our baby. But the damned midwife told us running was safe right into her third trimester, as long as Katniss listens to her body and doesn't push herself.
I call bullshit on that. And besides, she's obviously not listening to her body. If she were, she'd take things a little easier.
"She certainly didn't say you had to run, Katniss. I don't understand why you won't just switch to something safer."
"Running is perfectly safe," she hisses.
"Look at you," I snap, losing the battle against my temper. "You're so weak a good stiff wind could blow you away! I freak out every time you leave, thinking you're going to pass out on the trail!" The early morning light skims over her, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. She's starving to death, and all she cares about is going for a jog? "Can't you just take up yoga or something?"
"Here we go again." she mutters. I want to retort that if she'd just listen, we wouldn't keep having this argument, but she continues before I can say it. "Why don't you tell me one more time how Glimmer did yoga all through her pregnancy." She practically spits my ex's name, and I stiffen.
"I can't believe you're bringing her into this!"
"Me?" Katniss laughs, an unpleasant little bark. "You're the one who keeps bringing her up, Peeta. Every damned day. Glimmer did yoga instead of running, Katniss. Glimmer was never sick like you are, Katniss. Glimmer managed to choke down those stupid prenatal vitamins just fine, Katniss," she mocks. "Perfect Glimmer who did everything right. I can't even brush my teeth without hearing about how much better at it Glimmer was."
"Glimmer's not even here," I sputter, outraged.
"She might as well be. It's bad enough that I have to worry all the time that she's going to come back and take my daughter from me. But having to share this with her too?" she says, waving her hand in front of her practically concave belly. "It really sucks, Peeta."
"I think you're imagining things," I grumble. I'm trying to be supportive, I know she has a ton of pregnancy hormones making her feel crazy. But this is ridiculous.
"Of course you do," she sighs. Then she turns, and walks out the back door. After a few moments, I head upstairs to start my own day, alone.
When I come back downstairs after my shower, Katniss is in the kitchen, making french toast for Cassie, who sits at the table, already dressed for school, legs swinging and nose buried in a book. Katniss is still in her running clothes, and she looks decidedly green around the gills. Clearly, the run has left her feeling even worse. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her I told you so, but I bite it back, if only because Cassie is here.
I think Katniss hears my thoughts anyway, because she scowls at me as she replaces Cassie's book with a plate. She kisses our daughter and wishes her a good day, then slides past me without a word. I don't miss the misery in her expression. And I huff in frustration.
At least there's coffee ready.
Cassie's chatter as I drive her and myself to school distracts me from my mood, and my fourth grade class keeps me too busy to ruminate. But when I sink into the sofa in the staff lounge at lunchtime, it all rushes back. My annoyance, though, is tempered with a little bit of regret. I probably have been mentioning Glimmer a lot lately. After all, everything I know about pregnancy comes from our time together. It never occurred to me that Katniss might be bothered by that. That she might feel threatened by Glimmer in any way. I thought I'd been clear about my feelings about my ex, my ambivalence when we were together, my animosity since she left.
So I promise myself that I won't say her name again, that I won't compare them anymore.
o-o-o
I've been mostly successful in not bringing up Glimmer over the past week or so. And Katniss has only been out running twice, though that's less a concession to my opinion and more a factor of her being too busy to run. She's still sick, still not eating, still exhausted. And on top of that, she's been working long hours at the office, preparing for a fundraising gala her company is hosting. One she has to attend.
Katniss is the director of social media and marketing for a not-for-profit firm that specializes in educational software, and she's extremely good at her job. But this gala is stressing her out. She'll be expected to make a speech to the investors and donors, and she hates making speeches. She's not comfortable working a crowd either. The pregnancy, the extra work, the stress, I know she's barely holding things together.
And we're hardly communicating at all.
I was looking forward to the gala when she brought it up months ago. An evening out together, a nice meal, maybe a few slow dances. Now I'm not so sure she even wants me there.
o-o-o
I wake up to find Katniss still curled up in bed beside me, the first time in a long time that's happened. When I carefully climb out of bed, Katniss grumbles no and rolls over, falling back asleep right away, also something that seldom happens. The gala is today; she may well be pissed when she realizes she's wasted part of the day sleeping, but I haven't the heart to wake her. She's so damned worn down. And asleep, she doesn't scowl at me. So I slip out of our room as quietly as I'm able.
Cassie and I have the kitchen all to ourselves. "Do you want to bake some cookies?" I ask her.
Her little face lights up, but then she turns pensive. "Can we make some cheese buns for mommy instead? They're her favourite." My heart swells with pride, she's such a kind-hearted kid. I'm so lucky.
"Why not both?" I smile.
I've been baking with Cassie since she was old enough to stand on a chair, and we both love it. I'm thrilled by the knowledge that in the not-too-distant future, there'll be a second chair pulled up to the counter.
Cassie keeps up a constant commentary while we measure and mix, and before too long the counter fills with baked goods. She decides that we should bring mommy breakfast in bed, and I chuckle, helping her load up a tray. When I set my own coffee cup on the tray beside Katniss's tea, Cassie stops me. "Coffee makes mommy's tummy sick," she says.
"It's not mommy's coffee, silly. It's daddy's." Katniss doesn't drink coffee, though she's almost always the one to brew it in the mornings, since she's an early riser.
"But when she smells it she gets all barfy." Cassie's nose wrinkles, then she shrugs and skips ahead of me.
Huh. Katniss has never mentioned that the smell of coffee upsets her. Cassie is probably confused.
I leave my cup on the counter anyway.
Katniss is already awake, I can tell, but she pretends to be asleep to let Cassie wake her, then she grins and covers our daughter's giggling face with kisses. My heart soars, seeing my girls curl up together in the bed, propped against the headboard. I sit beside them, basking in their happiness. Katniss seems a little better today, still tired and almost fragile-looking, but smiling as she sips her tea, and even managing to eat half a cheese bun while Cassie gives her a play by play recounting of their creation. And for one precious morning, my life is perfect again.
It doesn't last. Once Cassie bores of breakfast in bed and runs off to play, Katniss and I lapse into silence. Without Cassie as a buffer, it feels like we have nothing to say to each other. The easy, comfortable banter that's been a hallmark of our relationship completely fails us.
It's crushing.
We spend the day like ships passing in the night. Now and again, I catch sight of her tapping furiously on her phone, attending to one last minute detail or another, and we take turns playing with Cassie, but our interactions with each other are nearly non-existent. I can't help feeling angry, and hurt. But mostly, I'm afraid. Back when my father was alive, he and my mother tiptoed around each other this way. I've never wanted a marriage like that.
Finally, around five I seek Katniss out, knowing we'll have to leave in an hour or so. Hoping we might call a truce, at least for the night.
I find her standing in front of the full-length mirror on our bedroom closet door, her back to me, wearing the orange silk robe I gave her last Christmas and a pair of panties, but nothing else. The robe hangs open in front, framing the slight swell of her belly, where our baby rests. I've been so focussed on our fights and her weight loss that I hadn't noticed until now that she's starting to show.
She's utterly magnificent.
While I stare unblinking with my heart in my throat, she brings her hands up to cup her belly, watching herself intently as she does. A soft smile caresses her lips, she looks serene, content in a way I haven't seen in months. With her heavier breasts and her long ebony hair floating around her face like a corona, she's a madonna, an exquisite portrait of impending motherhood, a work of art. A masterpiece. I am enraptured.
She twists slightly, and that's when she catches sight of me in the mirror. Her smile falls and her eyes narrow as she wraps the robe tightly around herself, a shield, another brick in the wall between us. My heart sinks. "Please don't hide from me," I whisper, taking a tentative step into the room. She turns to face me, pulling the robe even tighter, practically to her throat. Her face is a carefully constructed mask of indifference, but she won't meet my eyes. "Katniss?" I take another step, and reach for her; she backs away. "Please?"
"Why?" she says, shrugging, but the way her lips tug downward tells me she's struggling to stay in control. "You've already made it perfectly clear that you find me disgusting."
I gasp. She could have told me she was an alien from Jupiter and I'd be less shocked than I am right this moment. "What? I would never say anything like that!" Try as I might to stay calm, I can feel myself getting defensive.
She scoffs. "Sure. So 'hollow cheeks' and 'collarbones sharp enough to cut glass', those are supposed to be compliments? The nicest thing you've said to me in a month is that I look awful!" Her voice breaks, and I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Not just because of her misery. But because I know she's right. I know I've said each of those things, though I never meant them as anything more than an expression of how worried I am about her. How fucking terrified I am of losing her.
"No," I grit out around the lump in my throat. "I never meant that. You're beautiful, Katniss. So beautiful." She's shaking her head. I take another step towards her, and she bolts for our ensuite, slamming the door, the little privacy lock slipping in censure.
Everything feels like it's falling apart, and I'm powerless to fix it. We've only been married eight months, how can it have gone so wrong already? I stand right outside the bathroom door, calling her name, begging her to let me in. She says nothing. Only when I fall silent do I hear a faint sniffle. She's crying. Katniss is crying alone, locked in our bathroom, when I'm right here. When I'm desperate to hold her and comfort her.
She's crying because of me.
My head thunks against the door as I struggle to stay in control, anger and anguish battling. "I'm sorry," I tell the doorframe, words I should have said to Katniss a week ago. "I never meant to hurt you." Faint sobs punctuate the quiet. The bathroom is tiny, I know she's right on the other side of this door. Her little sounds are so soft, she must be trying to muffle her tears, to hide even that from me.
I have never in my life felt so helpless.
"Please, Love," I plead, and even as I say the pet name I recognize the foreignness of it in my mouth. How long has it been since I've called her that? How long has it been since we've made love? I'm horrified by the realization that all of my worrying and complaining has reduced our relationship to nothing more than that of baby-grower and overseer. That I've been treating Katniss like an employee rather than my life partner. My wife. "You are the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen," I tell her honestly. "I've always thought so, but now you're even more beautiful." It's true; I've never found her more desirable than I do now, knowing our child is growing within her. My attraction to her is almost a primal thing.
From within the bathroom a single muffled word floats. Failure. For a heartbreaking moment, I think she's describing our marriage. But listening more closely, I can hear she's calling herself a failure. I feel sick. "No," I mutter, willing her to hear me. "No…". There's no response.
I sink to my knees, my face pressed against the door jamb, as close as I can get to her with one-and-a-half inches of wooden barrier between us. "I don't know what I'm doing, Katniss. This is all new to me too." A little huff from mere inches away tells me she's listening to me, and that's something at least. "I'm serious. You know I never had a real relationship before you." I dated only casually in high school and college, and Glimmer, though we have a child together, was barely even a friend. Katniss is the first and only person I've ever wanted to spend forever with.
The pleading in my voice escalates with my desperation. "Yes, I've been through a pregnancy," I say, careful to avoid using that name. "But it's completely different now. Because I love you, Katniss. And seeing you sick and hurting scares me to death. I… I can't lose you."
The silence stretches between us, an aching eternity. "Please don't shut me out," I whisper again, and I'm perilously close to crying myself.
Downstairs, the doorbell chimes. "Fuck," I gasp. It'll be Prim, she's going to watch Cassie tonight while Katniss and I go to the gala. I can't ignore her. I blow out a shuddering breath. "I have to let Prim in," I say. "I love you. Please don't ever doubt that. I know I haven't been a very good husband lately, but I've never stopped loving you, not for one second." I wait another few beats, hoping she'll say something. Praying she'll open the door. But she stays silent. And I reluctantly walk away.
Cassie has already let Prim into the house, and while I don't like her doing that, I'm too heartsick to chide her. She dances around her aunt, wearing fairy wings and carrying a couple of library books. Prim is laughing, but when she sees me her expression softens into sympathy. She hugs me hello. "Still no better?" she murmurs against my shoulder. Clearly she knows at least some of what's going on between Katniss and me.
Part of me is pissed, because I barely know what's going on myself. But most of me is glad that Katniss hasn't been completely alone. I shake my head. "I don't know what to do," I confess in a desperate whisper. "I'm screwing everything up. Everything I say makes it worse." Maybe it's unfair to dump all of this on poor Prim, but I'm lost.
"Just be patient with her," Prim advises, patting my shoulder as we follow Cassie towards the kitchen. "She likes to be in control of everything, but this pregnancy is something she can't control and I think it scares her."
I spend a couple more minutes with Cassie and Prim before heading back to our bedroom. The ensuite door is still closed, but I can hear the shower running. So I grab my things and get ready in the guest bedroom.
o-o-o
I'm waiting in the living room, alternating between pacing and sitting on the couch, fidgeting and running my hands through my hair repeatedly. It's twenty after six, and Katniss still hasn't come downstairs. I'm starting to think that she's not going to. Cassie and Prim are sitting by the coffee table, playing jenga, and Prim keeps shooting pitying glances at me.
I'm a wreck, sick and scared.
I've just decided to go back upstairs to check on Katniss when Cassie squeals. "You look like a princess, Mommy!"
Katniss, my Katniss, is standing in the doorway, drop-dead gorgeous in a deep blue gown that plunges in the front, highlighting those perfect breasts. I'm on my feet and moving towards her before I even realize it, and not just because my mother ingrained it in me to stand in the presence of a lady. No, I'm drawn to her magnetically, impossible to resist.
Her kohl-rimmed eyes are wary as I stop in front of her, my lips forming silent apologies I can't give voice to. I want to grab her, crush her tightly to me, never let her go. Instead, I reach a trembling hand out to finger a lock of hair that tumbles down to frame her beautiful face. For several long moments, we simply stare at each other, the very air between us charged. Then my eyes slip downward, to her cleavage. "Holy shit," I breathe.
"Peeta," she chides softly, her eyes flitting to where Cassie sits, thankfully oblivious to my language. But a hint of a smile teases her perfect peach lips. And it feels so right, so normal, that I relax, if just a bit.
"Sorry," I murmur, though I'm not, or not about my language anyway. Right now, I couldn't care less about setting a good example. I don't care about decorum, or the gala, or anything other than hauling my wife up those stairs, peeling her out of that dress and worshipping her gorgeous body. Or just holding her, skin to skin, feeling her heart beat in time with my own. "You look incredible, Love," I tell her.
She smiles, tentative but real, and reaches up to straighten my tie, the one I chose tonight because I know it's her favourite, a tiny, pathetic olive branch. Her fingers brush against my jaw in a delicate caress and my eyes slip closed. I lean into her hand, swallowing hard. "Are we okay, Katniss?" I whisper.
"We're going to be," she says softly.
o-o-o
We don't talk on the drive to the hotel, Katniss is lost in her thoughts and I'm too focussed on getting us there on time. But the silence doesn't feel as oppressive as it did earlier, and I'm heartened at least a little by that. Once we arrive, she's whisked away, leaving me to chat with a few of her coworkers, always with an eye on my wife as she answers questions and works the crowd. She's a dynamo, a firebrand, fierce and powerful. It's hard to reconcile this Katniss, this woman so poised and polished and vibrant, with the exhausted, fragile one I've been watching like a hawk for weeks. In spite of how sick she's been at home, none of her coworkers even know yet about the pregnancy. She's been that good at keeping her game face in place.
The realization hits me with shocking clarity: I've seen her as frail and weak only because she's allowed it. She's let me see her as vulnerable because she trusts me. And I've thrown that in her face.
I have to figure this out. I have to figure out how to support her without trying to fix her. How to balance my tendency to worry with her need for control. How to be the man she deserves.
She glances over at me, as if she can feel the weight of my stare. I can't even blink. She's stunning. Her dress gathers just under her breasts, then falls in a sleek line that disguises the tiny baby bump I caught sight of earlier. I want to touch her so badly I can taste it.
o-o-o
Three hundred pairs of eyes watch her with rapt attention, the hush so profound that even the rustle of tablecloths seems thunderous. Though she's the picture of composed professionalism, she's struggling. I can see it from my seat in the hotel ballroom, can hear the slight waver in her voice as she tries to read the carefully scripted speech in front of her. My heart aches for her; she's so nervous, so overwhelmed. Normally, I'd have helped her rehearse her speech, but with how little we've been interacting lately, it just didn't happen. She didn't ask, and I didn't even think to offer. I wish I could be there beside her now though, holding her hand, reminding her that she's brilliant and capable. Suddenly, she lifts her eyes from the paper and finds me in the crowd. I mouth ' you can do this ', and she smiles, just a bit. As I watch, she takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving mine, then begins to speak again, more confidently, and with more authority. She gives the rest of her speech - about the value of collaborative education, of working and learning together - directly to me, though I'm not sure anyone else notices. I feel not only her words, but the promise behind them. Not for the company. For us.
And when she concludes her presentation, I'm the one clapping loudest. I'm so proud of her.
Katniss is forced into a few conversations as she leaves the podium; I never take my eyes off her. When she finally makes her way over to our table, I jump to my feet and she practically launches herself into my arms. "You were so good," I murmur into her hair, cradling her against my body, humbled and grateful that she's seeking me out this way.
"Thank you for being here," she breathes, and I laugh softly.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be than by your side."
I eat my dinner left-handed for the simple pleasure of clutching her hand under the table all meal long. Katniss barely picks at her food, but for once I don't call attention to it, don't say anything about her appetite at all. I can feel her start to relax, feel her letting down her guard more and more as each opportunity to berate her for things beyond her control passes. And for the first time in weeks, we chat. Not the deep stuff - that talk will have to wait for another time. Instead, it's the easy, conflict-free conversation that I have missed so keenly. Reconnecting.
Dessert is chocolate cake, and I want to cry in relief when Katniss digs into hers with gusto. Instead, I slide my own plate her way and wink. And though she stiffens at first, after a few beats her shoulders drop and she grins. "Thank you," she says.
When the coffee service comes around I wave them off. Katniss glances as me in confusion, forkful of frosting paused just inches from her lips. "The smell of it makes you sick, doesn't it?" She frowns, and I can see the battle in her eyes, the fear of getting sucked into yet another fight. Finally she nods. "I'm sorry," I tell her honestly. "I wish I'd realized sooner." I don't bother telling her that our seven-year-old is the one who clued me in.
"You shouldn't have to give up things you enjoy just because I'm pregnant." She sets her fork down and frowns at her plate.
I reach across to tip her chin up, vulnerability flickers in those quicksilver eyes. " We're pregnant, Katniss," I tell her. "We're in this together." She looks like she wants to argue, or maybe shut down again, and I can't let that happen.
Across the room, the band is just starting up. I want to continue reconnecting, just us, no talk of pregnancies or past lovers. So I stand and tug her out of her seat. "Come dance with me."
I couldn't even tell you what song is playing, all I care about is having Katniss in my arms, her small, warm body pressed against my own. We sway together, breathe together. She lays her head against my chest, I stroke her hair, careful not to disrupt the fancy twist. My lips find her forehead, smooth in contentment. I haven't felt this good in awhile.
We dance two, three songs, talking a little and laughing. She looks up at me with those stunning silver eyes shining. My hands flex against her waist of their own accord, my heart speeding up. "I want to kiss you," I murmur. She smiles.
"So why don't you?"
"I'm afraid if I start I won't be able to stop." It's true, I'm already half hard just holding her and looking into her eyes. We've stopped moving entirely, standing still and breathless, oblivious to the people all around. But her expression falls.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, pressing her face into my collar, and I mentally kick myself for somehow wrecking the mood again. She stays in my arms though, and after another moment I begin to rock us again in a stilted parody of dancing. She sighs. "I shouldn't have shut you out earlier," she says, face still nestled in my shirt. My arms tighten.
"I wish you hadn't," I admit. "But I understand why you did." This isn't how I want to have this conversation, in whispers, surrounded by strangers. She seems to understand that, because we fall silent.
We dance a little longer, but the contentment is gone, the air thick with things unsaid. Then Katniss gets pulled away, pulled back into contract discussions and more work.
I watch her for a while, my eyes drawn like a moth to her flame, and sigh. I'm heartened that we're not irretrievably broken. But this isn't something we can just gloss over. We need to talk it out, the sooner the better so it can't fester any further.
It's that thought that propels me back to her side. She's speaking with her boss, a jovial older man whose name always escapes me. He smiles as I approach, and Katniss turns to look at me over her shoulder. Her exhaustion is clear.
Sidling up to them, I shake the boss's hand before sliding an arm around Katniss's shoulders. I can feel her subtly slump against me. "It's almost ten," I tell Katniss, loudly enough for her companion to hear. "What time is the sitter expecting us?" Prim is watching Cassie and she wouldn't care if we stayed out all night. But I want to give Katniss an out, if she's as tired as I think she is.
"Oh, I didn't realize it was so late" she says, and I have to suppress a snort. She's a terrible liar; I can hear in her voice that she's been watching the clock for a while. "Sorry, Plutarch," she says, nodding at her boss. That's why I can never remember his name, it's such a strange one. "We're going to have to leave."
Plutarch nods, and congratulates Katniss on a job well done before wandering away to speak with someone else. She turns to press her face against my chest. "Thank you," she murmurs.
"Anytime, Love." I kiss her temple, happy to just have her in my arms again. "Shall we?"
We gather our things and walk to the car hand in hand. She lets me cling to her fingers even as we pull away, and the feeling of her soft, cool skin is so damned good.
The drive home is as quiet as the drive to the gala had been. I expect Katniss to fall asleep now that the stress of the gala is over, but she doesn't, simply staring out the window and humming to herself.
Our house is silent when we get home. It's doubtful that Prim is asleep so early, but she's made herself scarce, knowing, I think, that Katniss and I desperately need this time to reconnect uninterrupted. I swear she's our biggest cheerleader.
I lead Katniss to our room, intent on talking, on smoothing out this thing between us. But when she spins and asks me to unzip her dress, all I can concentrate on are the miles of smooth olive skin bared inch by inch as the fabric separates beneath each metal tooth. It calls out for my lips, and I don't resist. Katniss stiffens as I drag my tongue down each vertebral swell, but after a few moments she relaxes and sighs.
When I finally get that zipper completely opened, I slide her dress off her shoulders, and help her step out of it. And she lets me. "You are so beautiful," I whisper into the soft skin at the nape of her neck, wrapping my arms around her, holding her against me. "I need you," I murmur, my cock already hard. I want to show her how much I adore and cherish her.
But Katniss has other ideas. She almost growls at the feeling of my lips on her skin, my cock pressing into the small of her back. Then she whirls around. I catch only a glimpse of the lacy white bra holding her perfect tits aloft before she presses her body tightly to mine and kisses me hard.
She's a wildling in my arms, biting my lip, pulling my hair, controlling me completely. And I surrender, because it feels so damned good to kiss her again, to really kiss her. It's been so long since we've made love. Far too long.
She walks us backward so quickly that the edge of the mattress hitting my knees startles me, and I fall onto the bed, flat on my back. She crawls over me, a goddess, smooth skin glowing in the lamp light. I reach for her, needing to feel the silk of her under my fingers, but she grabs my wrists, pushing my hands away and leaning forward to pin my arms beside my head. "No," she says, an almost feral expression on her gorgeous face.
"Katniss?" I could free my arms easily, she's not very big. But I don't. She has an agenda, and I'm not going to interfere with it.
"No," she repeats, but even as she says it, she's working on my belt one-handed, her other hand holding my arm down. "You don't get to touch me." I have one arm free, but I leave it passively above my head. My breath is already coming in short pants just from the novelty of the situation. From seeing this new and unexpected side of my wife.
She's barely got my dress slacks open before her soft, cool fingers grip me firmly. I arch up into her hand, a groan ripped from my chest. She pumps me aggressively, with none of the finesse she usually employs. It's raw and real and I'm already twitching in her hand when she shifts her body upwards, slides her panties to the side, and sinks onto me.
I howl.
Katniss starts rocking above me right away, pelvis angled to take me deeper with every revolution of her hips, and it feels so fucking good I'm certain I'm going crazy. But when I open my lust-heavy eyes to gaze at her, there's a little line between her brows. And I can tell right away that she's in a bit of discomfort, maybe from going too fast, from starting before she was really ready.
Shame steals through me, and I lift my arms, to slow her, to hold her, to touch and stroke her, to make her feel good. But she shoves my hands away again. "Keep them there," she growls, indicating the spot above my head with her chin, without even breaking stride. "You don't get to touch," she repeats, jaw tight. "You just take it."
"Katniss?" I rasp, but she shakes her head.
"No talking."
She rides me hard, anger and sadness written across her features, fists twisted in my shirt, breasts bouncing within their lace confines. She feels incredible, hot and wet and gripping me like a vise, but I can't relax into the sensation. Not with the torment I see in her silver eyes.
In all the time I've known her, Katniss has always struggled to articulate her emotions in words. But she's telling me now with her body. Showing me her hurt, her anger. Her loneliness. I can't look away, can't even blink as she tells me in her own way how hard the past few weeks have been for her.
And I take it all.
She comes like a lightning bolt, flash-frozen above me, mouth wide in a silent scream even as she pulses around me. Then with a little sob, she falls forward onto my chest.
I wrap my arms tightly around her and she doesn't complain, letting me hold her as hot tears soak through my shirt. And though I'm still hard and throbbing, buried inside her, all I can think about is loving her, gently, reverently. I press kisses to the top of her hair, the fancy updo starting to fall down, and wait. My balls ache and I'm uncomfortable, completely dressed with the elastic waist of my briefs digging painfully into my sac. But I'll wait as long as she needs.
When her breathing starts to calm, I roll us both carefully onto our sides, slipping out of her as I do. That seems to startle her. "You didn't-" she starts, but I stop her words with a kiss, gentle, but hinting at the fire still burning underneath.
"We're not done yet, Love," I tell her. "But can we talk first?" She nods, averting those stunning eyes. I can feel her defences coming back up. I can't let her shut me out anymore. "Katniss," I whisper. "Please look at me."
She lifts her silver eyes to mine, twin moons in the low lamp light. I kiss the corner of each eye, the tip of her nose, her cheekbones - not sharp or hollow, but beautiful , sculpted by angels. I feel the pull of shame in my gut again. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and her eyes slam shut. I sigh, but keep pressing light kisses across her face, breathing her in. Tracing patterns into the soft skin of her arms. Relishing the feel of her in my arms.
"You blame me," she finally says, and it shocks me, though it shouldn't. Isn't that what she was trying to tell me before? That she feels like I'm blaming her for everything?
"No," I nearly choke on the word. "I promise you, I don't."
"I'm trying," she sniffs, eyes still tightly closed, body held stiff. "I just…" she trails off.
"You are amazing. You are the strongest person I've ever met, and I'm so fucking awestruck watching you balance everything." It's the truth, but she shakes her head.
"It's never good enough." After a long pause where I can't even breathe, she amends, "I'm not good enough."
It hurts to hear. I know, though, that she doesn't need platitudes. She needs an explanation. "That's not true, and it kills me that I've made you feel that way. I'm scared, Katniss." I pause, taking a deep breath and tugging at the tie still mostly knotted around my throat. Her lips twitch, and she reaches for me, pulling the grey silk free, then slipping a few buttons open at my collar. "I'm terrified of losing you, or of something going really wrong. It wasn't like this with Glimmer." Katniss frowns, like my ex's name is a foul smell, which I guess in a way it is, for her. "Not because she did anything differently. Because I'm different. We're different."
I huff out a breath, for being a generally well-spoken man, I am struggling hard tonight. "I love Cassie with all of my heart. But when Glim was pregnant with her, I wasn't really part of it. I was there, and I cared in the abstract at least, but it was just something going on in my life, like school or my mother. Important, yeah, but it didn't take up much of my thoughts. But with you, fuck, this is everything! And it's not that I want to compare you to Glimmer, it's just that I'm grasping at anything to make things better for you. It guts me to see you suffer, and I'm so fucking afraid that something bad is going to happen to you or our baby."
"We're both fine, Peeta, you've spoken to the midwife, you know that. I'm doing everything she says."
I drop my face to her shoulder. "I know," I mumble. "But it doesn't reassure me when her advice doesn't match up with what I'm seeing. I just feel so damned helpless."
"You think I don't?" I glance up at her tone; there's a hint of amusement on her face. "Hell, you know everything about every aspect of pregnancy, and I'm completely lost about what's happening even though it's my own body."
I place a soft kiss on her perfect peach lips. "I really am sorry. I didn't realize I was being so insufferable."
"I'm probably a little over sensitive," she admits.
"I love you." Her smile widens at my declaration, and she reaches up to stroke my cheek. "And I miss you."
"I'm right here," she whispers.
"I want you so much." Despite the gravity of our talk, I'm still hard and trying not to squirm like a little kid.
But uncertainty paints her gorgeous features. "I… I wasn't sure. I thought maybe…" I know what she means, what she said earlier, about thinking I wasn't attracted to her anymore.
"So much, Katniss," I groan cupping her face. "Every damned day, every minute of every day." This time, when she leans in to kiss me, it's slow and sensual.
For a while, we just kiss. I take my time reacquainting myself with the buttery softness of her lips, the slickness of her teeth, the little ridges on the roof of her mouth that make her shudder when I stroke them firmly with my tongue. We kiss and kiss and kiss, and when she pulls back to suck in a deep gasp of air, I move lower, pressing kisses along her jaw, her delicate chin, licking a line down her elegant throat.
I kiss every inch of her collarbones reverently, hoping she can feel the apology. Dip my tongue into that sweet hollow between them, then continue lower. Katniss winds her fingers through my hair, tugging gently, the affection in that little action makes me smile against her skin.
The valley between her breasts beckons and I kiss a path between the heavy mounds, weighing first one, and then the other in my hands. They're each a perfect handful now, and I can't wait any longer to taste them.
I don't even bother to undo her bra, simply pushing one cup aside to free that gorgeous peak. As soon as my lips close over her luscious nipple, she shudders. I try to be gentle, but Katniss firms her grip on my head, pulling me in closer. "More," she groans, and I obey, sucking roughly, pulling the bud with my teeth. She moans softly, her back bowing, her hands reaching to tug me on top of her. But I hold my position. I'm relentless. I've been dreaming about these tits for weeks, and I'm not ready to relinquish them just yet.
She squirms and moans as I continue my appreciation of her breasts, her breath coming faster and faster, little mewling cries like music in the hush of our bedroom.
"Peeta, please," she whimpers.
"Patience," I chide. "Let me love you." Katniss goes very still. I lift my head, she's watching me with silver eyes shimmering.
"Always," she whispers.
I love this woman. This gorgeous, amazing woman. How she came to settle for the likes of me I'll never understand, but I'm so damned grateful she did. I crawl back up to kiss her again, and her small, sure hands work on the buttons of my shirt while I do.
She wrestles my shirt off my shoulders, I peel away her sexy bra, then press our naked upper bodies together, hot skin to hot skin. She sighs against my throat, that soft, satisfied sound that makes my heart swell.
I kiss a path down her body, forcing myself to go slowly, making sure to appreciate every inch. When I reach the soft swell of her abdomen, I spend several long moments just staring. Katniss lifts her head off the pillow to look down at me with confusion, but I shake my head, reaching a gentle hand to stroke the taut skin reverently. I can't put into words how seeing the evidence of our baby growing inside her affects me, how it chokes me up, terrifies me and at the same time makes me feel like the greatest man on earth. I kneel over her, cupping her belly and kissing the tiny bump, making silent promises both to Katniss and to our unborn child.
Then I continue my journey, nipping at the white silk panties Katniss is still wearing. She stiffens, guessing my intention. "Peeta," she breathes. "You don't have to-"
"I want to," I interrupt her. "Please." I press the word into the whisper-thin bit of fabric, and she moans. I love eating Katniss out, especially after she's already come, when she's drenched with the evidence of her response to me. I strip away those sodden panties and spread her wide before me.
She whimpers, bits of nonsense and praise whispered into the night as I tease her with my tongue. Only when her thighs clamp around my ears do I finally slide two fingers into her waiting heat, curling them up. She comes with the kind of uninhibited shout that's far too rare in a house with kids and sisters both, but I'm not going to chide her. Not when the sound of her pleasure is my favourite song.
I crawl back up to lie beside her, and can't help grinning. Flat on her back, arms flung over her head, eyes closed, she's a sweaty, dishevelled mess. She's glorious. I snuggle up beside her, kissing her cheek as I do. She cracks an eye open. "How are you still wearing pants?"
I laugh. "Someone was impatient earlier."
Her mouth twists. "I'm sorry," she says, but I shake my head.
"I'm not. You taking control like that? It was fucking hot."
She laughs lightly. "Maybe we can try it again sometime. But now, I really just need you inside me."
My balls are fifty shades of blue, but I hesitate. I know Katniss is exhausted, the stress of the day, the emotional upheaval of our talk, not to mention two orgasms.
"Peeta," she whispers, avoiding my eyes. "I need us." She can be so shy, even after nearly four years together. But I understand what she means. Us, our connection, our bodies joined.
I need that too.
My pants and briefs are quickly dispatched and I crawl between her thighs, twitching cock grasped in my hand as I gaze upon the woman I love. Then I'm sliding home, into her hot, wet embrace.
Katniss pulls me down to fuse our lips together, kissing me languidly. Lovingly. Her lean calves wrap around me, surrounding me. I wish I could make this last forever, but I'm already so close.
I slide in and out of her velvet grip slowly, shallowly, trying to hold back. Katniss feels so damned good, so soft underneath me, so tight around my dick, I'm shaking with the effort of trying to stave off the inevitable. Katniss noticed. "Let go," she whispers against my mouth. "Come in me." And I do, three hard, fast strokes and I come, more sigh than explosion as the pleasure flows through me, makes my whole body burn.
I all but collapse, shaky arms barely keeping any of my weight off my wife, who sighs contentedly underneath me. I haven't heard that sigh in what feels like forever, and it's almost better than the lovemaking that preceded it.
With what strength I can manage, I roll off Katniss, sinking into cool sheets even as I pull her tightly against me. She brushes gentle kisses along my throat, then tucks her head under my chin, into that spot where she's always fit just right.
I'm at peace. But it's a peace I'll never take for granted. "Katniss?" I whisper.
"Mmm?" she breathes, the sound skittering across my overheated skin.
"We have to talk these things out, okay? What we have together is too good to let die of neglect." I feel her nod before we both succumb to the exhaustion.
o-o-o
She shifts beside me in the dawn. By the time I can crack open an eye, she's climbed out of bed and is pulling a running shirt over her head. I clear the sleep from my throat and she spins, looking at me with trepidation. "Going for a run, Love?" I ask.
She nods, slowly, the uncertainty in her expression kills me. Reminds me that we are definitely a work in progress. One good conversation and some amazing sex aren't enough to have fixed everything, we still have plenty of work to do to reestablish trust.
"I'll make pancakes when you get back, if you think you can stomach them. Chocolate chip?" It's a small peace offering. I'm still worried about her, maybe I always will be. But I have to trust that she knows her body. And if I stop overreacting to the little things, then she'll be more apt to share the big ones.
"I'd like that," she murmurs. She turns to finish dressing, but I catch the barest hint of a smile lifting her lips.