Chapter 8: Falling Into You

The first words out of my mouth when I see Peeta next are an apology. Siobhan had died in the arena on the second day. Neither District 12 tribute had lasted long, no thanks to their drunken mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. I wonder if he had even sobered up long enough to help them in the Games, but I guess—know—that answer to be no.

Peeta shrugs halfheartedly, his eyes troubled. He has brought his sketch pad with him, but he just sets it aside, choosing instead to lie in the Meadow on his back and stare at the passing clouds above.

"Sometimes, I think to myself, eventually I'm going to stop feeling anything during these Games. By now, I should be used to it, you know? I should be numb to it. It has to stop hurting at some point, right?" he asks, pain bracketing his face. I don't know how to answer that. Am I numb to it yet? I certainly hadn't been when Prim was at risk. "But then I think...the day that happens, the day it no longer hurts, I'd be no different than those in the Capitol. That's the day I'd be truly lost."

I nod, and we sit in silence, but it's comfortable this time. After a while, he begins to describe the shapes and images he sees in the clouds overhead, and I just listen to him. His voice is soothing, a gravelly rumble in his chest I can feel in my own as he speaks. Pulling up the dandelions that surround us, I tie the stems together until I have a long strand of flowers. Then I knot the ends together to create a loop.

"Here," I say, holding it out to him. He squints at me.

"What is it?"

"It's a crown. I…. made it for you," I say, feeling a little silly, but he sits up with a smile and takes it from me. "You said last week to give you something, so...now you have a crown. My dad used to make them for me," I add, compelled to explain, and I pick at my shoelace.

"Thank you." There is a note of awe in his voice when he speaks. He places it atop his blonde curls, and the grin he shoots me is dazzling. "How do I look?"

I smile at him. "Like a king," I quip, and his grin twists into a lopsided smirk. He grunts, scratching at his beard.

"King of the Meadow, maybe," he remarks, bitter amusement lacing his voice. "Not much competition out here for the title, though, so..."

I quirk an eyebrow. "You don't think I could take you for the crown?" I tease, but the look he shoots me now is more devastating than humorous.

"Oh, I think you could absolutely destroy me, Katniss," he utters, and I feel my heart stop. In that moment, I know; I finally understand just how dangerous of a game we are playing, the two of us.


Peeta isn't in the Meadow the next week when I arrive. I frown as I scan the area; the clouds are thick and gray overhead, a slight breeze whipping loose strands of my hair around my face. I decide to sit down and wait. And wait. I'm about to get up and leave when I spot him walking towards me. I nearly sigh in relief, unsettled by how upset I had been in his absence. As he gets closer, I see how troubled his face is. I narrow my eyes as he plops down next to me, but he doesn't say anything yet.

"I thought maybe you weren't coming," I say hesitantly. He sighs, dropping his chin to his chest.

"I almost didn't," he states, and I just stare at him in confusion. Smiling sadly, he finally looks up at me, and I notice the cut on his bottom lip; the area is red and swollen, split down the middle in a scabbed-over line. My eyes widen.

"What happened to your mouth?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"It's nothing."

I narrow my eyes again. "Did someone...hit you?" Was it his mother? That woman's abuse is well known around the district, but her sons are older now, moved out. She can't still be hitting them, can she?

Peeta runs a hand through his mussed curls, his face darkening. "It's not a big deal," he mumbles, and I feel rage swelling in my chest.

"Peeta, tell me what happened," I demand, as if I have any right to demand things of him. Finally, he sighs again, and reaches into his pocket, throwing an object down on the ground between us. My eyes drop to it, and my mouth parts in surprise. It's a condom – the very same condom he bought from me weeks ago, to be exact. Alarmed, I glance back up at him.

"Lissy found it," he says sourly by way of explanation, and my face pales. "Accused me of having an affair. She wouldn't listen to me..."

"And she—and she hit you?" I ask incredulously. Gale and I have had our rows, but I know my spouse would never hit me, never…

Peeta looks away, pocketing the condom. "She gets angry sometimes," he says after a beat, like he's trying to excuse it. "She's not a bad person. It's just...things haven't been easy for her the last few years. I try to be understanding; I try to hold my tongue. But...sometimes I can't take it. And she snaps." He picks at some blades of grass between his legs, and I stare at him, speechless. "I told her that obviously I wasn't fucking someone else since the condom hasn't been used. She didn't care too much for my sarcasm," he says drolly.

My stomach twists. "Did you—did you tell her...about—about me?" I whisper fearfully, and he looks at me, his eyes narrowed.

"No. I wouldn't do that. You told me you didn't want anyone to know." He shrugs as if it is that simple. I wonder how his wife would react if she knew he was meeting up with a woman from the Seam every week. Nervously, I look away, not sure what to say. This is my fault. Peeta is always taking blows to save me, to protect me. First, from his mother, and now, from his wife. Why does he keep doing it? When I've never given him anything in return, not even my appreciation?

I find herself leaning closer to him then, my arm reaching for him. He freezes when my fingertips graze his swollen lip, his eyes wide. My heart is in my throat as my face hovers just inches from his, and then I press my lips to the tender cut. I both hear and feel Peeta inhale sharply; I start to pull away, but his hand grips my elbow, holding me in place. Our hot breaths mingle, warming my lips, and my eyes lock on his blue ones; they are darker than usual, his pupils thick, nearly swallowing the entire iris. My blood thunders in my ears, and I am sure he can hear it.

We're in something of a standoff, neither of us knowing whether to pull away or push forward. Finally, Peeta breaks the stalemate.

"Don't stop," he pleads, his voice strangled, and before I can even think about how we mustn't, this is wrong, I meld my mouth to his lip, the tip of my tongue laving the cut. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, his fingers tightening around my elbow, and the noise emboldens me. Cupping his jaw with my hand, I suck his lip into my mouth. I taste something metallic, and my tongue swipes over his reopened cut, tasting more of his blood. I suckle greedily on his lip, wondering if I'm hurting him, wondering why I can't stop.. kissing him…

He groans, deep in his chest, and then his tongue is touching mine, sliding into my waiting and willing mouth. I gasp in shock, but he pulls me closer so that I am practically in his lap. Curling my fingers into his hair, I petal open my mouth wider to his, like a flower bursting into full bloom, and our tongues clash eagerly.

At that moment, a drop of water hits my forehead, my nose, my cheek. But I don't notice until it is raining steadily, and I blink uncomprehendingly, jerking out of the embrace, our passionate kiss. Peeta and I stare at each other, both breathing heavily as the rain falls harder around us, hitting the grass in a loud, steady rhythm. The blood on his lip trickles down his chin in a pink, meandering line. Without much thought, I jump up and pull him to his feet with me. Then, with purpose, I'm running, back to the Seam, back to my house. I can hear his feet pounding the dirt behind me, just over the deafening sound of the rain beating the ground as we run to escape it.

On my doorstep, I fumble with the front door, my hands shaking, and I shove it open. Stumbling inside, I whirl around, but Peeta hesitates on the doorstep. Seized with fear, I yank him inside, praying no one saw him, saw us. I slam the door shut behind him, and then we just stare at each other, our chests heaving from our sprint to my house. I know his eyes mirror my own, wide with trepidation and doubt and want. So much want.

"Katniss—" he starts, his voice quivering, but I don't want him to talk. I'm afraid that if he talks, the spell will be broken, and I'd have to think about what we are doing. I don't want to think; I just want to do.

So I silence him with my mouth, my tongue finding his again. He cradles my face in his hands, kissing me back, and I guide him into the living room backwards. I hit the couch and grunt, but he swallows the sound, pinning my body between his and the couch. His hardness presses into my stomach, startling me, and I push him away. Stumbling backward, Peeta gawks at me, but when he notices me staring at his groin, he flushes in embarrassment. "I—I...I'm sor—"

But I'm tugging his shirt upward before he can finish, and then my fingers flounder with the buttons on my blouse. Getting the hint, Peeta peels his wet shirt off the rest of the way and drops it to the ground. My hands still, my eyes riveted to the broad expanse of his chest and his shoulders, the tautness of his stomach. Heat spirals through my body, spiking between my thighs. I want him. Oh, God, I want him.

Peeta moves in front of me, his fingers quickly unfastening the rest of my buttons, and when he pushes the blouse down my arms, his mouth covers mine again. I suck on his tongue hungrily, and he presses his hardness into me. I gallingly buck my hips against his, eliciting groans from both of us, and then he lifts me into his arms, carrying me around the couch where he lowers me to the cushions. He leans back, and I eagerly unbutton my pants, shimmying out of them. He helps me, yanking my boots off along with my pants. Only my underwear remains, and he stares at me, something unreadable on his face. I tremble, the doubt from before surging stronger, but I am desperate to ignore it, to escape it.

"Peeta," I whimper, sitting up on my elbows. "Don't—don't stop." Roused by my plea, he rises to his feet and undoes his own pants. I scramble to remove my bra and panties, and when I look at him again, my stomach bottoms out. His cock strains upward, impossibly hard, protruding from a patch of dark blonde curls. Slick with desire, I lie back on the cushions, my legs spread in invitation. His eyes rake the length of my body, lingering on the glistening juncture of my thighs; his stare only makes me ache all the more.

"Katniss..." he murmurs hoarsely, swallowing thickly. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful. I..."

I reach for him, my body thrumming with need and desperation. "Now, Peeta. Now, now, now," I beg, wanting to feel the weight of his body on top of me, just as I have thought about, night after night. He settles between my legs, capturing my lips and my tongue in a heady kiss, and I slide my hands through his damp hair. My hips cradle his, but when I feel his cock slide through my dark curls, I gasp, pushing on his shoulders. "Condom," I manage to get out, and he snatches up his pants from the floor, digging the condom out and freeing it from its pouch. The irony of the moment is not lost on me, but I push the thought away, impatiently helping him roll it down over his cock. He groans at my touch. His flesh is hot, even through the condom, and he is heavy and thick in my hand.

I pull him back to my center, lifting my pelvis to his, and when the tip of his cock slides between my folds, he holds my hips down to push into me. "Mmmmhmmmmm…" I moan loudly, drowning out the sound of his own relief. I feel full, stretched wide; it is almost painful. I expect him to keep moving, but he stops once the full length of his cock is buried deep inside me. I squirm anxiously, but he kisses my mouth, my neck, my breasts, sucking off the lingering droplets of rain. His tongue teases my pebbled nipple, purple and hard, and I arch against him. When his hand slips between my thighs, his fingers brushing my swollen clit, I gasp, clenching him inside me reflexively.

"Fuck," he hisses, but his fingers bear down harder, drawing circles, and I claw at his back. "There?" he asks, his teeth scraping my nipple. I whimper and nod frantically. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes!" I gasp, rocking my hips in time with his fingers in what little space I have to move. His large body traps me to the couch, and he sucks my nipple into his mouth, humming his approval of the way my body grips his cock. His fingers move deftly between my thighs, the pleasure coiling tight inside me.

"I'm—I—" Words escape me, and when his teeth tug on my nipple, I cum with a breathless shout. Peeta groans as I tremble underneath him, pulsing around him. And then he is moving, pulling his cock out just to push it back in. I whimper again in my bliss, opening my legs wider for him. His thrusts are hard, relentless, his hips driving mine into the cushion, and when his fingers begin moving between my thighs again, I gasp in surprise, still sensitive from my first orgasm. But the pain is exquisite, and my hands simultaneously push and pull at his chest, unsure what I want from him.

He kisses me, swallowing my pleading sounds. "It's okay, it's okay," he whispers into my mouth, his fingers rubbing my clit with unforgiving mercy. I moan then, a whining mewl, and soon my hips jerk against his wildly, desperate for the relief he promises me. "God, this is—fuck, this is so good. So—so good, so much better than I've imagined," he whimpers in my ear, and I want to tell him the same, but my coherent thoughts are long gone by this point. With one artful stroke of his fingers, I explode again, crying out into his neck. Peeta grunts, thrusting erratically until his hips strain against mine. He moans my name into my shoulder, and I feel him throbbing inside me, my own body still quivering with pleasure. It takes a while for me to stop shaking, the only sound in the room our labored breathing.

But as the ecstasy subsides, the doubt fills its place. The full weight of what we have done finally settles on me. My stomach twists with guilt, and I push on his shoulders. "You—you have to go," I stutter, still dazed from my orgasms, but the horror is pushing through the haze now.

Peeta sits up, his somewhat softened cock sliding out of me, and I try not to think about how empty I feel. He looks stunned, and I scramble to pull my underwear on. "We shouldn't have...oh, God, we shouldn't have done that," I whimper, rushing around the couch to grab my blouse and shrug it on. I distractedly re-button it, missing a few in my haste.

"Katniss."

When I glance at him, Peeta has already put his boxers and shirt on, but he holds his pants in one hand and the used condom in the other. "What—what do you want me to do with this?" he asks dumbly, and I gape at him.

"I don't...I don't know...Rinse it out and take it with you. You can't leave that here!" I cry, borderline hysterical, and he struggles to put his pants on with one hand. Once he has pulled them up over his hips and slipped his shoes on, he crosses into the kitchen to the sink. I turn away while he washes the condom, trying not to hyperventilate. I look back at him as he shuffles toward me, fastening his pants. His hair is disheveled, his cheeks flushed a rosy color, but his blue eyes reflect my terror. "Katniss—"

"This was a mistake. This was a—this was a huge fucking mistake, Peeta," I say, my voice catching. I shrink back as he moves closer, and he halts. "You're married, and I'm married, and...oh, my God." He looks stricken at my words, his hands falling to his sides. "You have to go. You have to go. Now."

Wordlessly, he starts for the front door, but I stop him, panicked. "The back door! You can't leave through the front!" I hiss, and he swiveles back around. I point toward the back door, my hand trembling, and he brushes past me, looking as dazed as I feel. He stops, however, turning to face me.

"I—I'm sorry, Katniss. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry..." he mutters, his words dying out. I just bury my face in my hands, too scared to look at him. And then he's gone, the back door shutting quietly behind him. Breathing deeply, I gather the rest of my wet clothes and carry them to the bedroom, but I pull up short when I see my reflection in the mirror. My hair is knotted, sticking out in odd places, pulled from its braid. As I try to smooth it down, I gasp, peering closer at the mirror. There are streaks of blood smeared on my neck, my chest, my chin. Blood from his lip. Frantically, I spit into my hand and try to rub it off, my hysteria rising.

Bath. I need to take a bath, and quickly. I fill up the tub frantically, discarding my blouse and my underwear before sliding down into the water, not even caring about the tepid temperature. Lathering the washcloth, I scrub myself furiously, as if I can wash myself of what I've done. When my hand slips between my thighs to cleanse herself, catching on the tender flesh there, I whimper, and a hoarse cry escapes my throat.

Soon, I am sobbing into my hands, overcome with shame. I sink farther into the water while I cry, and there I stay for hours, until the water grows cold, until my throat is raw.

What have I done?

What have I done?