When I wake up, it's dawn. I can tell without thinking about it that the nightmares have gone. This is the first thing I register, with the sunlight: that I feel rested. The second thing is that I am curled with Peeta on the floor in front of the now-cold fireplace, free of clothes, save my underwear, warm and secure under our thick blanket, and that his big baker's hand gently cups my bare left breast. This is not the state we left off in, but how could he possibly help it? I stare at it for a minute, taking the time to remember the details of last night. How I dreamt again of the fire that consumed my little sister whole, how I woke up screaming, rushed outside into the cold to escape from the fire, feeling like my mind was slowly begin to slide out from beneath me. How Peeta found me there, carried me home, warmed me and soothed me. And how I'd done what I sometimes imagined doing at night, trying to chase away all the bad thoughts with some good ones.
The teasing about the purity was true only in part; no one has immediate access to my thoughts, after all, and I'm still 18. I have no real experience with sex or anything like it, but it would be completely foolish for anyone to assume I don't think about it, when I'm not thinking about things like how to survive the night and not starve to death. I have the luxury of more time, now, which is a curse and a blessing, and these are thoughts that sometimes fill it. I haven't been able to hold Peeta at arm's length, not for lack of trying. Too many times I heard Haymitch's voice in my head, "You could do a lot worse, sweetheart." The courage Peeta has shown in shaking off the hallucinations of me, when he could have abandoned me, let them subsume him and leave me, especially with my own projections of indifference onto his affections…I can't shake it loose. What he calls love, in the end, I can't find another more suitable word for. Peeta's proven his loyalty to me, time and again. Most of all, he's proven that he can be whatever it is I need…if only a friend, so be it. I can feel the self-restraint he projects sometimes at night in his chaste kisses on my hair and cheeks. I catch him looking at me sideways sometimes, open longing in his eyes. What I know most surely is that Peeta would give these desires up, if I could not or would not accept what was offered. That fact alone made me relax, feel safer. He lets me set the pace, if indeed there is a pace, which, after last night, I'm guessing there is. I love selectively, but fiercely. There stopped being a point in denying loving Peeta, in a world that so much wants for love. I have so few left to love, after all. Peeta makes me feel safe, cared for, and he is the only one left, after all this, to understand what I feel without my having to explain it constantly. Unless you count Haymitch, who I can hardly ask to hold me at night. Fighting something so obvious seems stupid, and I'm growing out of that kind of stubbornness for the sake of stubbornness alone. If the past three years taught me anything, it's that life is too short.
I recall the soft sounds and cries that breached his lips last night as I explored his lovely body with my hands and mouth, and I tried to imagine what it would be like, to want someone for as long as he claims to have wanted me, and then…I picture wide blue eyes, looking hungry and terrified all at once, locking onto mine. And then the surrender as he arched his back, moved into my tentative touches. I felt powerful, to be able to give so much pleasure to someone else. I've come to look at Peeta differently, more in the way I used to hear about girls and boys looking at one another. I notice the sunlight glinting in his shaggy hair, his big, rough hands, his hard stomach from two years of combat and training, those gentle blue eyes. I feel a bite of lust thinking about the previous evening's events. Peeta is still asleep, that one hand cupping me. Slowly, so as not to wake him, I reach down and touch myself lightly through the fabric of my underwear. The heat beneath has cooled but, I feel, could easily be rekindled. And I know how to do that. For no reason other than, perhaps, that I discovered that this one thing among many might ease my tension enough to sleep an extra hour or two, I know my body better this year than any year before. How pleased Peeta would be if he knew he played a part in this, inside my head! Sometimes I pretend my own fingers are his, though they feel nothing alike. I think of those stolen moments on the beach and in the cave and replay them, the firm feeling of his shoulders under my hands and his teeth beneath his lips. The way he held me so reverently.
I'm drifting, and my fingers have begun moving of their own accord, seeking out that hidden place I had to search for carefully, for the lightest of touches awakens it and sends me jolting. Through the fabric it's easier to stay quiet and smolder. I'm not trying for an end. I just want to feel the sensations that coursed through me as I drifted off to sleep, after Peeta's release last night. I know he would gladly have returned the favor, or tried, but I was too spent afterwards, trying to gauge the emotional weight of the situation I'd put us in. Now I feel more stable, having rested. My two left fingers work gentle circles. I focus on Peeta's hand. I wish it would move, touch my nipple, growing harder as I play leisurely. The heat is coming back. I slip one finger beneath and under, and I'm surprised. I'm soaked with my own moisture, pouring out unstoppably. I feel a little smug, oh, if he knew what I was up to.
Maybe this thought triggers the universe's silent mockery, because it's then when I feel Peeta awake. He always goes rigid for just a microsecond when he wakes, before he realizes I'm there and settles back in. But this time, I feel his hesitation, disorientation, as he connects the pieces I got a few minutes ago. I turn slowly over to greet him, and he realizes where his hand is. His face reddens and he pulls it back as though it might scald me and begins to stammer apologies. "I didn't mean to…" he says frantically, as though this might convince me that he really is some kind of pervert with no respect for boundaries. I take his hand and promptly place it back in its former position, only I shift it so his thumb grazes that hard little pebble of a nipple. I close my eyes to revel for a minute in the sensation, which sends short little stabs of lightning through my belly and down. He looks stunned when I open them. Maybe he thinks he dreamt it all. This makes me smile.
I lean in, so slowly, for a kiss good morning, and he sighs when his lips touch mine. The spark flickers again. Girl on Fire, will I never escape you, I think. His other hand moves questioningly up to my second breast, sliding up my ribs, and I don't make any effort to resist. He pinches that nipple gently between his fingers and it begins to harden, too, as he rolls it. He cups my small breasts and stares at them, which makes me laugh for some reason. He bites his lip. "About last night, Katniss…" I stop his words with another kiss. "Last night was wonderful," I say firmly. "Thank you for bringing me home, Peeta." The look of gladness that shines on his young-looking face could light up a room. It makes me feel happy, too, but there's still an urgency in me that hasn't been attended to. I know perfectly well that by now, Peeta would be more than willing to go again, himself, but now I'm selfish.
"Peeta, play with me," I whisper in his ear, turning his face gently to the side so that I can reach it. I know what effect this will have and my mischievous side enjoys these deliberations. He groans, managing an "Are you sure?" That's my Peeta, polite to the very end. "Yes," I say. His hand slides down my belly as I lie on my back, and he jumps when it closes over mine, which still rests on myself as I stroke. "Katniss!" he says, and I have a feeling it slipped out before he could choke it back. "I think you thought I was some kind of robot," I say, amused. "I'm 18, Peeta, same as you. I just had other things on my mind before now. Do you have plans today?" "I do now," he murmurs to me, curious fingers running over the landscape beneath the fabric, not daring to slip it off, yet. This landscape, so different from his own. I move my fingers to let him explore. "Mmmm," I sigh, and stretch like a cat. His other hand is still closed over my nipple, pinching harder now. I suspect…though never having enacted my thoughts, I can't be sure…that I like it a little rougher than Peeta, so this turns me on rather than paining me. "What can I do?" he asks, seeming a little lost. It was easier for him when I retained explicit control. Now he must feel even more apprehensive. "What do you want to do?" I ask. "Everything," he whispers, staring into my eyes before lowering his lids, shyly. "Tell me!" I demand, as much for the fun of making him force out his thoughts as for my curiosity. To lighten the demand, I lean in and kiss his neck fervently, giving him little bites as I move down and around to his exposed throat. I'm almost purring from the warmth, the security, and this buzz of awareness beneath my waist that lends me a strange kind of power and security. Guess I'm grown up now all the way around, I think.
"I want…I want…I want to touch you everywhere," he whispers, "I want you to cry out my name. I want to make you come as you hold on to me. I want to…I want to taste you," he almost whimpers. I know there's more, but I let him keep some.
"So, do." I say this simply.
"Can I?" he looks to me for confirmation.
"Play with me," I say with half-closed eyelids. "Love me." It's all he needs. He swings up on both arms and balances himself over me. His eyes search mine, and I suppose they find what they need, because suddenly his lips are crushing mine with a passion that takes me aback. His hand tangles into my hair at the roots and squeezes, tugging it. He hesitates again. "Am I hurting you?" Oh, Peeta. I shake my head firmly. He returns his grasp, and I can't get enough. I whisper something he doesn't hear. He cocks his head. I repeat it, but not before I preface it, since I know he'll protest.
"I'm going to tell you what to do, and you do it, okay?" I say. "Don't worry about it if I ask for it, and I promise I'll tell you to stop if it hurts or if I don't want to. I promise." He must trust me, because he nods his assent. "Harder," I say firmly, tilting my head towards his hand. His eyes are surprised, but he tugs a little harder and I flick my tongue up, trying to reach his mouth again as he pins my head down. This must arouse him, because he catches it with his own and then slips it into my mouth, suppressing more talk as he experimentally pulls hard on my hair. I breathe my assent into his mouth. It feels marvelous. I need something he doesn't, I can feel it. I need a different kind of love, a rough-hewn version of his, a love that bites and soothes all at once. He would never try to hurt me, and this makes me sure. I'm surprised he acquiesces so easily after the incidents with the mutts and his outbursts, but I know how much he wants to please me, and that must override his own fears, as it usually does. He begins to kiss down my neck, caressing my jutting collarbone with his tongue. I'd feel self-conscious about my scar tissue if I could feel anything at all besides him tugging hard on my hair and his mouth on my skin, lapping at the beads of salty sweat that form there. He hesitates over my breasts, but then lowers his mouth to them, and it's when I feel his teeth close around my first nipple that my first real sound slips free, "Ohhhh…." I groan, and arch up to meet him. He must make the connection between his own body's movements in pleasure and my own, because he continues without pausing, suckling at the tender flesh, using his other hand and squeezing my breast gently up into his mouth as he balances on his knees. I can feel his want again, coming forth in waves.
He moves easily to my other breast and strokes the soft undercurve. When his teeth nip at my nipple and catch hold, he stretches it out for just a moment before becoming aware. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, letting go. "Again," I pant, "Harder." He hesitates only a moment then closes his front teeth more firmly around it and bites down just enough to hurt. The mild hurt flushes through me and it seems to redouble my desire for some reason. I wonder if this means there's something abnormal about me…which wouldn't be all that weird, I guess…but then he tugs, stretching me out, and I gasp his name once, "Ohh, Peeta." He's leaning so low over me I can feel the hard press of his cock poking at my belly again, but he doesn't seem nearly as shy about it after last night. Boy, was that a surprise. Peeta's not a small man, so maybe it should not have been, but he's not lacking. When I saw the length and heft of his cock last night, I felt a surge of both nerves and longing. I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like in my mouth, or even…even inside me. This thought recurs and my eyes roll back as I lose myself in the sensations. Peeta's touches, even the rough ones I ask for, are unbearably tender and loving and filled with passion and need.
Peeta's hands reach down, oh so slowly, and I feel his fingertips slide into the elastic at my waist. I close my eyes as he slips off the one shred of clothing I have left, but they fly open when I hear one small, reverent noise come from him. He is staring at me as though I were some creature from another land, beautiful and dangerous. His eyes rove over every inch of me, but not creepily…hungrily, and lovingly. He lingers on the parts he has never seen before, the soft, curly dark down between my thighs. I reach my arms up to him, and his eyes are wide for some reason I don't understand as I do it. He lowers himself into them, hugging me tightly against his own nude body, every inch of us pressed together. His twitching cock settles between my thighs, mere inches from the place where I know it could go, if I only said the word. But I'm not ready for that yet; that kind of closeness still unnerves me a bit. We have time. I don't have any objections, though, when he reaches an easy hand down, stroking along my side, my curves, giving me goosebumps, until it slides over the bone at my hip, hesitates only a second, then plunges, cupping my bush and stroking, exploring the tender folds of pink flesh beneath it. No one's hands, save my own, have been here. I open my legs gradually, allowing him access, as he shifts to kneel over me, just enough of his bad leg left to allow him to do so, so he can view what he's doing. He looks slightly perplexed, but I don't yet guide him. His middle finger slips between my lips, just grazing the swollen, hidden kernel that can give me so much pleasure. The tips of his fingers slide in the warm wetness surging forth, and he shivers. I can tell he knows both why this is and what has brought it…it's a compliment, really, after all. I feel curious. His fingers are still exploring the outside of me, but I've never had anything inside, yet. I never bothered to use my own fingers, since it seemed an awkward angle and I indulged myself so rarely that it seemed most efficient to just target the place that would accomplish my goal, once I'd found it. His hands are hesitant and I feel a little pity…my anatomy seems less easy to interpret than his own, which was shockingly straightforward.
I guide his left hand so the fingers rest where I need them. His breathing is heavy, and my body is rigid with him so close to his goal. He looks up to my eyes and I try to give him a reassuring smile. He begins to stroke, feather-lightly, and I sigh. Oh, yes. This is what I need. My hands clench the blankets into fistfuls at my sides. He strokes more confidently, trying different patterns and angles. When he strikes on one that feels particularly wonderful, my hips arch towards him, swaying up. He's learning to read me, and stays in those patterns if he can. Electric surges run through me. This is Peeta, I keep thinking, Peeta. Peeta's hands. It feels like rebirth and homecoming all at once. I know this is where we're supposed to be, now.
"Peeta," I whisper, my voice catching just for a second, "Put your fingers inside me." He groans and I see his cock jump just at the thought.
"Really?" he queries, though he thinks he must have heard me wrong. I nod. "Go slow, though…keep touching me with the other hand, okay?" He does, but his right hand begins to move through the wetness, turn palm-up, and when his fingertips reach my entrance and press lightly we both cry out in tune. Ever-so-slowly, he pushes two fingers in, joint by joint. I'm shivering with my need, with this vast NEED, like food or water. I'm so aroused, there's very little discomfort as his fingers enter me…they slide easily without help. First one knuckle, then two….I'm panting, trying not to beg…it would be very unlike me. But this situation is very unlike any I've been in, too. As they extend to their full length and he curls them up slightly, into a come-here gesture inside my body, I lose control and beg, keening, "Peeta, please!" He gasps at the words, coming from my mouth. I know without asking that they'll be the ones he plays back when he's alone with himself later. I'm writhing in my own sweat. He begins to move them, just an inch or so, pulling and then pushing, watching me closely to see if this is okay. It's far more than okay. The sensation is like nothing else. He's dexterous, because the other hand never stops moving in slow circles even as this one begins to pump me in a slow but regular rhythm.
My nipples are hard as chips of ice. My breathing quickens and I know that it's not going to take much more. "Don't stop," I gasp, "I'm close." He gently uses his elbows to keep my legs firmly spread as I twist helplessly in the waves of pleasure. "God, Katniss, you're so hot inside…" he whimpers. His eyelids flutter for a minute. He'll have to finish himself after this, I'm almost spent. As those circling fingers press down such a tiny bit harder that it's almost imperceptible, I begin to moan as I come. I remember his request and I call his name, "Peeta…Peeta…oh, god…" His fingers slow but they don't fall away. I watch him bite his lip hard as he must feel me spasm around his fingers buried deep inside. I can almost read his thoughts, wondering what that would feel like if it were other parts of him besides his fingers. I almost wish it were, in the moment.
When the waves begin to pass, I feel my face redden. I've made an ass of myself, I think furiously, letting myself go like that. He'll never be able to take me seriously again. Ugh. But then he draws his hands away and raises the tips of the right towards his lips. As I watch, he suckles my own juices from them, closing his eyes as he cleans them off. I whimper. I wouldn't think this would be appealing, but it is. He smiles. Apparently, the taste was satisfying, which relieves me. He immediately comes down, ignoring what must be a deep ache by now in his own nether regions, and wraps his arms protectively around me, drawing me in close.
"Was that good?" he asks self-consciously.
"That wasn't good. It was amazing." I mutter out, just barely. His sweet, bright smile softens the part of me that's annoyed with my own freedom and lack of self-control. I think resignedly, you're not going to be able to control everything all the time, Katniss. I let myself melt into his strong arms, still panting. He smoothes my hair back from my forehead. Before I can try to close up again, I whisper, "I've never felt anything like that. Thank you." "Oh, baby, any time," he murmurs into my hair. The use of the endearment is the first time, and the way he reflexively tenses after saying it makes me think it was accidental. I want to hate it, but I can't. I can't bring myself to hate, when he holds me like this. I can't bring myself to fear or even to judge. It's how the necessity came about. Though the sun signals day is definitely here, though I feel a little bad that Peeta's cock still twitches stubbornly beside me, I find myself drifting off into sleep again, spent. Before I go, I think, well, there's nowhere I need to be today, anyways.
We wake up when the bedroom door gives off a series of resounding thuds. Apparently we've missed the knocks on the front door and whoever is trying to get to us has helped themselves to entering. I'm still half-asleep as I hear Haymitch call, "Peeta! Katniss is gone again! What happened last…." "Shit!" Peeta yelps. I almost laugh at the profanity, but then I realize that we're still nude, my breasts pressed into Peeta's chest, the blanket barely covering my ass. This is the only thing that has time to register before the door bursts open. I catch Haymitch's mouth dropping open as Peeta swings a hand up and yanks the blanket almost accusingly over me, covering us. Haymitch begins to laugh, and I'm hard pressed not to join him, honestly.
"Well, well," he says, "I guess I'll…come back." He closes the door again and I can hear him laughing all the way down the stairs. "I guess we're awake now," Peeta sighs, but I look up to see him smiling. Like me, it's hard to be annoyed when you're so relaxed. I sit up. Peeta does too, and wraps his arms around me from behind, kissing my neck. I reach back and put my hand on the back of his neck. "Time to go," I say. "I've gotta hunt." I stand up and realize that I have no actual clothes in this house. Peeta must be one step ahead of me, because he's pulling his prosthetic over and expertly doing the fastening of it back to himself so he can rise. He moves to a chest of drawers and pulls out one of his soft, worn shirts and a pair of pants with a drawstring, which should do long enough for me to get back home into my own clothes, anyways. Haymitch will like that, seeing me do the walk of shame in Peeta's clothes back to my house. He might accost me just to watch me squirm. I gather the shirt to my face and inhale. It smells, of course, like Peeta. For just a second, I remember in flashes: the bloody leg, my frantic screaming as he passed out, the forcefield stopping his heart, the Capitol. I feel the fear rise in my throat, but it's not real. Not real. I'm so glad I have him back, and I never even say it. I turn, wearing only his shirt, and put my hands on his still-bare shoulders. I tilt my face up solemnly to him and say, "I'm really glad you're here with me, Peeta." He smiles. It was worth it, just for the smile.