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He thrusts into me and I moan with the back of my head on his shoulder; we're both kneeling up on his bed, and his hips are rocking slowly as he teasingly pushes in and out of me. His hands are moulding my breasts, and one of my hands is over my shoulder to grip his hair, the other to rub myself, trying to bring myself to release.
"God," I moan. "That feels so good."
He increases the tempo of his thrusting and I groan his name. His hand pushes mine away from my clit and his thumb swirls around in circular motions. I feel the build-up happen suddenly, and I squeeze my thighs together to make it arrive faster. Peeta is practically slamming into me now.
"I'm going to come!" He shouts, and then he orgasms, bringing me to my release, as well. We collapse onto the bed, gasping, and after a few minutes he turns to me and says, "What do you want for breakfast?"
We go through into the kitchen. "I keep forgetting to take the pill," I tell Peeta across the dining room table, popping the Thursday pill from its foil. The pills were invented a long time ago, but the Capitol made one that was better; pregnancy was near impossible on them.
"That's comforting," Peeta tells me, sipping from his mug. "Imagine your face on a baby," He grimaces and I kick him under the table. "That hurt," He says.
"So did your comment," I tell him. He grins, rubbing his knee. "Are we doing anything today? Hmm, let me guess; hard core sex and a cup of tea?"
He rolls his eyes. "And you say my comments hurt,"
"The truth stings," I say. "I think I might go and see my Mom today,"
"Your Mom?" Peeta says. "In District twelve?"
"Yeah," I say. "I haven't seen her in so long; now I'm making some money from basically being a slut, I think I can afford the train down there. She's been trying to set her medical business into a sort of hospital. I'd like to help her for a while."
"I'm in District 10 for work anyways, so I'll probably be back late," Peeta says. He pulls off a chunk of bread from his plate and dunks it into his mug. When he sees me staring, he says, "They call it Hot Chocolate; it's good."
He slides the mug across the table and I eat the bread that is covered in the stuff; it tastes sweet, sweeter than tea, and it's good. We share the drink and I go down to the station to catch the train to District Twelve.
I'm one of the only people in the carriage. Not many people go back to my home district after they have left. Many are just happy to escape, if they can. The heavy fence around the district stops a lot of people from attempting.
Not me, though; or my best friend Gale, who I haven't spoken too since I was sixteen. We used to hunt together as kids. It was the only time that I felt like I was me.
After I get off the train, I tred through the District Twelve roads; Christmas is approaching, but in District Twelve, it doesn't look like it is at all. It's the Victory Tour, but in the Capitol, even where the games are so popular, it isn't compulsory viewing. Maybe that's why the curtains are tightly pulled shut, and nobody is walking around. I am the only person on the streets.
I can remember where his house is. When I knock, nobody answers. The door is unlocked. When I walk in, it's deserted of any personal belongings; the walls have been burnt. The floor is black. I kick some odd lumps of coal with my shoe. Nobody has lived here for a while.
I go outside of the house, slide under the fence which is dead from electricity, and run across the meadow which is covered with a thin layer of frost. I don't fit in with the woods; all of my clothes are from the Capitol. I take my hair, which is loose around my shoulders, and I braid it up.
There is a tree which is hallowed out, the bow and arrows still in my father's old quiver, covered in their protective cover. I fix my arrow into my bow and remove my shoes. I remember Gale and his velvet tread, his low voice, and his talent with snares.
I practise shooting against a tree. My aim is off slightly, and the string feels tighter than usual. I end up sitting in a tree – my climbing, despite years without doing it, is still better than average – and wondering what happened to my old best friend.
I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, it is pitch black. I panic and try to scramble from the tree; I can only use one hand thanks to the bow. I swing from the top branch dangerously; I'm too short to reach the one underneath.
My hand slips on the bark and I fall. My leg hits the branch underneath me as I plummet to the woods floor. I end up sprawled out on the leaves, gasping; my leg is twisted.
"Shit," I wheeze, and I try to turn over to assess the damage, but a horrific pain deep in my thigh makes me stop. My leg is broken. I'm certain it's broken or at least badly bruised.
My hand shoves in my pocket; I should ring Peeta, but what could he do? He's in District 10 today, for work. Gasping, I slowly pull myself on my belly – luckily I was not deep in the woods, fearing that I wouldn't be able to properly protect myself after nine years away from it – and slowly across the meadow.
After I have slipped under the fence, I prop myself up against the butcher's by the fence and cut away my trousers from around my thigh. There are yellow bruises already forming around my leg. I'm going to have to call for help, and I never even got the chance to visit my Mom.
I dial Peeta's number automatically and he picks up on the third ring. "Katniss?"
"I hurt my leg," I tell him. "I need help and I can't move."
"Where are you?"
"By the old butchers – District Twelve," I say. A sudden pain in my leg doubles me over.
"I'll be there as soon as I can, okay?" He says. "Hang in there."
"Thanks," I say. "Bye,"
He shows up faster than I expected; under an hour. He carries me wordlessly back to the car and he fastens me in the back. He sits in the driver's seat. "How bad is it?" He asks. "The pain, I mean?"
"On a scale, I'd say 7," I say.
"Okay; we'll get you home and see how it is in the morning, yeah?"
"Okay," I say, my hands wrapped around my leg, and I wonder why I rang Peeta. Maybe it's because I trust him more than I trust anybody else; even my Mom.