When Peeta and I finish breakfast, he takes both of our dishes and deposits them in the sink. I stand next to him while he waits for the water to warm up, leaning my head against his shoulder. Me in my hunting clothes, him in his pajamas. He insists on washing the dishes himself, so I stand with him, running my nails lightly along his back. Maybe I'm biased, but I think his dark green pajama shirt is a very good look on him.
We talk about our plans for the day. My hunting, his baking. Maybe some painting. When the dishes are clean and his hands are dry, I know I ought to go. My mornings have gotten later and later every day this week. Very coincidentally timed with our increasing comfort with kissing each other again.
Quite the coincidence indeed.
"I'll probably be back sometime between lunch and dinner." I pause to give Peeta a quick peck on the lips. "I'll see you later."
I turn to leave, but Peeta catches me by the arm. His grip is firm but not forceful. He pulls me back to him and his lips crash against mine.
It's one of those kisses. One that I know will come back to me days, weeks, maybe even years from now. Just the memory will cloud my senses, like it does now. I feel like I'm stuck in a dream—a wonderful dream, being kissed like this—where all I can do is stand here. One hand tangled in the back of his hair, the other resting on his chest. Completely mesmerized.
Peeta, on the other hand, seems like he doesn't know what to do with himself. His hands moving out of sync with each other and rapidly all over my body, like they can't keep up with his brain. They're everywhere. My hair. My waist. My face. My hips. Eventually one arm locks around my lower back, pulling me taut against him as he deepens the kiss. The other arm slides up my back and between my shoulder blades, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as his fingers tangle into my hair.
How long do we stay like this, locked together? I can't think straight. There's nothing in the world but this. Peeta's hands on my body, his scent enveloping me, his lips on mine.
He comes up for air, if just for a moment. But he can't stop kissing me, peppering little kisses on my lips once, twice, three times. I stand there in the haze of whatever the hell is happening, kissing him back whenever his lips find mine again.
He tilts his head to the side as he goes in for a longer kiss again. This time it's less frantic. Just slow and gentle. His face is so close to mine that I can feel his eyelashes flutter against my cheek.
When our lips separate again, I think he's done. But still I wait, eyes closed, lips parted. Have I ever been so hungry and so satisfied at the same time?
"Katniss," he whispers. I feel his forehead press against mine. Feel one soft kiss on the tip of my nose.
"What was that for?" I whisper back, finally opening my eyes.
He grins from ear to ear. "Just remembered that I could."
This time, I'm the one who leans in. I kiss him slowly, fighting my own grin. What a luxury it is, to kiss him like this.
"I'll see you soon?" I try again. I want him to tell me to stay, to pull me on top of him on the couch, to kiss me until my lips are numb.
But I know my boy. He'll insist that I get some fresh air and fresh game. He'll let me go, because he knows I won't be gone long.
He kisses the tip of my nose one more time before releasing his grip on me. "Shoot straight."
