#lemonluvwrites

We discover it almost accidentally, lying in bed one afternoon atop the rumpled sheets, trying to catch our breath as the sweat dries on our naked skin. 

“Where did you learn that?” I ask him turning my head to peer at him from across our bed. 

He’s gloriously sweaty and flushed, his chest still rising and falling swiftly, his pink lips and over-kissed mouth hanging open and pulling in the air like a man winding down after running a mile.

 He’s beautifully, perfectly undone, and best of all, he’s mine. 

He turns to me, lazily, eyes dropping with tiredness and the leftover rush of pleasure that’s still humming through both our veins. He still has enough energy to smirk, though. 

“Learn what?” He asks in a mock-innocent tone that makes me roll my eyes.  

“You know what,” I say, with a little more grit in my voice because I actually want to know the answer and he’s being annoying. He chuckles in delight at the discomfort in my voice. 

Peeta knows by now that while I’m very enthusiastic about our activities I still have trouble discussing certain things in blatant detail. He thinks it’s hilarious that after all this time and after all the things we’ve done together that I can still get flustered discussing sex with him. 

“Oh, you mean the thing that made you scream?” He asks, trying to continue his innocent charade but the slight smug quality of his words ruins the intended effect.

I narrow my eyes at him in warning, but he doesn’t even blink. 

“Or, was it that thing that made it impossible for you to speak at all?” He adds, lowering his voice and stretching out his hand to trail one lone fingertip down my ribs to my hip. The action makes me shiver with want, even though my body is still quietly pulsing with the aftereffects of his love. 

“The second one,” I answer quietly, reaching out and twining my fingers with his, stopping his indulgent touches before things heat up between us again and I lose my train of thought. 

He gives a quiet, “Hmmm,” in response and moves in closer. Then I’m gathered up in strong arms and my head is pillowed on a strong chest. I listen to the soft drumbeat beneath my ear and I relax into his embrace. 

“I didn’t really learn it from anywhere or anyone. I just had a feeling you might like it.” He replies thoughtfully, all traces of teasing gone now. 

“But how did you know I’d like it when you called me a—” I break off, unable to repeat the phrase for some reason. 

Which is silly. Because there’s actually nothing outwardly crude or sexual about it. But the way Peeta had said it, and the way I had responded to it, was intensely erotic. 

“A good girl?” Peeta offers, finishing my thought for me and I inhale sharply. My heart skips a beat and I feel myself involuntarily clench around nothing. I feel a blush creep up my neck.

Peeta’s arms tighten around me as if he knows how much his words affect me and when he speaks next it sounds deep and rumbly. 

“Because you are, Katniss. You’re such a good girl.” His voice takes me back to a few minutes ago when we were joined and Peeta was moving in me with that perfect rhythm and his words vaulted me over the precipice and hurtled me to perfect ecstasy. I had loved it, and despite just having my hunger for him sated, I greedily, selfishly, wanted more. 

“Peeta,” I plead, not fully knowing what to ask for. I have no idea if I want him to continue in this vein or stop. 

“You’re so good, and so sweet, lying here naked in our bed, writhing and biting your lip to keep from asking for more, after I’ve already filled you to the brim.” His voice takes on a decidedly dirty edge and I know I’m already lost. There’s no way I can hold out when he gets like this. 

I let out a strangled little moan and in the next second, he has us flipped, with him on top of me, hands holding my wrists above my head, as he spreads my knees with his own. He looks down between us, eyes dark and nostrils flaring. 

“Look at you, still dripping with me but you want more, don’t you? Do you want me to fuck you again, sweetheart? Does my good girl need me to make her come again?” His warm breath ghosts first over my lips, then my throat, and collarbone, and the words are uttered against my skin like a secret before his lips close over a nipple and I cry out as he sucks. 

“Yes! Peeta…please,” I beg and he lets go of my breast with a wet pop before releasing my wrists and slowly sliding down my body. 

“Keep your hands up. You’re not allowed to touch until I tell you.” He commands and it sends a dark thrill through me. If people knew how much I liked this side of Peeta they might be surprised. I know a lot of people think of me as the dominant one in our relationship, but that’s because they don’t see us behind closed doors. When it's just us, all of the trappings fall away. And I’m free to admit that I need Peeta in this way. For me, it's not so much about submission as it is about freeing me from the burden of having to be in control all the time. That and I trust Peeta unlike anyone else. I know he will never abuse my trust or hurt me purposely. 

We are so past that. And here in the privacy of our bedroom, the only thing that exists is me and him. 

 I nod frantically at him, eager all over for him, again. I don’t think I ever won’t be. It's been years since we became intimate like this, and I still get the same rush when I think about sleeping with him. He lets out a little growl and nips at my skin when I unconsciously start rocking my hips against him. 

“Patience, sweetheart. All good girls know how to wait.” He tells me and our eyes lock. I’m practically panting for want of him, but I hold myself still.  We both know what the other is thinking, what is needed. 

There’s a magic in the way we fit together like this. Sure of ourselves and each other, neither of us questioning our love anymore. There’s only the heat of reassurance and desire that passes between us and curls in the air around us as we begin again. 

His mouth moves over my hipbone, hot, wet, and fervent. His strong arms pin my legs apart, my knees kiss the mattress as he lowers his face down to peer at my center.

“So swollen and messy,” He says, a finger dipping in to play with the puddle of fluids seeping out of me. “So beautiful. You should always be like this. Full of my come. Begging for more.” He says with a sigh before swirling his fingers, gathering it, and then pushing it back in. 

I whimper loudly, loving the feeling of him filling me up, even if it's just his fingers. I love his hands. I love his touch. I love him. Plain and simple. 

“I love you,” I say out loud because I try to make a point of saying it whenever I can now. So that he always knows. So that he never has to question it again. 

He peers up at me from between my obscenely spread legs. His pupils are so dilated, I can hardly see the thin sliver of blue iris. 

“Love you too, sweetheart. I’m going to eat your pussy so good, you won’t be able to form a full sentence for hours.” He promises, pecking my clit with a soft, short kiss that sends electricity racing through me. 

Then he starts to lick, softly, around my sensitive flesh, and down to where his fingers are pumping into me. 

“Mmm, you still taste delicious, even mixed with my come.” He states between licks and all I can do is groan in reply. 

I can feel his self-satisfied smile again on the skin of my inner thigh. 

“What was that? I didn’t quite understand you, darling.” He teases before diving back in and flicking my clit with his tongue, not even giving my muddled brain a chance to try and form a response. 

‘PEETA!” I scream as the orgasm washes over me, sharp and sweet, and sudden. 

He laps up my release, holding down my shaking thighs and murmuring sweet little praises that I can’t make out because my ears are ringing. 

Then I’m being flipped over again and he arranges me with strong, firm hands until I’m braced on my elbows, lower half lifted up and legs spread for his benefit as he situates himself behind me. 

“Fuck, this ass. I’ve always loved it.” He says, one large palm cupping and kneading my cheek possessively as his other hand tilts my hips up. 

He notches himself at my entrance but doesn’t sink in. Instead, he slides through my lower lips, coating himself carefully, even though I know he wants inside me. He’s fully hard again, and more than ready.

“Hands, sweetheart.” He says in a quiet, strained tone. 

I know what he needs, so I carefully shift my weight from my forearms and link my hands behind my back, letting my forehead sink into the bed, my nose and mouth angled in such a way that I’ll be able to breathe even if he pounds me into the mattress. 

“Good girl,” He whispers, and I whine pathetically, distressed at my own emptiness. I need him to fill me. 

“Shhh, baby.” He coos, and then with one well-placed thrust, he sheathes himself up to the hilt. 

My moan is swallowed up against the bedsheets, but Peeta’s grunt of pleasure rings out loud in the room and fills my ears, making me press back into him. 

“Still so tight, after I ate you out, fucked you, and ate you out again. Perfect little pussy, just for me. Feels, so fucking good.” I hear him say, as he plunges in, moves his hips in a circle, pulls back, and plunges back in again. 

I’m making noises, desperate little sounds that do nothing but spur him on to take me harder. It’s glorious. He feels amazing, even after all the pleasure he’s already given me. I know he’ll give me more. Because he’s so good. Because he’s my Peeta. 

“Sweet girl, taking me so well. Taking my cock and letting me fuck you however I want. You’re so good Katniss. You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me. I always knew you would be.” He says, breathless and strained, his hips knocking against my bottom with the force of his thrusts. 

“Yes!” I shout, and I can feel the way I tighten at his words, I can feel the way my body winds up and grows taught, waiting for release. 

“I always knew it would be like this. Incredible. You, sweet and desperate. Begging for me. You’re so cool on the outside, but inside you’re pure heat. All fire. All mine.” His voice is rough and his thrusts take on a punishing edge, the kind he knows really gets me fired up. 

I turn my mouth to the side, blowing stray hairs out of my face. 

“Yours, Peeta. All yours. Forever.” I promise him and he moans, his fingers gripping my hips tightly enough to bruise. 

His right hand loosens its grip and he brings it around my front to slide between my legs and rub small, firm circles around me. 

I let out a broken, choked noise. 

“That’s right, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me. Come on my cock and I’ll fill you up—” 

His words, his beautiful, filthy words are what tip me over the edge. 

I clench around him and come, sobbing his name, and clutching the sheets. 

I hear him swearing behind me and feel his hips stuttering before he lets out a low groan and plunges as deep as he can. 

Warmth pools inside me, with the ghost of my flutterings and the last of his twitching pulses, and we collapse, exhausted and much sweatier than the first time. 

We can only rest a moment because Peeta is heavy on my back, and it's uncomfortable, but he rearranges us quickly enough until we can spread out comfortably. 

“How was that, sweetheart? Was there anything you didn’t like that time?” He asks, quiet and inquisitive now.

I shake my head. Brushing my lips across his bicep, back and forth, wanting to kiss every inch of his skin in happiness, but my body is so tired and sated that all I can manage is this. 

“I liked it all,” I reply as I move to get more comfortable. 

He moves his arm under my head so I can use it as a pillow. One of his hands brushes a strand of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His brilliant blue eyes are searching mine for something more. 

“It was good,” I tell him with a simplistic finality that makes him smile, and sleepily close his eyes in contentment. 

August

Junior year

Panem HS

Another year, another seat in the back of the class next to the window. Another bland teacher introduction followed by the passing out of the class syllabus. Then come the dreaded icebreakers. 

Never mind that we live in a town of less than 3,000, or that our graduating class will have less than 200 members if every one of us manages to make it through the next two years of high school. And forget the fact that we’ve all been in the same grade together since kindergarten. Every single year our teachers insist on forcing us to ‘get to know each other’. 

If I don’t already know the favorite season and holiday of the person sitting next to me by now I probably never will. (It’s Delly Cartwright, and hers are summer and Christmas respectively) 

But everything about this class, about this day, hell, probably about this entire year will be completely predictable. The brains, like BT Latier will work their asses off to get top grades, and the sportos like Cato Anderson will try to copy their homework and cheat off them during tests. Girls like Galinda ‘Glimmer’ Franklin and Clove Moretti will ignore the no cell phones rule and regularly update their Twitter and Instagram during the lecture and will only get called out about 40% of the time. 

The rest of us will just muddle through, hopefully paying enough attention to pass the exams and avoid remedial tutoring in the library with Ms. Trinket who, contrary to first impressions, is not a vapid airhead who wears too much makeup and hairspray but in reality, is a total hard ass and does everything in her power to make sure the kids she tutors pass their classes. My life is all about reducing stress and hassle, so I’ll be avoiding her at all costs this year. Besides it’s much easier to just pass the first time around than have to deal with the fallout from failing. 

So I inwardly roll my eyes at the whole charade of introductions and do my best to try and look only mildly bored. 

When it gets to my turn I don’t bother standing up. 

“My name is Katniss Everdeen. I’m 17. I’m stubborn and good with a bow and that’s pretty much it.” I say dryly, and it gets a few chuckles. 

After that, the spotlight of my peer’s attention moves on and no one spares me a second glance. Which is exactly how I prefer it. Everyone here already knows I’m not very interesting. I hate the whole school spirit scene, and I’m not in any clubs or on any committees. The last time I was voluntarily a part of something, was five years ago. I quit track in middle school so I could spend more time hunting in the woods to supplement the money from my father’s income that we lost after his death. I’ve gotten so good at it that Mr. Abernathy, the owner of the local sporting goods store, took me on as a seasonal hire last summer. I parlayed that summer gig into a year-round job that helps keep food on my family’s table, and shoes on my little sister’s feet. 

My life is a series of responsibilities and expectations that my classmates could never relate to. And their lives are a carefree existence of parties, dances, and soap-opera drama that I have no interest in. 

They live in their little bubbles and I live in the real world and we will go on co-existing in this way until graduation breaks the cycle. 

I zone out of the rest of the class. We won’t do much work today if at all, so I allow myself the small indulgence of looking out the window and planning for this year’s hunting season which is set to open up for archery on the first of October. 

That leaves me only a few weeks to finish getting the permits and stock up on the needed supplies. 

This year will be harder than the years before since I’ll be hunting alone. My best friend and hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, graduated and left for Maryland this past summer. He’ll be in Annapolis, training to become an officer and a marine while I’ll be up to my elbows in wild turkey and white-tail deer. 

Even though I’m happy for him, I can’t help but feel saddened by his absence. Now there will be no one to watch my back in the woods. No one to help me carry a hundred or more pound buck back if I manage to bring one down like I did two years ago. 

The only thing I can think of is maybe asking my boss, Haymitch if I can borrow his truck and if I can rig up a travois then—

The bell rings and I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the shuffle of feet and the whoops of excitement and laughter that my classmates let out at the sound of the last period ending. 

I pick up my old hunter-green JanSport, that’s due for another patch of duck tape soon, sling it over one shoulder and make my way to the door. 

My exit is delayed by the clump of jocks jostling each other playfully around the doorframe. I breathe out an annoyed huff as I wait for them to pass. 

One of them, one of the kinder ones, turns around and shoots me an apologetic look, bright, clear blue eyes shine back at me for a moment before his friends call his attention and pull him roughly behind them. A piece of folded-up paper falls out of the side pocket of his backpack in the midst of this and lands at my feet. 

I swoop down to pick it up and my mouth opens to call out his name but the words died on my lips before they can slip off my tongue. 

I catch sight of something completely unexpected when I automatically glance down at the paper in my hand. It's the letters K.E. inscribed neatly on the corner that spark my curiosity and prompt my hand to open up the folded paper to see what’s inside. 

I lose my ability to speak, to even think for a moment because it’s me. 

I’m staring down at a picture of my own face, straight dark hair pulled back into an unseen braid that hangs down my back, while a few stray pieces fall around my eyes, framing an oval-shaped face, dark brows perch surreptitiously over slanted grey eyes and a straight nose above a generous mouth that’s for once not tilted down into a frown, but is instead caught in a relaxed position, not quite smiling but something like the ghost of it, is settled on my lips. And my head is tilted to the side, curiously. 

I have no idea when he caught me making this expression. Maybe when I was looking out the window? When did he draw this? Why did he draw this? Is this some sort of practice for art class? I think he takes Ms. Portia’s intermediate art class at the same time I take shop. I’ve seen him going into that wing of the school because it’s right across from the shop building. Maybe he’s just practicing his life study skills. Maybe he’s taking turns drawing everyone in our history class. 

I move forward and stick my head out the door, calling out, “Peeta,” but the hallway is empty.