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We're kissing breathlessly on the floor of his art studio, naked limbs tangled up in a desperate haze, when Peeta breaks away from me.
"Katniss, can we try something… different?" he speaks tentatively, soft blue eyes blinking with hesitation.
I'm not sure how we got here in the first place. About fifteen minutes ago, Peeta summoned me from the living room to come look at his progress on a painting of the wintry trees in my woods, acrylic bare branches cutting through the sky. All I know now is that our clothes are discarded by his canvas and covered in paint, the wool of my black sweater streaked with gray and white and blue.
"What kind of different?" I ask. Suddenly, I'm feeling self-conscious of my inexperience, all the things I don't know. It isn't like Peeta's ever had anyone before me, but he always seems to be one step ahead when it comes to sex.
He rises and stretches out a hand. At first, I think he's trying to help me up, but he simply reaches to the side and removes the cushion from his painter's stool in a swift motion.
"We'll need this," he says. I lift myself from the floor slowly, a little perplexed. A cushion. So one of us will be lying down somewhere on the studio floor. But those two positions aren't anything new for us. In fact, they've been our most reliable go-tos from the first week we started getting intimate with each other.
"Do you want me on top?" I ask, but he doesn't say anything. He leads me away from the paints and stool to a clear space by the studio's massive window. Brilliant rays of daylight sweep in through the glass from our backyard, and excitement tingles in my stomach.
I think back to the first few weeks of our relationship over four years ago, when I insisted on only ever having sex after sundown. Curtains drawn tight and lights shut off, with no exceptions. Once, I even smacked Peeta's hand away when he dared to reach for the lamp by our bedside, insisting that he just wanted to get a peek at me on top of him in the darkness.
I wasn't sure what he'd think of my naked body back then, mottled with pink and purple burn scars that still resemble storm clouds. The night I let him turn on the lamp for the first time, I confessed I was afraid he would think I was ugly. Still a fire mutt, incapable of taking care of a body fallen too deep into disarray to save.
I never much cared about how I looked to Peeta before the moment he returned home from the Capitol. I couldn't seem to forget his face when he looked up at me and took in my matted hair, the dark circles under my eyes, and my overgrown, grime-embedded nails in the brightness of morning light.
When I later confessed how self-conscious I felt in that moment, Peeta nearly tripped over himself trying to convince me he didn't think any less of me then. That even if I was caked head-to-toe in mud from the woods, there wouldn't be anyone in the world who could compare to me.
He reminded me that he fell in love with me when we were in the thick of starvation and injury during the Games, both of us sleep deprived and chronically covered in bloody dirt. I had a difficult time believing it, but his awestruck gaze and earnest proclamations of love struck at a soft, gauzy spot inside my soul.
And I've always had a weakness for his words.
Peeta chuckles, bringing me back to the reality in front of me: the way his freckles dust over his fair, wintry skin; the glossy sheen the sun casts over his scars; his shining blond waves. The bulges and curves of his chest and arms, proof of how strong and healthy he's become. The light streams through his irises, transforming them into rings of tempered blue glass around fat black pupils.
He leans down and presses a wet kiss to my nose. "Yeah, I want you on top."
The cushion plops down on the floor next to the window, and Peeta wastes no time laying down to rest his head on top of it. It's almost routine to us, the way I instinctively crouch down to unlatch his artificial leg. I prop it up against the glass before lowering myself to pepper tender kisses around the skin of his stump.
My hand creeps up from his thigh to his erection, and I'm pleased to find him hard and already leaking from his tip. I swirl my thumb over the moisture and rub slow circles around the head, keeping my other fingers wrapped gently around his length.
When a muffled moan escapes his lips, my kisses start to trail up from his stump to the base of his cock. Its burning surface presses warmth into my lips, a nice reprieve from the studio's chill. I relish in it as I swipe my tongue along the length in slow strokes.
"Just like that, baby," Peeta pants, his thighs clenching painfully hard when I finally take him into my mouth. He's thick and throbbing, forcing my lips to tighten around his cock in a thin ring, but I've had a lot of practice. I use my hand to stroke the length my mouth can't reach, moving them up and down together with noisy, wet passes.
"Fuck," he gasps. "That's enough. I need you to ride me right now."
I release his cock and lift my head to look at his face, my eyebrows raising almost involuntarily. Peeta usually uses his mouth on me before we have sex, especially after I use mine on him. It isn't a debt to be paid, not something I feel entitled to in return for what I do. But my core has been aching hard for his tongue all day.
He'll see to it after, I convince myself as I shift my weight to straddle his pelvis. And if he doesn't initiate it, I'll just ask him to do it for me. I sway my hips over Peeta's body, my slippery core sliding up and down his length.
"As good as that feels, I need you higher," Peeta hisses. I scrunch my eyebrows together, confused. Higher?
I nudge my calves forward, stopping when my knees come to rest under his armpits. My center hovers just above his chest, certainly too far away from what I want from him right now. I wonder whether there's a wrestling move he'll be teaching me, one where he'll find some way to drill into me from a strange angle I can't even imagine right now.
But again, he simply tells me, "Higher."
"What?" I spit out. "Peeta, how are we supposed to do this if I'm all the way up here?"
He raises his arms swiftly, and before I know what's happening, he's pulled my knees around to rest just outside of his shoulders. His hands feel smooth and warm when they cup my backside, kneading slowly. It sends a shockwave of arousal through my body.
Peeta smirks. "Just trust me."
Maybe this wrestling move is even more complex than I thought. I'm almost afraid of what I'm about to learn. Will it hurt me? No. Peeta would never hurt me. Would it hurt him? I stay frozen above his chest for a few moments, but eventually, I move up to straddle his collarbone.
Suddenly, Peeta's hands come to brace the back of my thighs, holding them firm in place. He presses his head back against the cushion and takes it with him as he slides down, stopping only when his face is positioned directly under my core. With a jolt, I realize what's happening. There's no wrestling move.
Peeta wants me to sit on his face.
"Wha— Peeta, am I supposed to—" my sputtering halts when he tilts his neck up to kiss the inside of my thigh, a tortuous few inches from my clit.
"C'mon, Katniss," he whines, scrunching his eyebrows together. "My neck's going to start hurting if I have to crane it like this to kiss you."
I huff, torn between bewilderment and agonizing arousal. "Won't I crush you?" my voice comes out in a squeaky whisper.
"I'll hold up your thighs so you don't," he promises. "And what's getting a little squished under the most beautiful woman alive?"
I look down at him, ready to meet his laughing eyes with my own. But I'm taken aback by how the rays of daylight seem to stream right over his face from our angle, casting my shadow behind me instead of over him. I can see the top half of his face in beautiful detail, perfectly sunlit from my position.
"Okay," I let my arousal talk for me. "But tap my thigh if you can't breathe, so I can give you some air."
Peeta rolls his eyes. "I have a nose for that."
I hum with disbelief, shaking my head as my hips lower to meet his impatient mouth. Before I can even get there, his tongue swipes through my folds in a demanding stroke, sending a shudder through my thighs.
"Fuck, Peeta," I inhale a trembling breath. The slender tip of his tongue wiggles against the base of my entrance, teasing me mercilessly. Every few moments, it begins to nudges its way inside me before slipping back out to lave at my folds. My thighs squeeze in anguish, and I involuntarily press myself even harder into his mouth.
"Please— oh!" I cry, and after worrying my folds between his gentle teeth, he finally gives me what I want. His tongue thrusts in and out of me without restraint, delivering uncontrollable ripples of euphoria through my body. Peeta's eyes close at the sound of my blubbering whimpers, and almost instinctively, one of his hands moves from my thigh to to squeeze my bare breast.
When he starts to lap at my clit with his ravenous tongue, I'm a whimpering mess. His jaw and chin feel almost too slick and slippery with my arousal; embarrassed, I bend my neck down to get a look at how wet his face must be. I suddenly remember how perfectly I can see the contours of his face in the daylight, and my eyes linger on the tiny beads of sweat blooming at the crease of his forehead.
My gaze drifts lower. Before I can register it, I'm transfixed on his eyelashes, glossy threads of gold shining in the daylight. They flutter over his cheekbones as his closed eyelids stir, delicate as a moth's wing. I study the way they cast pale, bristly shadows up to his sandy eyebrows. I'm just as mesmerized by him as I was when I was a teenage girl trying to suppress a crush I couldn't let myself have.
Now, the only thing for me to suppress is the cry that rips through me when he moans into my center, sending vibrations through my folds.
"Please, Peeta!" I beg, grinding my hips into his face with the lust of a woman gone mad. "I need to come."
I keep my eyes trained on his quivering blond lashes as his ministrations speed up, almost screaming when his tongue flicks at my swollen, painfully sensitive clit. My hips keep moving back and forth wildly, aided by my slick arousal. I'm almost worried I'm suffocating him with how deeply his jaw and chin seem to dig into me. But he only moans harder as I ride his face, alternating between lapping at my folds and thrusting his tongue inside me.
As one of his hands continues to knead my breast, the other wanders up to my hip, rocking me forward onto his face. I arch my back when his tongue moves rapidly on my clit, my chest pushing out so far that it almost cuts off my view of his eyelashes. They seem to flicker rapidly in time with each flick of his tongue, and the sight sends me over the edge.
My orgasm rips through me in screaming bursts of euphoria, my hand clutching his hard over the flesh of my hip. I shudder and pant as I come down from my high, unable to help but rock my hips back and forth over his face.
Peeta's gasping for breath when I rise off of him, the lower half of his face glistening in the sunlight. I'm almost embarrassed when I catch the stupid grin on his face.
"Repeat after me, Katniss," he says carefully. "When my husband says he wants to try a new move in bed, I'll hear him out."
I scoff, ready to deliver some clever retort, but he distracts me by grabbing my ankles hard.
In a fit of chuckles, he tugs at them urgently until I lower myself onto his cock, swiveling my hips and grinding down slowly. "I'm going to fuck your brains out," I whisper in the heat of my lust, trying to sound seductive.
Our eyes stay locked together as I ride him, and I admire his bulging pupils through his lashes. They cast shadows over his eyes now, making them look almost stormy with desire.
Suddenly, Peeta raises his thighs and pitches me forward, tightening his grip on my hips.
"This is going to be hard and fast," he murmurs.
He's driving into me relentlessly before I know it, sending me hurtling towards my second orgasm of the day. My knees stomp against the floor, shuddering uncontrollably. I kiss him as I explode, desperately trying to keep a hold on his shoulders as he continues to piston into me. Peeta groans into my mouth when his hips jerk hard with his final thrusts, and he shatters beneath me into a whimpering puddle.
I slump down against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. It still thumps hard and fast in the comedown, and I press my ear down, grateful for the luxury.
"Fine," I pant. "When my husband says he wants to try a new move in bed, I'll hear him out."
Peeta hums in appreciation, an obnoxious smirk rolling over his lips. "And in his art studio."
I roll my eyes. "And in his art studio."