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Top of the World
He paced the elegant lobby, leather soles slapping against the marble unevenly and too heavily. He was irritated, though he shouldn’t be. She was working, this was a working trip, he knew that, but still it bothered him that she was twenty minutes late without so much as a text message.
“Mr. Mellark?” An elegantly attired man stood before him. The Maitre d’, Peeta realized. “Mrs. Mellark called to say that she’ll be a few minutes tardy.” Peeta’s pleasure at hearing his wife referred to as Mrs. Mellark was almost enough to quash his annoyance that for some reason she’d contacted the restaurant instead of him directly. Katniss continued to use her maiden name professionally, and while Peeta was completely supportive of that, the base, possessive part of him thrilled at the Mrs. moniker, no matter that it wasn’t Katniss herself using it. “May I show you to your table?”
They bypassed the main dining room, instead ascending two flights of a spiral staircase, Peeta scowling all the way. He didn’t know what this nonsense was, and it added to his annoyance. “Where, exactly, is our table?” he asked; softly, because he wasn’t a jerk, but there was definite frost in his words. The other man didn’t respond until he’d pushed open a door and sultry Atlanta air hit Peeta in the face.
“The rooftop dining lounge,” he replied, crisp and unaffected by the climb or by Peeta’s attitude. “Here we are.” The host pulled out a chair, gesturing for Peeta to sit at the small but elegantly appointed table tucked between two tall planters of herbs, the aroma of lavender and rosemary thick in the air. “Would you care for a drink?”
Peeta ordered scotch mindlessly, distracted by his surroundings. He hadn’t known there was a rooftop patio at the Plaza, and it went a long way towards alleviating his pique. It was just as formal and elegant as the main dining room; heavy white linens and sparkling silver, tall candelabras flickering in the faint Georgia breeze. But there were only a handful of tables, each situated in such a way as to give the illusion of complete privacy. And the view was breathtaking, the last embers of sunset streaking the sky in orange and pink, even as the lights of surrounding skyscrapers twinkled like diamonds on inky-blue crushed velvet.
Still, she made him wait. He removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and settled into his seat, angling it slightly away from the table to better appreciate the view. Sipping his Glenmorangie, watching nature’s light show, he was calm, peaceful. “Good evening, Mr. Mellark,” a seductive voice he knew so well purred against his ear and he startled before smiling lazily. It wasn’t the first time she’d snuck up on him, nor would it be the last. She was a ninja, floating on silent feet, elegant and refined. He started to turn, to kiss her hello, but she draped herself over his shoulders, keeping him firmly in place as her soft lips slid against his nape. Any residual exasperation with her tardiness dissipated.
She kissed his cheek, left just a little scruffy, the way he knew she loved it, then her hand wrapped around his own, guiding the golden band encircling his fourth finger to her lips, pressing the sweetest kiss to the warm metal. “I missed you,” he murmured, and he felt her smile against his skin.
“I’ve been thinking about you all afternoon,” she admitted, her hands moving to his shoulders, then sliding languidly down his biceps, raising goosebumps in their wake. Peeta hummed in pleasure. “I could barely concentrate,” she continued, her words in his ear soothing as her hands continued their leisurely descent; elbows, forearms, wrists, pulling the limbs away from his body towards her.
Peeta was relaxed; the scotch, the twilight, his wife’s hands on his body lending a feeling of complete contentment. She gripped his wrists more firmly, pulling them behind him, unnatural, but not uncomfortable. He didn’t struggle, lulled by her voice, her caresses, the sweet summer night. Until a cool edge of metal bit into his skin. “Katniss?” he questioned, confused.
“Behave, Mr. Mellark,” she said softly, a hint of mischief in her voice as she secured his second wrist. “Or you won’t get what you want.”
The dichotomy between her sweet words and the almost rough way she bound his hands behind his back was jarring, slicing through his alcohol-assisted tranquility. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice louder, sharper, as he pulled at what he now knew were handcuffs.
She said nothing.
He huffed as her warm hands left his skin, left him bereft and unsettled, fighting to free himself from his shackles. He struggled to look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see her, as if she’d vanished as silently as she had appeared. “Katniss?” he said again, a note of urgency in his voice. He wouldn’t panic, he trusted her too much, knew he wasn’t really in any danger. Knew too that there were diners at nearby tables, out of sight but not earshot.
“Relax, Peeta,” came her voice, floating to him from further away. He craned his neck, trying to catch sight of her, but the high back of the chair and the way the cuffs wound through the wooden rails of the backrest limited his movement.
He called her name again, a warning, and he swore he could hear her snicker. They’d played power games before, he’d bound her hands more than once. But he’d never been her captive, and he didn’t think he liked it.
“Trust me,” Katniss murmured, again in his ear, and he jerked his head around to face her, to finally lay eyes on her. She smiled, soft and affectionate, and the sight of her perfect peach lips curling up just slightly relaxed him a little.
Her ebony hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, the way he loved it best. His hands itched to stroke the swaths of silk, to wind his fingers through the locks, but he was restrained. “Katniss,” he breathed again, her name a question and a plea, but she merely shook her head.
She moved again out of his line of sight, but reappeared quickly and was standing before him in a gorgeous dress that was definitely not what she’d been wearing that morning. A slip of red fabric that wrapped around her her curves like a lover’s caress, plunging low enough in the front to give him an eyeful of her perfect breasts. And despite the strangeness of the situation - or maybe because of it - his cock thickened and twitched against his slacks. “My God, you are beautiful,” he murmured.
Katniss smiled, her eyes twinkling with mirth, and sauntered to him, straddling him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “What are you doing?” he breathed, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t complaining at all. His incredibly hot wife was sitting in his lap, her skirt riding high and her cleavage in his face. Peeta Mellark had absolutely nothing to complain about.
“Do you remember telling me about that fantasy of yours?” she asked, pink tongue slipping out to wet her lips.
All of Peeta’s fantasies involved Katniss, and with the diminished blood flow to his brain, it took several beats before he put it all together. It was a few months ago that, drunk on post-coital bliss, he’d confessed to having dreamed about fucking her in the rooftop gardens of a hotel back home. He’d assumed she had forgotten, she’d never mentioned it again. Yet here she was, having reserved a table on a rooftop patio similar enough to the one at home that her intent was unmistakable. His cock, already hard, strained painfully against his trousers and a deep tremor ran down his spine. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped.
Katniss shifted on his lap, pressing closer, her thighs gripping his hips as she settled herself over his erection, he could feel her heat even through his pants. He yanked unthinkingly at his restraints, his hands itching to touch her, hold her, fuck her. She smirked. “So impatient,” she said, then leaned down to kiss him.
She controlled the kiss, threading her fingers through his hair, tilting his head to kiss him deeply, then retreating, over and over, chastising him with sharp little nips as he tried to chase her lips. Peeta whined in frustration. She was rocking in his lap, making those low sounds of pleasure deep in her throat and he couldn’t even touch her. As many times as he’d fantasized about having his way with her someplace where they might get caught, having his hands bound was never part of it.
“Please untie my hands,” he begged, lowering his face to press a sweet kiss over her heart, then dragging his tongue across the tops of her breasts. “Please let me touch you.”
“Not this time, Mr. Mellark.” He was helpless, could do nothing but surrender to the pleasure of her hands and lips, touching him, stroking him, inflaming him. When her hand drifted lower, fondling him through his trousers even as he could tell she was also rubbing herself, he was reduced to begging and babbling bits of nonsense.
So lost was he to the erotic experience that he forgot where they were until a clatter from a neighbouring table jolted him from his haze, reminding his that they were definitely not alone. His head jerked up, and he swivelled as far as he could, side to side, heart speeding up. “Shit,” he gasped.
“Relax, Love,” she murmured, kissing his earlobe. “No one can see us.” She kissed his lips once again, more slowly, lovingly, then climbed off his lap, leaving him sprawled in his chair, panting and disheveled. His cock throbbed in protest.
Peeta was equal parts disappointed and relieved. As much as he ached to order her back onto his lap, and onto his cock, order her to ride him hard and act out the rest of his fantasy, he didn’t want either of them to get arrested for public indecency. But dry-humping with his perfect, generous wife in public was almost as hot as his dreams.
Almost.
“That was unexpected,” he tried to joke, though his voice was little more than a rasp.
She smirked. “That was just an appetizer,” she said, standing before him again in that sinfully sexy dress. Then she tugged on the tie at her hip and shrugged, and with a soft flump the fabric fell away, leaving her standing before him in the sexiest lingerie he’d ever seen. Black lace cups barely contained her breasts, and panties that were a tiny triangle of lace that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her long, lean legs were encased in sexy lace-topped stockings. She was a goddess, a pin-up straight from the finest magazines. His every erotic vision come to life.
“Holy shit,” he gasped, eyes raking shamelessly up and down her body, every inch a wonder to behold. She turned slowly and bent deeply to retrieve her dress, and he groaned as he realized those absurdly tiny panties had nothing in the back but a thin black ribbon that disappeared between her cheeks.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Mellark?” The amusement was clear in her voice as she draped the red dress over the back of her chair. She moved languidly to stand in front of him, every sinuous sway of her hips inflaming him further. The cuffs rattled and rasped as he strained against them, desperate to touch the miles of olive silk bared for him just inches away. “You don’t like what you see?” She cupped those luscious lace-encased mounds in her hands and Peeta shivered.
“Fuck, Katniss,” he gasped, a pained noise. He knew she wasn’t an exhibitionist by nature, she was shy, almost pure. But she knew that he got off on seeing her on display, and the knowledge that she was pushing herself so far out of her comfort zone for him was intoxicating.
“That’s the idea.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on his knees and gently nudging his legs further apart. Then she was cupping him again, practically purring as her hand rubbed him exactly the way she knew would be his undoing. Peeta didn’t resist, all of his attention focussed on her perfect tits swaying right in front of his face. It was, he thought, the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. But he was tense, afraid that someone was going to notice what they were doing. He felt too exposed, there was too much risk. Another patron could get up from their table at any moment and catch them. A staff member could come by.
“Katniss,” he whispered, reluctant to stop her, but too worried to let her continue. “As fucking hot as this is, someone is going to see you. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” She was wearing lingerie, and barely wearing it. Gorgeous though she was, there were still laws.
She smiled; it was almost feral, and he felt like prey before his huntress. “I’m not the one they’re going to see, Mr. Mellark,” she said. Peeta was confused for only a moment before Katniss bent down, and with a smooth elegance so utterly at odds with the situation, she disappeared under their table, shielded from his vision by the heavy white tablecloth.
“What?” he gasped. Then his chair was yanked forward and he yelped much too loudly. He froze, listening intently for any hint that someone had overheard him. But only the sounds of the city floating up from the streets below met his ears.
“Relax,” he heard again. Katniss, under the table but between his knees, running her hands soothingly over his thighs.
Peeta held his breath, wondering what she would do next, hoping it was what he thought it might be. His arousal had tempered a little with his unease, his fear of getting caught. But Katniss’s hands tracing tickling trails closer and closer to where he was aching for her touch, and the erotic possibilities her position presented, were making him harden again, and fast.
She didn’t make him wait this time, pulling him from his trousers, one soft hand wrapping around his shaft snugly and he arched helplessly into her grip. Her lips pressed against his head, delicate little kisses, nuzzles, designed, he knew, to drive him absolutely mad. He whined restlessly, and he felt the heat of her laugh just before all of that wet warmth enveloped him.
A litany of soft curses fell from his lips, as they did every time Katniss blew him. Years together meant she knew exactly what he liked, exactly what would make him lose his fucking mind, and she was so damned good at delivering every trick. Each decadent lick, each sensuous swirl, each firm suck was accompanied by his own gasp or groan, and each edged him closer to release.
But it was different, being unable to see her. Though he tried to watch, he was rewarded only with the vision of the tablecloth undulating as her head made contact with the thick linen. He couldn’t help struggling against his bonds, wanting desperately to thread his fingers through her silky hair, stroke her beautiful face. “Oh God, I want to touch you,” he groaned, but Katniss didn’t respond except to take him deeper. The contrast between the incredible feeling of her mouth on his dick, and the frustration at not being able to see or touch her, was jarring, and yet it only heightened his arousal. Already, he was hanging on by a thread.
Then he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He froze as he noticed the waiter approaching their table. “Katniss,” he murmured. “There’s someone coming.” But she didn’t stop. If anything, she increased her pace. Peeta began to panic. “Kitten,” he growled in warning and he felt her pause, felt her almost instinctual response to the commanding tone and nickname he only used in their bedroom, when they were playing. But before he could relax, she sucked hard on the crown of his cock and he had to bite back a groan.
Hands bound, cock hanging out, his gorgeous wife on her knees hidden only by a tablecloth, Peeta’s heart slammed in his chest as the waiter stopped just beside Katniss’s chair. “Your wife has arrived,” he said, gesturing to the scrap of red fabric draped over the chair. Peeta blinked. Could the man tell it was her dress? Did he know she was right there, practically naked? But the waiter merely smiled. “Shall I bring a glass of wine for Mrs. Mellark?”
Peeta’s mouth opened soundlessly, trying to concentrate on the man’s question while under the table Katniss was taking him deeper and deeper, his cock brushing her throat. “Yes,” he managed to rasp, though he had no idea whether it was in response to the waiter’s offer of wine, or to that thing his gorgeous but clearly insane wife was doing with her tongue.
“Excellent,” the waiter said, and Peeta would have laughed at his apparent obliviousness if he hadn’t been struggling so hard to keep from moaning. “If you’d like to look at the wine list,” he continued, his hand stretching towards Peeta, bearing a crisp ivory folio. Peeta panicked, his hands were bound, he couldn’t reach for the wine list, and once the waiter realized that he’d quickly figure out something was amiss.
“No,” Peeta practically yelped, and the waiter’s eyebrows shot up. “I mean, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” Peeta Mellark was a well-spoken man, charming and articulate, but the situation and the incredible sensations flowing from his cock through the rest of his body had turned him into a babbling fool. “If you’d just bring Mrs. Mellark a glass of…” his words cut off in a sharp gasp as Katniss grazed his crown ever so delicately with her teeth. He was going to come. He was going to come with a waiter standing mere feet away, watching him. The idea was both horrifying and shamefully erotic. Peeta closed his eyes tightly, nostrils flaring as he tried to calm himself, which was impossible while Katniss kept licking and kissing his dick.
“Are you all right, sir?” the waiter asked, and Peeta reopened his eyes, trying to affect a neutral expression, and probably failing terribly. Sweat beaded on his forehead, he felt flushed and breathless, the willpower it took to remain still almost more than he could manage. And under the table, his little vixen cupped his aching balls in one of her cool hands, tugging just lightly. Peeta narrowly avoided howling.
“Yes,” Peeta said between clenched teeth. “Merlot. Please bring Mrs. Mellark a glass of merlot.”
“Excellent,” the waiter nodded, smiling. “We have a 2003 St-Emilion,” the man started, but Peeta was barely listening.
“Perfect,” he said. It sounded like a gasp.
“Very well.” The waiter gave a crisp nod, and turned to walk away. Peeta breathed out a sigh of relief, slouching in his chair and tipping his head back, eyes closed in bliss as Katniss took him even deeper, his cock brushing the back of her throat. Then the waiter turned back. “Mr. Mellark?” Peeta nearly jumped out of his skin, eyes snapping open. “Another scotch?”
“Oh God, yes,” Peeta moaned, and with another nod the man took his leave. Peeta watched his retreat fully this time, and when the waiter was finally - finally - gone, Peeta levered his hips upward, thrusting hard into his wife’s mouth, once, twice. “Katniss, fuck,” he gasped, far too loudly for their surroundings.
She laughed around his dick, and the vibrations sent him over the edge so unexpectedly that he couldn’t even warn her, coming harder than he could ever remember, each pulse of his release sending a corresponding shudder up his spine as he arched in near-silent agony and ecstasy. She rode the waves, her hot, wet mouth staying with him until the very end, then kissing his softening dick as he floated back to earth.
For several long moments he simply slumped in the chair, boneless and spent, aware only of the thundering of his heart and his sharp breaths. Then the tablecloth shifted, and Katniss peeked out from between his legs, a shy smile on her face and a little bit of his come on her lip. He moaned and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Holy shit,” he gasped, and she laughed, light and delighted.
Katniss tucked him back into his pants, then slipped out from beneath the table as elegantly as she’d climbed under in the first place, not even a hair out of place. Then she was kissing him, and he could taste the salt of his release. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips.
“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth. Then she was leaning around him, unclipping the cuffs with an ease that suggested they’d never truly been locked in the first place. With a wink, she placed them beside his plate as he massaged some feeling back into his wrists.
She stepped away and slid back into her dress, a reverse strip tease that was every bit as alluring as her disrobing had been. In seconds, she was transformed from the wicked, wanton woman who had blown him in a crowded restaurant, to the regal yet demure lady smiling across the table, her flushed skin glowing in the candlelight. She’d barely gotten settled when the waiter reappeared, bearing their drinks, and Peeta had the uncomfortable sensation that he’d been waiting to make his entrance. Heat flooded his face, but the man wore a mask of professionalism that gave nothing away, not ever as he set Peeta’s scotch beside the gleaming steel cuffs. Katniss ordered the special for both of them and sent the man on his way, sparing Peeta from having to speak at all.
Alone again, Katniss looked self-satisfied as she smiled at Peeta over her wine. And he laughed, just lightly. To the outside world, she looked like the picture of cool professionalism. But he could see the way she was shifting minutely in her chair, knew that her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes spoke of her own arousal. He was fixated on her lips, turned up so sweetly now but only minutes removed from having been wrapped around his cock. She was the best kind of enigma.
Life with Katniss would never be boring, and Peeta would never have his fill. A hundred lifetimes wouldn’t be enough. “Full of surprises, Mrs. Mellark,” he drawled, and she beamed at him across the table.
“Was that everything you were hoping for?” She looked smug, but there was a hint of vulnerability in her quicksilver eyes.
“Everything,” he said, holding her eyes, making sure she could see the sincerity and gratitude there. Then he smirked, and picked up the cuffs. “And a little more,” he chuckled, spinning the steel loops around his finger.
She grinned, swirling the wine in her glass, a ruby tornado. “Had to make sure you couldn’t thwart my plans.”
Peeta shook his head. “Thwart your diabolical plan,” he chuckled. “And what a naughty plan it was.” As he hoped, her breath caught at his words. “Naughty, naughty,” he murmured, barely a breath, but he knew Katniss had heard him by the way her lashes fluttered, the pebbling of her nipples visible through that smoking hot dress. “Yes,” he said, tucking the cuffs into his pocket. “I think we’ll have further use of these.”
After all, the evening had only just begun.