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Her steps echoed through the lobby, all bright lights and polished marble, the staccato sound syncopated, like her heartbeat. Every clattering click of her too-high stilettos made the voices in her head chant louder, this is a mistake, this is a mistake.
She couldn’t miss the sneer that the woman behind the counter shot her way before fixing her fox-like features into a more neutral mask; the blood rushed into her face at the implicit judgement. She didn’t speak a single word as she handed her card over the desk, didn’t acknowledge the attendant’s falsely bright directive to take the left bank of elevators to the 12th floor, didn’t thank her for the electronic key she placed with a precise snap on the grey speckled granite.
Only when she’d traversed the lobby again, and had climbed into the elevator, alone thankfully, did Katniss allow herself to release the breath she was holding.
The mirrored walls were an endlessly repeating recrimination, showing multiple angles and multiple versions of the flushed and fidgeting woman standing within their confines. The leather skirt that was far too short, exposing stocking tops and a smudge of smooth olive skin. A white blouse sheer enough to ensure any casual passerby could see she was braless. Black hair intricately braided, exposing a long neck and the thin black collar that kissed her throat. That marked her as his.
The bing announcing the elevator’s arrival jolted her from her reverie, the delicate chime resonating in her head like the toll of doom, further fraying her nerves, heightening her fear.
Her excitement.
Carpeted floors muffled her approach, the door giving only a slight click as the keycard granted her entry.
The suite was empty, air conditioning on full and a single lamp providing only a faint pool of light. In another mindset she might have paused to admire the beauty of the suite, well-appointed and comfortable. But she wasn’t there for comfort. Keycard and clutch set on a small entry table, she crossed the room, and at the foot of the large bed she sank to her knees.
In the stillness she remained motionless, hands on her thighs, eyes downcast. The stilettos bit uncomfortably but she didn’t dare move. He would be there soon. She purposely slowed her breathing and waited.
She had only just managed to calm her galloping heart when another soft click and the swish of door against carpeting indicated someone else had entered the room, and her heart raced anew. Though she was desperate to see, to make sure it was him, she keep her eyes resolutely focused on the floor in front of her.
She knew the rules.
She heard him moving around the suite, going about his business as if he was completely oblivious to her presence while she could focus on nothing but him. The rustle of clothing that she knew was his blazer being laid carefully across a chair. The clink of a glass being set down. He made her wait, knew how it drove her crazy to wait, knew how hard it was for her to be patient. And finally, when she was strung tight as a bowstring, when she was right on the edge of running away, finally those heavy footfalls crossed the room and a pair of bare feet appeared in front of her.
Her breathing picked up immediately but she remained still, frozen, until his rich baritone split the silence with a single word.
“Stand.”
Katniss clambered to her feet, graceless on numb limbs and too tall shoes, to stand before him. She kept her eyes lowered, but she could see he was shirtless, the musculature of his torso etched in pale marble, a smattering of burnished gold hair carving a trail down his stomach, disappearing where the button of his ripped jeans was undone. She longed to reach out, to drag her fingers over his taut skin, feel the muscles tremble and twitch, but she knew that too was forbidden.
He circled her slowly, she felt his eyes raking over her body, evaluating her compliance with his demands. His quiet murmur of good girl made her chest warm. When he was again facing her, he took her chin in one large hand and tipped her head up. Their eyes locked; his icy blue and stern, filled with warning: she was his to do with as he pleased, those were his terms. Disobedience would not be tolerated.
He leaned in, and for just a moment she thought he might kiss her, but he turned his face slightly at the last moment and his full lips instead grazed her ear. “Mockingjay,” he whispered, the word almost a caress. He pulled back enough to lock eyes again. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and his eyes softened. The barest hint of a smile flickered across his mouth, and his thumb gently stroked her cheekbone. Then as quickly as it came, the warmth was gone.
“I see you followed my instructions, Kitten. You have pleased me.” The dulcet tone of his voice made her stomach flutter, made her nipples pull into taut buds. “Did people look at what’s mine as you walked here?” She shuddered; she’d parked, as instructed, a block away, the entire walk from the car she had felt eyes on her, leering at her short skirt, watching her small tits sway under her gauzy blouse.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, her voice barely a shard. He reached out to her, slipping each blouse button sinuously from its confines as she struggled to allow her arms to hang limply.
“I didn’t hear you, Kitten,” he mocked, hooded eyes on his task.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaked, shame painting her cheeks. He pushed the fabric from her shoulders and it fluttered to the floor, a moth cast away from her flame. Her nipples strained towards him, begging for the bite of his fingers, the soothing of his lips. Instead his hands travelled lower, finding the zipper for her skirt with practiced ease.
“How did that make you feel, Kitten?” He shimmied the snug skirt down, crouching to tug it over her hips, down her long legs and then encouraging her to step out of it. “How did it feel to have those strangers looking at what’s mine?” he asked again.
“I was embarrassed,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes, and he chuckled. His hands trailed up her legs as he stood, skimmed over her body when he circled her again, standing like a goddess in only stockings and heels. Goosebumps pebbled her skin everywhere his fingers trailed.
“Did you like it, Kitten?” His hands travelled across her torso, finally cupping one aching breast and she bit her lip hard to hold back the moan. She was putty in his hands, eyes closed, lost in the moment, when he pinched her nipple firmly. The sensation skirted the edge of pleasure and pain, and she sucked in a surprised gasp. “I asked you a question, Kitten, and I expect an answer.” His voice was louder, harder.
He knew, the bastard. He knew how hard the words were for her to get out. She nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. His eyes narrowed, and he took her braid in his hand, the slippery coil slithering through his fingers before his fist tightened and he yanked, just hard enough to jerk her head backwards, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Did you like it, Kitten?” he asked again, each word enunciated sharply, and she whimpered. His hand loosened in her hair, caressing her scalp with his fingertips, balm to the sting. He leaned down; his face so close to hers that she could count each golden eyelash. “Did it make you wet?” He growled. Not waiting for a response, his hand slipped down her body, cupping her intimately. She knew he had his answer then; she was swollen, almost sticky with arousal and getting wetter by the moment. Her moan was response enough.
He hummed appreciatively, his clever fingers stroking deftly, stoking her fire as she panted and keened. Her hands twitched by her sides as she fought desperately against the urge to touch him, to make him move faster. He noticed and stepped away, snickering under his breath at her frustrated whine. “Patience, Kitten,” he said, walking over to where his blazer lay neatly. Katniss couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he turned he was holding a grey silk tie in his hands. Recognition made her heart swell, anticipation made it thunder in her chest.
He sauntered back to her, slowly, sensually, making her wait, again, testing her patience. His grey tie, silver where the pale lamplight touched it, slid across her body before he firmly grasped both of her small hands and bound them deftly together. The bond was snug but the silk was a cool kiss to her overheated flesh. “No hands, Kitten,” he reminded her. “I’m in charge.” Those words, in his voice, made her clit throb, her thighs clench. His smirk indicated that he knew all too well the effect he was having.
He finally kissed her, softly, teasingly, not letting their bodies touch and pulling back each time she leaned in. She groaned in frustration and he chuckled against her lips. Fire flared in her mercury eyes and she surged forward, catching him off guard, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling aggressively. His own eyes snapped open, and she saw the flash of amusement in them before they narrowed sternly.
“Naughty Kitten,” he growled and she fought against her own smile, struggled to look contrite, but she was a terrible actress. He stepped back completely, his stern expression making her heart skip. “And now you’ll be punished…”
Every muscle in her body clenched, every synapse fired, every nerve twitched and trembled. He was deceptively gentle as he grasped the tie that bound her hands and lead her to the bed. “On your hands and knees,” he directed, his voice gravelled and lust-choked. She climbed onto the bed, but resisted moving into the position she knew he wanted her to assume. She wanted this, needed this, desperately, but the act of submission was the hardest part for her, making herself vulnerable, giving up control. But when he barked, “Don’t test me, Kitten,” she rushed to comply.
And still he made her wait.
She was close, so very close, to yelling at him, to begging him to just get on with it. She was so humiliated by the graceless pose, so impatient, so distracted by her frustration that the first blow took her completely by surprise. The resounding crack filling her ears a split second before the impact registered, the sting almost immediately rubbed away by his soothing touch. The second blow was harder, sharper, rocking her body forward, forcing her to widen her knees to keep her balance, but again his ministrations followed immediately, ensuring that there was no real pain, just stinging, and heat.
So much heat.
He rained blows on her ass without pattern, several in a row, then a long pause of soothing and stroking, firm strikes and gentle pats, and she couldn’t be still, dropping to her elbows, her ass and pussy displayed shamelessly for him, only for him, absolutely dripping with desire. Wiggling and bucking without thought, conscious only of chasing his hand, of begging with her body for more. More. More.
When the heat that raced over her skin and raged between her thighs threatened to overwhelm her he stopped suddenly; her ears were filled by his rough panting, and her own whimpers and moans. Though she hadn’t cried during the spanking, the loss of his hands on her body left her bereft, aching, and the tears overflowed. Then his hand was on her hip and before she could tense, or even think, his face was between her parted thighs, lapping her arousal like a starving man. She had no time to be embarrassed, no ability to overthink, to let her innate shyness convince her to pull away. She could only submit to the bliss, allow him to pleasure her. And pleasure her he did, his tongue and teeth and lips making her soar.
But when she was right on the edge he pulled away abruptly and she wailed, “No!” His answering chuckle pissed her off, and she snapped at him in frustration. “Make me come, you bastard!”
His response was instantaneous, the crack of his hand across her hot, reddened ass shocking, eliciting a gasp. “Who is in control, Kitten?” he demanded.
“You are,” she rasped, and his hand struck twice more in quick succession, more softly but lower, the splat of firm palm against soft, wet flesh startling and erotic.
His hand returned to soothing, stroking, teasing, and he leaned across her back to murmur in her ear. “Who is in control now, Kitten?” His voice was so raw, so savage, she thought she might come from the sound of it alone.
“You are, sir.”
He flipped her then; she was a rag doll, completely in his power. Her bound hands were quickly clipped above her head, stretched out, limiting her movement to only a few inches. He hovered over her, his eyes feral. “Do I need to tie your legs, Kitten, or are you going to be a good girl?”
“I’ll be good, please, I need you,” she begged. But he climbed off the bed, and she wanted to cry from the unfairness of it. She pulled, tentatively, against her bonds. They were snug, but she could get out, if she really wanted to.
She didn’t really want to.
He was back quickly with a sleep mask, probably pilfered from a plane. She tried not to smirk as he slid it over her eyes, being so incredibly careful not to pull her hair. As if he hadn’t been pulling it already.
Then he slid down her body, barely skimming her over sensitized flesh. One shoe was slipped from her foot, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, and then the other; he nipped at her toes and instep, tickling until she was writhing and cursing. The stockings were peeled off one by one, his lips grazing her skin as it was revealed to him.
Blind and bound she could do nothing but submit. In the absence of sight, in the absence of control, his every touch was felt so much more intensely. She was hyper aware of the stubble that dotted his cheeks as it rasped over her flesh, of the softness of his lips, the light callouses on his right hand that came from sketching.
It felt like he was everywhere, touching every inch of her simultaneously; she was so aroused, so close to the edge. She heard begging and pleading, swearing and crying, and was only barely aware that it was her own voice.
She was so lost in the sensations that she didn’t notice his jeans come off, barely registered his hands driving her thighs apart, only coming back to herself when he thrust deep inside her in a single, powerful stroke.
It was too much, the sensation of him everywhere, surrounding her, filling her, she shattered unexpectedly, gasping, wailing her release into the room she could no longer see.
He didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, just fucked her hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. When she started to respond again, started to keen again, then he shifted onto his knees to drive himself deeper, to fill her completely. Each powerful thrust slapped against her stinging flesh, pushing her higher, higher than she’d ever been. “Give me another one, Kitten,” he grunted, panting, plunging impossibly deeper. He shifted his hand to rub her clit, almost too roughly. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, and it was enough.
She came hard, bright lights flashing before her eyes as she pitched almost violently over the edge. “Peeta!” she shouted, arching off the bed as her orgasm ripped through her, held in its throes for a long time before collapsing, utterly spent.
And with a gasp he broke, “Katniss, oh Katniss, fuck I love you.” He dropped his head to her shoulder, biting hard as she felt him pulse deep inside her.
She was warm under his solid body, drifting in the afterglow, when he shifted off her. He pushed the mask away, unravelled the tie from her wrists and gathered her into his arms, pressing kisses everywhere he could reach, murmuring words of love and devotion and she smiled contentedly.
When he’d recovered his breath he climbed off the bed, moving to the ensuite bath. She could hear water running, and eventually the low purr of a motor. Before her eyes could drift closed he returned, scooping her into his arms and carrying her so reverently.
The oversized jacuzzi tub was steaming and bubbling, she hissed when the water touched her raw and throbbing backside, but quickly the warmth became soothing, and the jets massaged the aches and stiffness away. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the edge of the tub, and Peeta eased the cork free, pouring two glasses before sliding into the water behind her, clutching her to his chest, kissing her shoulder and neck.
They sipped in silence, the wine almost too cold, but soothing on parched throats. “I’m sorry I broke character, at the end,” he said softly. “I just couldn’t help it.” And she laughed, a joyful, relaxed sound.
“You were perfect,” she told him, twisting to capture his lips.
“Was it… Was it okay?” He was so tentative, so completely unlike the wicked ‘dom’ who had spent two hours tormenting and titillating her. She nodded shyly, and he smiled, wrapping his arms tightly around her.. “Was it everything you were hoping for?” His voice, low and deep in her ear made her stomach flutter. Made her wonder when they could try this again.
“Peeta,” she moaned, knowing he could feel her nipples stiffening against his arm. She hadn’t really believed he’d go through with it. They’d played power games in the bedroom before, he knew how much she liked them. How much more intense their lovemaking was for her when she was forced to cede control. How she got off on being pinned down. On being pushed into admitting how much she liked it.
But actually spanking her? She’d wanted to try it for so long, had hinted for a couple of years. He always resisted, and she knew why. His own mother had been abusive; it was his not-so-secret terror that the DNA he shared with that woman would someday rear its ugly head. He never wanted to lose himself.
So she dropped it, satisfied herself with just reading stories. But then he found the stories. And they talked about it.
They talked at least a dozen more times about it. Each time it was clear he’d been doing more reading. More research. More thinking.
“Mmmm,” she sighed. “That was an incredible birthday present.”
He laughed, full and rich. “Happy birthday, love.” She shifted until she was fully in his lap, warm wet bodies pressed together intimately, kissing languidly, wandering hands speaking of love and adoration. “Are you sore?” he murmured. She was, a bit. Certainly the flight home tomorrow would be a tad uncomfortable.
“A little,” she said tentatively, and felt him stiffen behind her. She knew it was important to be fully honest about every part of the experience, for both of them. “It’s a good sore, Peeta. I feel fantastic. Thoroughly fucked.”
“I liked it more than I thought I would,” he admitted, and her answering smile was radiant.
They were still wrapped in each other when she spoke again. “I can’t believe you made me wear that outfit.” It was barely a whisper, but there was no reproach in her words, only wonder.
“Following you, dressed like that. With your ass wiggling at me. Fuck, Katniss, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I was so hard I could barely keep up with you!”
“You wouldn’t have, if I’d been wearing anything but those ridiculous shoes! You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck!” His lips found the neck in question, suckling and biting as she writhed, the evidence of his approval poking her thigh.
“You liked it,” he said shyly, and she could hear the thrill in his voice. She laughed, burying her face in the damp crook of his neck.
“You know I did,” she confessed, lips brushing his skin.
“My little exhibitionist,” he laughed. It wasn’t that, exactly, and they both knew it. Katniss was demure by nature, pure really. Being pushed out of her comfort zone, the unease, the embarrassment. The thrill. It excited her.
She squirmed against his erection. Clearly it excited him too. “Do you remember, that rooftop garden at the Hyatt?” he whispered into her hair, and she nodded against his chest. “You know, my birthday is in a few weeks…”