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Peeta Mellark was practically glowing; tanned and relaxed as he sat on the edge of the boardroom table. The men and women surrounding him chuckled at his stories and oohed at pictures of tropical sunsets and pristine beaches on his phone.
It would have been easy to blame the cacophony of sounds for missing her approach. But even in the stilettos she favoured, she walked as delicately as a cat. “Mr. Mellark,” her words cleaved the chatter, leaving silence in their wake. “My office. Now.” She spun and stormed away silently, a tornado in the distance.
He was a storm chaser.
Snickers and scoffs pursued him down the hallway, until they were lost in his plodding footfalls. She ruled the office with an iron fist. The employees all knew her temper.
Her receptionist flashed him a sympathetic look and nodded towards the door; ajar, the screaming mouth of a cavern.
Peeta found himself alone in her office, bright but cold. The focal point was a large wooden desk. He ran his fingers along the tight grain. Mahogany.
Her chair was wide and comfortable, soft grey leather that he sank into with a sigh, leaning back languidly. He divested himself of jacket and tie and plunked his wingtips on the polished desktop beside a single silver-framed photo. He was holding the picture, humming his approval, when the click of a closing door announced her arrival. “What are you doing?”
Gazing up, he smirked. She was standing several feet away, arms crossed, a scowl twisting her lush peach lips. He admired the way her silk blouse strained over pert breasts, the tilt of her hip that emphasized her long, lean legs. “You said you wanted to see me?” He spoke deliberately slowly; her impatience was legendary.
“Get your feet off my desk,” she snarled, but he only chuckled.
“You’re not even remotely nice, to say that to me,” he protested, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Nevertheless, he set his feet on the floor. But he remained seated in her chair.
Fire flared in her mercury eyes as she stomped across the room, a whirlwind of fury. She snatched the picture frame from his hands, cradling it against her chest. “Don’t touch that,” she snapped.
But as she swivelled to return the photo to its rightful spot he reached out, capturing her wrist in one large hand. She was forced to brace herself, a hand against the solid wall of his chest, their faces only inches apart. Her nostrils flared, but Peeta could see a question in her eyes. He released her wrist, running his thumb over her fingers, wrapped tightly around the silver frame. “Don’t touch my stuff,” she repeated, pushing away from him, but her words were softer.
She circled the desk, placing the picture frame almost reverently in its place. He followed, standing behind her, caging her in. “Is that how it’s going to be, Kitten?” His words were low, an aural caress and she trembled.
His lips wandered, from the shell of her ear to the long line of her neck, ghosting over the skin, delicate as a feather, raising a path of goosebumps. She sighed, her body visibly relaxing. He smiled.
But when she snaked a hand back to cup his face he retreated.
“Don't touch, Kitten,” he mocked. Her spine stiffened, but before she could turn he anticipated her reaction. “Eyes forward, hands flat on the desk.”
He watched with amusement as a mental war played out in her body language. Just when he was convinced she was going to refuse, she bent forward, stretching across the wide desk to grip the far edge.
Peeta’s cock strained almost painfully against his slacks at the sight of her skirt stretched tightly across her ass. At what her compliance represented. He leaned over her, pressing his erection against her, rutting, barely biting back a groan as she wiggled just a little. “Good girl,” he murmured, freeing his hands to wander.
Firm hands slowly slid the slippery material of her blouse upwards, baring the sinuous curve of her spine. She moaned as his tongue traced each vertebral swell. Clever fingers crept around, slipping each button free, but when she tried to lift her hands to remove her top he stopped her. “I told you, no touching,” he repeated, covering her hands with his own in emphasis, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. Only when she nodded did he lift each of her hands slowly in turn, kissing each fingertip before pulling them free of her sleeves, returning each to clasp the wooden edge again, silk puddling on the desktop.
He stroked the bare skin of her taut stomach, felt the muscles tremble before moving upwards. A breathless yes fell from her lips as his hands cupped her breasts, nipples already straining against their silky covering. “What do you want, Kitten?”
“You,” she gasped, her hips mirroring his fingers as they twisted and pulled.
His hand slid up her throat, delicate as a moth’s wings. “You weren't very nice to me earlier,” Peeta said as sternly as he could manage. Her throat bobbed beneath his fingers. “Do you think you deserve to get what you want, Kitten?” he growled, enjoying the shudder that ripped through her body.
“Please,” she mewled.
Her skirt had one of those impossible zippers. Peeta ignored it entirely, instead slinking the material higher, exposing inch after glorious inch of toned, tanned thigh. When finally the fabric lifted to expose nothing but the firm flesh of her naked ass cheeks, it was his turn to shudder. “Fuck, Katniss,” he gasped, and she shot a look of pure mischief over her shoulder. It took every ounce of his self restraint to school his expression.
“Eyes forward, naughty Kitten,” he snarled, punctuating the demand with a brisk swat to one gloriously bare buttock, feeling the flood of warmth as he rubbed the sting away.
It was all he could do to hold back from burying himself in her, splayed over her desk, bare and squirming for him. But he loved to tease and torment. Loved to push her buttons.
Loved to make her beg.
His lips followed his hand, gentle nips of taut flesh that made her writhe and curse. He drove her legs apart, caressing, grazing his lips over the sensitive backs of her knees, her answering moan low and long. “You have to be quiet, Kitten,” he admonished. “You don’t want Effie to wander in, do you?”
“I… I locked the door,” she rasped, her head falling forward onto the desk as he kissed his way up the inside of her thigh. He chuckled against her skin. She was panting, the scent of her arousal surrounding him, spurring him on. The first long pass of his tongue between her folds had her keening, wails scarcely muffled by the arm she pressed against her lips.
He adored her responsiveness, loved watching the strict and staid persona she projected shatter under his fingers and mouth. She squirmed and bucked as he devoured her, hands clamped tightly around her thighs, not allowing her a moment's respite. “Please,” she begged. “Please, Peeta. I need you.” And still he tormented her, until he knew she was right on the edge, until her pleas ran together in an endless muffled loop.
When he pulled back her whine of protest almost made him laugh. She was always so impatient. But he, too, was impatient, desperate to feel her walls clenched around him, hot and tight.
He was so hard it was verging on painful, and the relief that flooded through him when he finally released his throbbing cock was almost bliss. He couldn’t resist stroking himself once. Twice. But it was nothing compared to how it felt when finally he thrust into her. How he felt. Like she was made for him.
He fucked her hard, one large hand cradling her thighs against the relentless pounding of desk edge to flesh even while the other pinched her nipple ruthlessly. Her face was buried in her crossed arms, a faint litany of filth all but smothered. The silver frame caught his eye, wobbling precariously, reflected light dancing on the desk.
He pulled out so suddenly that she yelped, a pitiful no following his retreat. But he merely tugged her upright, cradling her body against his own. “I need to see your beautiful face,” he moaned in her ear. “I need to see you when I make you come.”
She turned in his arms, eyes soft with understanding and kissed him. He could taste her smile.
Katniss shimmied out of her skirt as he fell into one of the chairs. But when she reached for his cock he shook his head. “No touching.” He rewarded her eye roll with another smack on her ass, more love tap than punishment. She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and he pulled her to straddle his lap. Peeta kissed each wrist, setting her hands delicately on her own splayed thighs. “Keep them there,” he directed, his voice low and lust-choked, brooking no argument.
As he watched her struggle to comply, he slipped off her bra with a snap, smooth satin sliding down her arms. Pooling against her still hands. He felt a rush of arousal, and of pride. He kissed her hard, hands cradling her face, controlling.
Peeta gripped her ass, pulling her snugly against his cock, sliding through her wet folds but not entering her. Not yet. She gasped and moaned as his length rubbed her clit, until she was mewling again. Only then did he shift, only then did he finally bury himself in her, thrusting deeply, and she cried out, the first flutters of her impending orgasm massaging his cock. “That’s right, Kitten. Give it to me.”
She couldn’t ride him, not with hands clutching her thighs so tightly the olive skin blanched. But he gripped her waist, directed her pleasure like a symphony. And when she finally shattered, when she came on his cock, mouth wide in a silent scream, he held her eyes prisoner. They were glazed with pleasure, and with love.
His release was far less silent as he thrust harder, each snap of his hips slapping against her thighs, a series of gasps and grunts, pained renditions of her name. Ecstasy and relief in equal parts until finally he slumped, spent.
He didn't stop her, then, from lifting her arms, from stroking his face, ruffling his hair. From kissing him, tenderly but with a simmering passion. From wrapping her arms around his neck. She buried her face against his neck, humming in pleasure and contentment. “That was fantastic,” she murmured against his sweat-slick skin, toying with the buttons of the dress shirt he still wore. Peeta laughed.
“You are fantastic,” he said, kissing her temple. After a few moments he pointed at the picture, still occupying its place of honour on the shining desktop. “Nice picture,” he smirked.
“You like it?” Her silver eyes twinkled. Cautiously, she disentangled herself from his arms and padded, gloriously naked, to retrieve the frame from her desk. She perched on his lap, running a gentle finger down the photo face as she held it almost reverently.
It was them, smiling into the lens, their faces tanned and happy on a perfect tropical beach. “I took if off your phone this morning, had the copy shop print it at lunch.”
Peeta laughed, loud and boisterous. Delighted. Katniss, his serious, practical, no-nonsense wife, had one of their honeymoon pictures printed, framed and displayed on her first day back in the office. Just when he thought he couldn't love her more. “Full of surprises, Mrs Mellark,” he said, squeezing her bare ass in emphasis.
“And so many more to come, Mr Mellark,” she promised.