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So Maybe We Don't Hate Each Other

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"So let me get this straight," Peeta Mellark, that unrepentant, self-righteous prick, the youngest member of my father's security team, drops into the chair across from me on the other side of the narrow table, looking like someone kicked his dog. 

I stare him down, smirking.

"You fucked up again," he says flatly, running a hand through those thick blond waves like he does every time Daddy sends him here to deal with me. It's fun to ruffle his feathers.

Peeta's stuck in the position of go-between for the indeterminable future. I don't know what my father's punishing him for, sticking him with the wild child. He must have rubbed Governor Asshat wrong from day one. 

Funny because Daddy usually likes the Golden Retriever type. I’d feel sorry for Peeta if his mere presence in the room didn’t piss me off so much.

I sigh, feigning boredom. 

Peeta tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He's already frustrated, and he just got here. I wonder if Daddy tore him a new one over what I did before he came here. "You wouldn't call vandalizing the press room fucking up? You know he hates when you pull that shit."

“Well, I hate him, so it's perfect,” I smile mockingly. 

He looks ready to blow. 

“Oh, don't look so sad about it, Peeta - pocket . You’re doing your best.”

Peeta's nostrils flare. The nickname is one I’ve given him because of his short stature; he’s not the tallest but still has a good five inches on me. Being reminded of it still pisses him off. 

"Daddy's used to it," I add, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Used to it or not, hate him or not, spray painting the words goat-blower on the wall behind the podium isn’t the smartest thing you could have done. He’s furious."

"The paint will come off," I taunt, laughing under my breath. “It’s just some cheap shit from the corner store.”

"It’ll still take a lot of work to get rid of," Peeta glares across the table. 

I cock an eyebrow at him. His expression smoothes out, and he adopts a calmer tone. He isn’t fooling me, though. I’m better at this game than he is. 

"Why don't you just fucking grow up, Katniss, instead of acting like the bratty kid?”

“I’m not a kid.” Peeta’s not that much older than me, only five years or so. I’m calling bullshit on that one.

He laughs derisively. “Then quit acting like one. If you don't like living here, why don’t you leave? He’d be more than happy to send you away, set you up in an apartment somewhere.’

“Fuck him and fuck you! I wouldn’t give either of you the satisfaction,” I tell him cooly. “I’m not going to make anything easier for anyone, you little prick.” 

Peeta’s face flushes with anger while triumph zips through my veins. 

“Why do you get off on fucking with me like this?” he asks, leaning my way. This ridiculous table has us sitting so close; his nose would only be inches from mine if I moved towards him just a little.

Why? I like to make Peeta mad. I want to see his handsome face unsettled. Since the day he strolled into my life in his preppy clothes, with that perfect look and those broad shoulders, I've hated him.

"You really like that word, don't you?" I ask my own question instead of answering his, narrowing my eyes, taunting him. A sick thrill races through my veins and pools in my belly. It’s always like this with Peeta- tearing, clawing at each other. It’s almost as much fun as getting screwed, riling him up this way.

He still hasn’t snapped. It’s only a matter of time- I won’t stop until he explodes. I’m going to prove to him he’s no better than me, one way or the other.

He licks his lips. “What word is that?" his voice is unnaturally calm.

“Fuck," I breathe, deliberately, rounding the letters on my tongue, drawing it out, looking him dead in the eye. “You talk an awful lot about fucking for such a good boy when I'm around," I go on. We’re so close the warm dampness of his harsh exhale ghosts against my lips. I make a tsking sound under my breath. 

No response from him.

“What would the Governor say about that, Peeta-pocket?”

Adrenaline has my pulse racing. At least I think it's adrenaline-I can't acknowledge the other option for my pulse throbbing in the side of my neck and between my legs or the way my heart is racing.

Peeta's eyes are wild. I watch his throat bob as he swallows roughly. His eyes flit away.

I could crow in glee. Have I latched onto something? 

Even with this dangerous charge in the air, I keep taunting him. I can't make myself stop. I want to break him.

"Is it some subconscious thing? You think about me a lot that way, Peeta," I whisper, and his eyes move to my lips. "Touch yourself to thoughts of me?” I prod, with no intention of admitting to him I’ve done the same.

For the first time in the months since I've known him, it seems I’ve rendered Peeta speechless. I like the rush of power from his stunned expression. But underneath that, I'm turned on. Maybe anger and desire originate in the same part of the brain or something, hell if I know. Either way, my panties aren't worth a damn anymore.

Beneath the table, Peeta's hand goes to my bare leg. His gaze doesn't waver as his fingers graze under my loose skirt. His eyes are dark with challenge. 

Are we doing this?

I wish I could disguise my sharp intake of breath and stop the gooseflesh from forming when he rubs his thumb against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, right above my knee. I hate Peeta and his sanctimonious bullshit- but the larger part of me wants to see his cock. 

We’re silent as I carefully move Peeta’s hand and get up from my chair. The air is tense, like either of us might flee. When I move to him, he makes room for me, fitting myself between his body and the table. I lower to it slowly, sitting on the edge in front of him.

I wait. It's Peeta’s move.

He stands, completely invading my space, close enough that we’re breathing the same air. We stare each other down. "Katniss," he whispers, his hand back to my knee, "be a good girl and spread your legs."

We both know I'm no good girl. Still, I move them apart for Peeta, widely. It’s obscene, almost. 

I want to see what he'll do. Is it so wrong to enjoy this? 

"Oh, that's nice." Peeta’s hands move beneath my skirt again, higher this time. His lips ghost over my neck as his fingers travel up my thighs. 

My eyes flutter shut when his lips meet my lips for the first time. His kiss is soft, tongue meeting mine gently, sucking lightly, exploring my mouth hungrily. He tastes fantastic. I eagerly return the kiss.

What we’re beginning feels dangerous, like an animal restraining itself before attacking its prey. But I can’t disguise the whimper of pleasure Peeta’s touch draws out of me. He's earned it. His thumb is at the crease of my leg and hip, and then he rubs my slit over my underwear- they’re so wet his digit slides easily—my body throbs for him.

I put my hand over his fingers and guide them inside my panties. 

"God," I breathe out when he touches me.

"You're so fucking wet," Peeta murmurs. "You really get off on pushing my buttons, don't you?"


He briefly removes his fingers, and I whine in protest until he tugs at the waistband of my panties. "Off. Now."

I lift my ass off the table, aiding him, and he tugs the material down my legs, eventually throwing them over his shoulder. "Lie back," he says.

I eagerly comply. Peeta’s palms move beneath my skirt again, pushing the material up, bunching it around my middle. I'm completely bare to him from the waist down when he spreads my knees apart again.

"Look at your pretty little cunt." He says, using his thumbs to stroke the inside of my thighs then over my lips where I'm slick with desire for him. My inner walls flutter in anticipation. "I'm gonna kiss it a little now," he murmurs, "and then I'm gonna fuck it."

I wriggle my ass in anticipation. I can't help myself. Every word out of Peeta’s mouth makes me wetter.

"You want that?" He asks, lowering himself to the floor on his knees.

“Yes.” His breath is right on my pussy now. It’s making me crazy.

"Are you going to stop being such a bitch?" Peeta asks between kissing the inside of my thighs. I tremble with anticipation. "Make my life easier?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. It’s not like Peeta fucking me today was in my plans, either, yet here we are.

He jerks me closer to his mouth by my hips, spreading my thighs wider. "You goddamn better be. Now unbutton your shirt- get your tits out."

I scramble to do what he asks, quickly, finally leaning up on my elbows to work my bra straps off my shoulders and down my arms.

"Of course they're perfect," he mutters, eyeing my breasts.

"These?" I tease, cupping them for him. 

"I hate you so much,” he growls.

A clever answer is on the tip of my tongue, but it freezes when Peeta spreads me apart and licks me. I cry out instead. 

That's a much better use of our tongues, anyway.

The back of my head thuds against the table. I lose all ability to move because of the pleasure blossoming between my legs. I'm tingly and soaked, delirious, barely conscious of what he's doing to me other than reveling in how good it feels. All I know is Peeta’s fantastic at this. Much better than my high school boyfriend, who always fumbled around down there and never quite figured out how to get me going. 


He slides his fingers inside of me, and I yelp, but he soothes the shock by applying suction to my clit. I shatter when he rubs inside me, making a garbled noise I don’t recognize escaping my mouth. I didn’t expect to come that fast.


He stands again, his lips and chin coated, shiny from my release. He looks crazed as he pulls his wallet out, retrieves a condom, then unbuttons his pants and shoves them down his legs. “This is a fucking terrible idea.”


“Probably," I agree, sitting up on the edge of the table after regaining the use of my limbs a little. "But god, Peeta- you're such a dick, but you're gorgeous." His body is thick, not precisely cut, but solid and firm. Just the way I like it. I reach for the buttons of his shirt and tug them open. I want to see all of him, loop my thighs around his hips, press my breasts against him.


When Peeta's naked, I can't help my wandering fingers. He’s breathing heavy, I know he’s growing impatient to fuck me, but still, I take the time to run my palms over him, dragging my thumbs across his hipbones, up his sides, over his chest. When our lips connect, I take the opportunity to wrap my hand around his cock. He’s so hard and thick; my walls clench in anticipation. I reach blindly for the condom he left on the tabletop as we kiss, pulling away to rip it open and roll it down him. 


I steeple my legs around Peeta’s waist, remaining upright, and gasp against his lips when he pushes inside of me. It’s a tight fit and takes a while to get all the way in, although my orgasm aids his inward path. I’m not all that sexually experienced; I’ve only done this a few decidedly mediocre times with my boyfriend before we broke up. That’s been well over a year ago. Now that we’re here, I’m nervous that my inexperience will show, and I don’t want Peeta to know that. He might be fucking me on this tabletop, but I still have my dignity.


“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans in my ear, breathing against my neck. He sounds unhinged himself. “You feel so good.”


“So do you,” I admit, groaning when thrusts shallowly, ending with a rub of his hips against me. Every move does amazing things inside and out. 


Peeta’s lips move to mine, and he kisses me deeply, hot and leisurely, breathing into each other’s mouth while we grind, the motions slow. I don’t know if he’s giving me a chance to adjust to his girth or if he’s doing it for his benefit, but either way, the way he’s moving feels just right.


Peeta’s hands drop to my ass, and he scoots me toward the end of the table until I’m mostly balanced on its edge, hands on his shoulders. “Let’s move,” he says, pulling out of me, picking me up. I wrap my arms around his neck and loop my legs around his waist as he walks us across the room. “I want to be closer.”


He carries me over to the couch and lays me down before climbing between my legs and coming inside me again. “Still good?” he asks, rolling his hips slowly.


“Yeah,” I manage, laughing under my breath. “This isn’t much like, oh ,” I let out a high whine when the crown of his cock hits that sensitive place inside of me just the right way,  “hate-fucking, is it?”


“What’s hate-fucking like?” Peeta murmurs, pulling out most of the way then thrusting in again, roughly. My breasts bounce against his chest.  “Hard and fast. Like this?” he does it again. His voice sounds controlled; somehow, he’s smiling like what we’re doing is the world’s biggest lark.


“I think so, yes. Oh god,” I cry, my eyes squeezing closed. “Peeta, don’t stop. Please.”


“I love the way you say my name when I’m inside you,” he grits out, thrusting harder into me. It’s electric. I feel the tight coil of another orgasm low in my body, the ticklish, building ache as he continues to move.


“I love you inside of me,” I say, lifting my hips, wrapping my legs around his waist to raise my hips enough to rub my clit against his pelvic bone when buried inside me. He’s so deep this way I can feel the coarse hair at the base of his cock rub against my ass and perineum. It’s insane how great every part of this feels.


I had no idea sex could be this good. I just need a little more friction, and I’ll-


“Peeta!” I gasp as the world constricts in my center. The feeling is tight, tight, then shattering pleasure.


“Shit, Katniss,” I hear him swear, body freezing with mine surrounding him, my arms and legs coiled around him, pussy gripping his cock. Through the haze of the all-consuming pleasure, I sense him thrust again, slowly, like he’s lavishing in the feeling. If I feel half as good to him as he does to me, I understand.


As I come down from my high, slumping some beneath him, letting my legs fall to the couch again, Peeta picks up the pace. His hand snakes up to my breast and palms it as his lips drop against my neck. He comes with a gravelly moan a few moments later. I feel triumphant when his cock jerks and spills inside the condom.


We’re still panting when he sits up after slipping out of me. He supports himself with one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other at my side. We gaze at each other, and when he smirks, I laugh. 


“Got you,” I whisper.


“No, I got you,” Peeta leans down to kiss me, our lips meeting in a soft, questioning kiss, like neither of us know where we’re going from here. We don’t, but I have a pretty good idea when a hard knock comes from the other side door.


I think there are cameras in this room.


“Fuck,” Peeta swears.


I stand outside Peeta’s apartment, biting my thumb. It’s not like he invited me here- after my father threw him out the back door of the Governor’s mansion for, as Daddy put it, “sampling the goods,” Peeta certainly didn’t stop long enough to give me his address. I had to twist Thread’s, our security chief, arm to get it out of him. 


I feel like such an ass. Will Peeta even want to see me after the shit-show of this afternoon? What will I say if he does answer the door for me? “Surprise! Sorry, I forgot Thread installed cameras in that room? I’m sorry you got fired for having consensual sex with me?” 


Or the classic- “We’ve done nothing but act like we hate each other since we met, but I think I like you a lot, and I want to see where this could go with you? At the very least, I want to have sex again?”


This is a stupid plan. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 


Still, I find myself crossing Peeta’s street and walking up the front steps of his apartment building. His place is miles away from the stately glory of the Capitol neighborhood where the Governor’s mansion is situated, but it’s not bad. The building is old but looks well-maintained.


I make my way up the well-lit stairway stopping in front of apartment 12. Nerves knot my stomach into a ball of anxiety. 


“He might not even be home,” I remind myself. I have no idea what Peeta’s social life is. Hell, I don’t know anything about him, really, other than his angry tics, what his mouth tastes like, or how he feels inside of me. 


I knock on his door, and from the other side, I hear the sounds of someone stirring. “Hold on, be there in a second,” Peeta calls. 


I almost convince myself to bolt when my stomach bottoms out somewhere around my knees. I can’t do this-


The door opens, and Peeta’s there in the doorway, and it’s too late to run. He looks like he just got out of the shower because his hair is damp, and he’s wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt with the arms cut out the sides. His face looks bruised, and his eye swelled.




“What are you doing here?” he interrupts, looking over my shoulder, down the hallway.


That’s an excellent question. What am I doing here? I have no idea what to say. “I don’t know,” I admit.


“Do you want to come in?” Peeta backs into his apartment, holding the door open for me.


“Thanks for not kicking me out,” I say once he shuts the door behind us.


“Why would I kick you out?” he says softly, taking my hand. The contact stuns me. Isn’t he angry? 


“Aren’t you upset?” I prod as he leads me towards his couch. 


The interior of his apartment is small- there’s an open room that encapsulates the living room, kitchen, and dining room. I guess he has a separate bedroom because there isn’t space for the couch to pull out and sleep on since there’s a wall in front of it. “You lost your job and got hurt today because of me.”


Peeta shrugs, dropping to sit at my side. “It’s just a job,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “I can find another one. And it’s not your fault, anyway.”


“I,” I swallow my nerves, not buying his act. It’s so different from the combative version of Peeta I’m more familiar with. I came over here to eat crow, and I can’t seem to stop myself from doing just that. “I’m the one who started it.”


Peeta leans close to me. His arm slips around my waist, and he pulls me close. I settle against him, tucking my head beneath his chin. Things shouldn’t be this easy or comfortable. He should be furious. 


“Even if you started it, I was a willing participant,” he reminds me softly.


I groan, embarrassment and heat in tandem taking over my senses, remembering this afternoon and the shameless things we’d said to each other, the wild way we behaved.


“Yeah, but-”


“Want to know something?” Peeta nuzzles my ear before placing a soft kiss behind it. My eyes slip closed. I can’t stop the shiver that wracks through me. 


“Today? That was better than any fantasy I’ve had about you. And you were right, Katniss. I’ve thought about you a lot over the last few months. And if it took getting a new job and losing it in such a short time, all just to meet you, it was worth it. Besides,” he grins, “your dad is a total prick.”


“He really is,” I agree before turning into Peeta and capturing his lips. 


As we kiss, he leans me against the back of the couch, his hands dropping to my shirtfront, slipping his hand beneath the material and inside my bra where he circles my hardened nipple.  “You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently. 


My hand goes to Peeta’s knee, sliding under his loose shorts. I didn’t get as much of an opportunity for exploration as he did this afternoon. I plan to make up for that now that we’re here. 


I stand in front of him and begin pulling off my clothes. Peeta watches, eyes hooded, looking his fill. 


“Now yours,” I tell him once I’m naked, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls it over his head at the same time I reach for the waistband of his shorts. We grin at each other as we work together to undress him. The humor that our roles have essentially reversed since this afternoon isn’t lost on either of us. 


Until I kneel between his legs, that is. It’s not funny after that. Not when I pull back on his cock and stroke him from between his legs. I like to watch his face while he watches me. Peeta runs a hand through my loose hair, holding his breath and my head in place as I lick a path up his cock with the flat of my tongue and swirl it over the crown. After the way he felt inside of me today, I ache to know this part of him better. 


I use my hands to touch him the way he did me earlier, his inner thighs, his balls, his stomach fluttering so gorgeously when I suck on the crown a little. I rub my thighs together to relieve the arousal, the ache forming with his cock in my mouth. My hand squeezes and pumps his shaft. 


“Fuck,” Peeta swears softly, jutting his pelvis forward, telling me to take him deeper and go faster with my hand. His chest heaves up and down, and I’m so glad I’m doing this. He’s gorgeous. “I’m about to come if you don’t want to.”


But I do. In answer, I dig the nails of my free hand into Peeta’s hip and hollow my cheeks around his cock, pumping the shaft with quick up and down motions. I’ve had the urge to do this much longer than I could admit. It’s thrilling. Peeta whimpers, coming hard, filling my mouth. I swear the sounds he’s making, the way his muscles clench then release, even the taste of him burning in my throat gets me most of the way there, too.

Not that it has to, not when Peeta scoops me up off the floor and carries me to his bedroom, where we spend all night acquainting ourselves with each other. 

Turns out we don't hate each other, not even a little.