Puppet Strings

Chapter Two

"What should you do?" Cato approached the bed and stooped over. He took Peeta's chin between his thumb and forefinger before connecting their lips in a fiery, passionate kiss. Peeta made a sound of surprise but felt himself melt anyway. Cato prised his lips open with his tongue and thoroughly explored every inch before releasing him again. Peeta drank in the sweet taste of oxygen, having been deprived of it during the breath-taking embrace.

Their eyes met, glowing green against beautiful blue.

"You just stay as exactly as you are, looking as exquisite as you always do, and wait for my return," Cato answered, his voice deep and forceful. He left without another word.

Peeta was stunned. He touched his lips, which were wet and beginning to swell, and felt a shudder shake his body. He knew that Cato was the prevailing partner in the relationship but never had he been so . . . authorative with him. Even when they were having sex and Cato tied him to the bedposts he had never spoken to him in such a way. In some ways, it was thrilling and in others it was worrying.

Was this what he was really like?

No. Peeta refused to believe it. He let himself fall back onto the bed, heart fluttering in his chest, and closed his eyes. Cato was just stressed because he'd been called into work so early and just wanted to make sure he saw a friendly face when he came home. Peeta rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into Cato's pillow, absorbing the musty, manly scent that was just so . . . Cato.

Peeta woke up several times and Cato wasn't home yet. He began to wonder what exactly it was that Cato did. Had he been called into the Arena or had he been called to the other mystery job that Peeta had yet to discover? He didn't know why but for some reason, Peeta felt that it was the latter. Why would Cato get called to a stoner store at 4:30 in the morning?

All that day, Cato didn't come home. Peeta worried that maybe something had went wrong. Had there been an accident? He tried to think positively but when he went to bed that night, he couldn't help feeling wracked with worry. Just in case Cato returned while he was sleeping, Peeta decided to sleep without any clothes on again, to give Cato something maybe . . . nice to go come back to?

Cato did return later in the night. He slammed the door so loud that it jolted Peeta awake. He sat up and bunched the covers, heart pounding for once in a different way. The door slamming had scared the daylights out of him and for one panicked moment he thought it was maybe a burglar. Of course, this is ridiculous, as why would a burglar slam the door? It didn't really make sense.

As soon as Cato entered the room, Peeta knew something was wrong. He didn't know whether it was because of the way he carried himself or whether the anger that emanated off him poisoned the surrounding air. But Cato definitely wasn't happy. "Cato?" he asked, trying to be careful. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," muttered Cato.

"There's something wrong." Peeta was almost scared. It was crazy but there was something almost frightening about Cato being angry. He had never seen it before but there was something extremely off putting about it. "Cato, talk to me, what is it?"

Cato kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He didn't speak and instead pulled Peeta's face toward his for a rough kiss. It was overwhelming and it felt like Cato was pouring every angry thought and feeling into one, hard kiss. Peeta put his hand onto Cato's chest and pushed the tiniest of bits. He wanted Cato to talk to him, not try to kiss the problem away.

"What is it, Cato?" Peeta insisted, turning his head away to get a breath. Cato barely allowed him to get the words out before he dragged Peeta's face back to his. It was like when they took roles in the bedroom, only ten times more intense and forceful. "Cato, come on, you can tell me anything."