Puppet Strings

Chapter Three

"You've certainly changed your tune," he said.

"You bet I have," Cato winked. "Everything's worked out."

"What's worked out?"

"Everything!"

Peeta rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I got that, but what's everything?"

"It doesn't matter now, because it's worked out," said Cato. He kissed Peeta again, much more firmly this time, and hoisted him up by his thighs so they were eye level. Peeta locked his ankles at the small of Cato's back and framed his face in his hands.

"Are you sure? You haven't been yourself lately. I almost thought you'd . . . changed," he said. This was true. Sometimes Peeta even contemplated breaking up with Cato and he would have if he hadn't been so afraid of what Cato might do to him if he did. Not that he thought Cato would do anything to him, per say, he had just always hated confrontation, ever since he was a little boy.

"Changed? Me? Never," grinned Cato. "I've just been going through a rough patch at work." He frowned. "I'm sorry if I was rude to you or . . . have been not myself."

Peeta smiled. "It's alright," he said. Cato kissed the tip of his nose and he giggled childishly. Their lips joined, melding together in one, long, sloppy kiss. It was like he was a teenager again, making out with his first boyfriend on the park bench when he was seventeen. He barely noticed Cato carrying him to the bedroom while they kissed and only realized when he was laid down on the soft cotton of the duvet. "We don't have to have sex," he said. "We could just . . . talk."

Cato crawled onto the bed like a predator, caging Peeta's tiny frame underneath his sturdy one. "But I want to make you feel good. I'm so happy right now, you could feel the same way." He suggestively curled his fingers around the bulge in Peeta's (well, technically Cato's) underwear. "It seems to me like you want this just as much as me."

"There's other ways to feel happiness," Peeta groaned, his battered hips betraying him as they lifted and rolled into Cato's hand.

"But this is the best one, don't you think?" teased Cato. He kissed Peeta again and none-too-gently grabbed his hips. Peeta suppressed a wince and tried to grin and bear it as Cato slid the underwear down his legs and threw it off to the side. Whether Cato noticed the bruises or he refused to acknowledge them, Peeta didn't know, but Cato didn't even spare them a second glance as he hastily tugged off his own clothes and pulled Peeta into his lap.

"Careful," Peeta whispered, although his voice was so small he knew that Cato wouldn't hear him. Cato kissed his neck vehemently, slowly slipping the buttons out of his shirt until the fabric parted down the middle. Peeta moaned as Cato's warm hands pushed underneath the fabric and wound around his waist, slipping down his back under his fingers brushed his rear.

"I love your cute little rump." Peeta yelped when Cato smacked his butt before grabbing his cheeks and massaging them in his hands. The once startled sound melted into an almost serene purring noise and, to hide his embarrassment, Peeta buried his face into Cato's neck. "It's one of the only things that keeps me going when I'm having a hard day. Knowing I can come home and have you is worth the frustration."

Peeta felt his cheeks heat up. More like taking your frustration out on me.

"And you know how much I love . . . waiting for you to come home." Why was he lying? Cato surely knows that there are better things Peeta could be doing with his day other than sitting around waiting for him to come home every night?

"I know you do," Cato murmured breathily into Peeta's ear. "You're like a beautiful housewife that way."

Housewife? Peeta almost scoffed. They had done this so often now, it barely took Cato ten seconds to find his sweet spot. And once the sweet spot was found, rational thought would be thrown out the window. True to the statement, as soon as Cato brushed the tiny bump, Peeta moaned so loudly, he knew he'd be ashamed of it later. His back arched into Cato and his nails scrabbled at his back.