Author's Note—I could apologize a thousand times and never deserve the readers that have stuck by me in the very long wait for this chapter (or any of my chapters, really) and all I can say is sometimes life gets in the way and things that bring you joy—like selfishly writing fanfic—have to take a backseat. I cannot promise that another update will come soon, but it will come, as will updates to other stories. I have not forgotten, or abandoned, any of them.

To all of you who have PMed me and/or left kind messages with El on her Tumblr, thank you. To anyone who has emailed me directly, thank you. To anyone who emailed me on Gmail…well, I locked myself out of that account, so I apologize for the stone cold silence.

El, you remain my constant (if I can borrow a Lost reference) and I cannot thank you enough for your friendship and encouragement. ILY. All mistakes are mine.

~Spain, continued~

Peeta and I cross the parking lot. My skin prickles and I know it's not just from the slight chill to the spring night air. The tension between us is thick and palpable.

I'm torn. Part of me—the irrational part that wants to ignore logic and get naked with him every time we're alone together— yearns for to hear Peeta say something, anything, to break this uncomfortable silence. But the other part of me, the reasonable part, knows that makes me a hypocrite. It's better that no words pass between us. After all, I had been the one to say this wasn't the time or place to have a serious talk. I can't have it both ways.

When we reach the yacht, Peeta stops. His eyes root me in place, sadness swimming in the blue depths. And confusion. Regret too. And I put them all there. I swallow hard and fight the urge to reach up and cup his cheek. I sense that he wants to speak, but a few seconds pass and he doesn't. I see his throat bob. He gestures with his hand, motioning for me to ascend first. As carefully as I can in my heels, I climb, with Peeta right behind me, still silent. All I can hear is the jackhammering of my pulse in my ears.

I board the boat and the first face I see is Rye's. His blue eyes—so like his brother's and yet so unlike them–sharpen with comprehension. Johanna is with him. Her gaze sweeps over Peeta and me too, contemplative and curious.

"Well, well, well. Where were you two?" Rye's condescending tone implies he not only suspects exactly where Peeta and I were, but what he thinks we were doing.

"Katniss wasn't feeling well," Peeta replies. He gives me a genuine, sympathetic smile that lends credence to the lie he effortlessly unspools. "She wanted to go for a walk and I didn't want her out there alone." He nods his head towards the marina lot.

Rye gives me a patronizing grin. "Must have been those oysters," he says. Out of the corner of my eye I see Peeta stiffen. His right hand furls into a fist. His jaw clenches. HE clearly didn't miss Rye's implication that his brother was alone with me at some point.

"No," I reply, refusing to play into Rye's hands. "Just felt a little lightheaded. Needed to get some air."

"Well, lucky for you my baby brother is such a gentleman." Sarcasm coats Rye's words. Peeta's expression darkens like a violent summer squall.

"Fuck off, Rye," he growls. And then he stalks away, disappearing up the corridor without another glance back at us. Rye's smirk fades and he shrugs. Then he takes a swig from his bottle of Stella, raises it to me in a mock salute, and walks off in the opposite direction. Johanna gives me an expectant look.

I huff out an irritated sigh. "What?"

"So, where were you, really?" When I hesitate, Johanna rolls her eyes and scoffs, "You needed air? On a goddamn yacht?" Her lips tip up just a tinge. "C'mon, tell me the truth. Did something happen between you two? I saw the way Golden Boy was looking at you when he showed up for his photo session. He must have checked his phone at least dozen times in the hour he was there. He didn't think he was being obvious, but he was." Her eyebrows lift and that look returns.

But hearing Johanna refer to Peeta as "Golden Boy" vaults me right back to my unpleasant conversation with Rye. If there is anything truth to the accusation that Rye leveled—about Peeta's interest in me being a result of me being "off-limits"—Johanna would likely have some insight to it. Her position at Mellark requires her to be close to both men.

Casually I ask, "Are they always like this? Peeta and Rye?" Keeping the focus on the two of them is a safe place to start.

Johanna purses her lips and studies me. I suspect she knows I'm evading her interrogation. Still, she gives a little half-shrug and says, "They're never going to be best friends. But in the off-season they're civil to each other. They hang out occasionally. You saw them the night of Peeta's birthday."

"But during the season?" I prompt. Some partygoers jostle us on their way past. Johanna mutters something under her breath and drags me further up the hallway, out of the way of drunken revelers.

"During the season they're liking fucking oil and water," she replies. She withdraws a cigarette and a lighter from her clutch. Angling her face away from me, she blows out a stream of smoke. "And Rye's usually the instigator," she adds. Even though I absolutely believe that, having witnessed it first-hand, I play dumb and ask her how that is.

Johanna takes a long drag from her cigarette and flicks the ash over the side of the boat. Then she stares back at me, her hazel eyes appraisingly me critically. Her countenance hardens.

"You'd better not be fucking around with him," she says bluntly and then sucks on the tip of her cigarette. The allegation catches me off guard. I feel my jaw unhinge and I gape at her. She can't possibly think that I'd do anything with Rye, that I could ever do something like that to Peeta.

Johanna exhales a wispy ribbon of smoke. It curls upward and dissipates. "You'd better not fucking around with Peeta," she clarifies, and silences me with that icy stare before I can protest. "I'm not talking about fucking in the literal sense, although I know damn well that's at the root of this thing with you and Peeta. I'm talking about fucking around with his emotions. Leading him around like a puppy dog."

My spine straightens, and my mind quickly aligns with the rest of my body to shift into defensive mode. "I've made it perfectly clear to Peeta that what is between us is solely professional and it needs to stay that way," I say.

"Have you?" she challenges.

"Yes, I have. That's what we were talking about out in the marina lot." I breathe in deeply, letting the night air fill my lungs. "Things got a little, um, intense earlier, before Peeta's photo session. We kissed. I mean, he kissed me." I pause, ignoring the flip in my stomach that surfaces remembering the way his lips claimed mine, the way he held me, and wait for Johanna's reaction to this news. Nothing but a subtle crook of one eyebrow. Apparently, she's not surprised by this revelation.

"But it was a mistake," I continue. "And I told him that. I would never want to do anything to get Peeta in trouble or endanger his position on the team…the whole contract thing, you know."

Johanna cocks her head at me, studying me pensively again. She finishes her cigarette and flicks it overboard. Then she exhales and leans against the rail. She folds her arms across her chest. "Let me ask you this: If it wasn't for that contract, what would you do?"

I exhale slowly. I know what Johanna is getting at: she thinks that I'm using the clause in Peeta's contract as a convenient excuse to avoid getting involved with him. And I know Peeta suspects the same, given the last thing he said to me before we walked back to the yacht.

But the answer to her question is far more complicated than either of them thinks it is. Because truthfully, Peeta's contract is a convenient excuse for me to avoid confronting the deeper reason I've been reluctant to give in to my feelings for him.

Johanna obviously gets impatient waiting for my answer, because she rolls her eyes again. "Your mouth can deny it all you want, but the rest of you is screaming how much you are attracted to Peeta. Anyone can see the way you look at him."

"I don't—" I start. Johanna holds up a hand, but before she can continue, Effie's high-pitch trill announces her presence.

"There you are!" she cries triumphantly. "Come, come, darling. The people from HBO Sports are here! Henrik is with them now. You should really say hello, since you will be doing that interview and all." She loops her arm through mine and starts to draw me away from Johanna.

As much as I hate small talk I'm grateful for the reprieve from Johanna's cross-examination, though something tells me from the look she gives me when I say goodbye to her that our conversation is far from over. I give Johanna a less-than-authentic apologetic smile, then I willingly follow Effie up the corridor, vowing to put all thoughts of Peeta Mellark aside for the rest of the night.

The next morning an incoming text message jolts me awake. With my head still resting on the pillow, I fumble around on the nightstand until my hand finds purchase with my phone. Rolling onto my side, I blink a few times. My eyes focus on the screen just as a second message, this one a picture, comes through. Both texts are from Prim. I groan when I notice the time at the top of the screen. I love my sister, but sooner or later she's going to have to remember to think and do some time zone math before she texts me. It's barely five a.m. here in Barcelona.

Prim: OMG! Look who made it onto TMZ!

Frowning, I tap on the second message to enlarge the picture, which appears to be a screen cap Prim has taken from the gossip rag's website. The headline reads: "F1 Driver Peeta Mellark—Fast Mover!" Beneath the lame headline are two photos, side-by-side. The one on the left is a candid taken as Peeta and I walked the red carpet last night. My gaze lasers on Peeta. He's so damn photogenic. Those eyes. That smile. That jawline. My fingers start to inch towards the screen, intent on tracing the curve of that perfect jaw. But I stop cold when my eyes flick to the right and land on the second photo. It shows Peeta standing very, very close to a gorgeous woman. One of his arms is vined around her slender waist. From the angle of the photograph I can't tell where his other arm is. Her hands frame his face, holding him in place, as if they are about to kiss. My stomach starts to churn as I skim the blurb that accompanies the photos:

Formula 1 hotshot Peeta Mellark is a speed demon on the track…and clearly he moves just as fast with the ladies off the track. Mellark arrived at the Bacardi party in Barcelona tonight with one girl—and left with another! He walked the red carpet with Katniss Everdeen, who sources tell us is the chief mechanic for his race team. However, it seems that lingerie model Enobaria Delacroix might be the one who is really getting under Mellark's hood. Sources say Mellark and Delacroix stayed at the party until the early hours of the morning before leaving together.

God, who writes this shit? I slam my phone back on the nightstand. I flop back on the mattress and stare up at the ceiling.

You can't be mad. You don't get to be mad. You pushed him away.

After he walked away from me at the party, I hadn't seen Peeta again for the rest of the evening, though about an hour later he had texted me to let me know that whenever I was ready to leave his driver would be available to get me back to the hotel. I returned the text, thanking him, but he never replied. I guess now I know where —and with whom—he was. The churning in my stomach becomes more violent thinking about Peeta going home with that gorgeous supermodel.

With a frustrated groan, I grab the other pillow and smush it over my face, as if that could smother my jealousy and silence my subconscious. What the hell is Peeta Mellark doing to me?

I lob the pillow aside and roll over to grab my phone. There's no way Prim is asleep yet, not if she's sending me pictures. A minute later, she answers.

"Why are you calling me?" she demands. My brows furrow.

"You just sent me a text—" I start, but Prim's exasperated sigh cuts me off.

"You didn't go home with him, did you?" she asks, disappointment thick in her voice.

"Go home with who?" I ask. What the hell is she talking about?

"Um, Peeta Mellark?"

My phone nearly tumbles out of my grip as I process to where Prim's delusional little mind has tripped. I regain my grasp and sit up in bed. "Why would I have gone home with Peeta Mellark?"

"Because," she drawls, dragging out the word, "anyone looking at that photo of you two at that party last night could see that he looked like he wanted to ravage you right there on the red carpet!"

My delusional stomach gives a little flip at Prim's comment. I think about the way Peeta's eyes locked on mine when he caged me in with his body on the private deck—right before he kissed me. My gut curdles almost immediately, though, when I remember my lips were probably not the only ones Peeta sampled last night. I shove the unpleasant thought aside.

"Prim, did you read the post?" I ask, even though I know she couldn't have. There's no way she'd be jumping to the assumption that I spent the night in Peeta's bed if she read the blurb about Peeta leaving the party with a beautiful, sexy underwear model.

Prim gets quiet. For several moments she doesn't say anything, but I can hear the faint clicks of keystrokes. There's an "oh." And another "oh," followed by a sigh, and not one of exasperation this time. This sigh is all apology.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't see that. I just saw the picture of you and him…and…" she trails off.

"Yeah." I pick at the nap of the hotel's comforter. "Peeta and I arrived at the party together, but that's it. It was a professional obligation. If he went home with anyone it was probably that model. Sorry to burst your bubble."

"Oh my god," she whispers. "You like him. You so like him."

"Prim," I protest, but she cuts me right off.

"Katniss," she retorts, "I'm your sister. I know you better than anyone. And you can deny it all you want, but I heard it in your voice just now."

"Heard what?" I hedge.

"You're jealous. You like Peeta Mellark and you don't like the thought that he could have been with someone else last night." Her tone softens. "Katniss, it's okay to admit that you might actually want a guy."

I close my eyes. All I see is Peeta. Those eyes. That smile. That jawline. Shit, not again. I huff out a sigh. Prim's right. Yes, I want him. And if I'm honest with myself, I want him more than I've wanted anything in a long, long time.

But that's not enough.

"Whether or not I want Peeta Mellark is irrelevant," I tell Prim. "There are just too many factors at play here and it means I have to keep things between us strictly work-related."

"Factors. What factors?" Prim scoffs. When I start to rattle off all the reasons that Peeta and I need to stay firmly in the friend zone—his contract, my job, media scrutiny—Prim snorts and interrupts me yet again.

"Please. None of those things should matter if there's a real attraction between you and him." There's a pause, and then she clears her throat. "You can't fool me, Katniss. This isn't about some silly clause in Peeta's contract or you worrying about locker room talk or media speculation. You've never given a shit what people think about you—and I mean that in the best way. This is about is you and your guarded heart and your refusal to let anyone get close to you."

I stay quiet, letting her accusation settle into my bones. Again, she's right. Up until this point in my life I've been fortunate that my heart has never been challenged. Not even tempted, really. The only man who has pursued me is Gale Hawthorne. We spent a few awkward months "dating" when we were teenagers, and I gave him a second chance several years ago before I permanently broke it off again. Despite his better efforts, I've just never felt anything beyond friendship for him.

"Peeta's a driver, Prim," I say, as if that explains everything.

"Gale is a driver too," she retorts, throwing my hypocrisy right back in my face. I don't have a response for her. "Katniss," Prim says gently, "Peeta Mellark is not Dad. And you're not Mom. You are so much stronger than her. You can't let fear stop you from following your heart."

I heave an exasperated sigh. "Why do you keep bringing up my heart? This has nothing to do with love. It's an attraction, if anything, and it will pass. Lust always fades."

"If you say so," replies Prim quietly, and I know she knows I'm lying to her as much as I'm lying to myself.

After Prim lets the whole Peeta thing drop, we end up talking for nearly an hour. Most of our conversation centers on her, at my insistence. I need to hear about everything that's going on in her life. She prattles on about her classes and her friends and some new guy she's crushing on. I listen, letting her familiar voice and her sunny optimism about anything and everything comfort me.

When we eventually hang up, I try to close my eyes and drift back off. But it's futile. My mind is a whirlwind, and it keeps whipping back to what Prim said about me guarding my heart. Determined not to dwell on thoughts of what Peeta Mellark does to me, I roll out of bed and throw on a sports bra and some leggings. I lace up my sneakers and head down to the hotel gym.

Bad decision.

As soon as I swipe my room key and the gym doors unlock for me, I hear the rhythmic whirr of a rowing machine. I look over to them and my eyes land on Peeta. His back is to me, his head down, the defined muscles of his shoulders and back bunching with every stroke. Sweat darkens his hair, turning the flaxen strands a burnished gold. The very last person I need to see right now.

I know I should slip back out before he can see me, but I can't seem to coax my suddenly leaden legs to move. Instead, I hover in the doorway, watching him glide back and forth. His movements are so fluid, so effortless, that it's hard to believe he's breaking a sweat. But his heavy breaths are audible over the noise of the machine, so I know he's pushing himself hard. I tilt my head to the left, imagining what it would be like to hear that same deep breathing if he was buried inside me. Heat suffuses my limbs and I feel myself get wet. My nipples pucker. My breath catches. And at that exact moment, as if he has some sixth sense that can read my debauched thoughts, Peeta raises his head. In the mirrored wall that runs the length of the far wall his gaze snares mine and roots me in place. Frozen, I can't stumble backwards fast enough.

Dammit. Busted.

Peeta yanks out his earbuds and slides all the way back on the machine. Then he stands and reaches for a towel, all the while holding my stare captive. He mops at his face and the back of his neck, drapes the towel over his shoulders, and then turns to face me with a playful smile.

"Morning. You going to come in to work out, or you just gonna stand there and admire the view?"

"I, ah, I was just going to use the treadmill, but I can come back later," I reply. His grin falters. A flicker of hurt crosses his handsome face

"Don't change your plans on my account." Instantly I feel badly for implying I didn't want to be here simply because he was—even if it is partially the truth.

"I just don't want to disturb you," I say hastily. Another half-truth. Peeta's countenance softens.

"You are never a disturbance," he replies. He saunters towards me, and when he comes to a stop in front of me his blue eyes rake up and down the length of me once, twice. My pebbled nipples harden more at his deliberate perusal. His throat bobs as he adds, "Maybe a distraction, but never a disturbance."

I know where he's going with this, but I can't entertain his flirting. It's not fair to him, not if I'm resigned to keep things between us professional. And it's not fair to me, if he's pledging to fuck me one minute but spending the night with a supermodel the next.

"I'll do my best not to distract you," I say, making a move to brush past him. But his hand reaches out and coasts down my bare waist, settling on my right hip.

"You have no idea, do you?" He's so close that his breath fans across my cheek and his incredible scent floods my nose. Sweat and musk and that faint trace of spices, like cinnamon or nutmeg or something delicious. Talk about distractions.

"No idea what?" I reply, wincing as I hear my breath hitch. His fingers are branding my skin, setting me aflame again. I need to free myself from his touch before I do something stupid like throw myself into his arms and attack his lush mouth. So I step backwards, twisting my torso away from Peeta. He takes the hint and draws back his hand. His lips purse as his gaze considers me.

"Nothing," he says. "Don't work too hard." And he turns and strides out of the gym, the door clicking shut behind him. My shoulders sag. My heart thumps erratically. I take a deep breath, straighten up, and walk towards the treadmill.

Fifteen miles on the treadmill doesn't do much to clear my muddled thoughts, so after I finish up in the gym I head to the garage. The Spanish Prix is still several days away, but there's always something that can be done. And working always grounds me.

But the second I walk into the building Hurricane Delly strikes. She jumps up from behind her desk and barrels towards me.

"Katniss! Oh my gosh! Did you have fun last night? I saw pictures, and you looked a-may-zing!" She squeals out each syllable. "I loved your dress! Did Peeta like it? He definitely liked it, right? I mean…he ogles you when you're wearing coveralls, so I bet he could barely take his eyes off you all dressed up. I bet—"

"Delly." I hold my hand up and her mouth snaps shut. But her blue eyes dance and her expression is fraught with hopeful anticipation.

"I did have a nice time last night," I start. Delly's brows slip.

"Nice?" she echoes.

"Parties have never really been my scene."

"Oh, we're totally going to have to change that!" she chirps, and immediately starts babbling about some guy she recently met and how he's a deejay at some exclusive club in the city and how we need to go check it out before our time here in Barcelona ends. It's the last thing I want to do, but Delly, like all other Mellarks, is so damn persuasive that I find myself tentatively agreeing to go out with her and Johanna, if not tomorrow then sometime soon. Placated, Delly grins and claps her hands together.

"Now," she drawls, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "back to last night. Tell me about you and Peeta."

"There's nothing to tell," I reply. "Peeta and I walked the red carpet together, but we really didn't see each other much after that." It's not entirely a lie. Delly shakes her head vehemently.

"No. No way. I know there's something there! Peeta is so different around you. I've never seen him like this around any other woman. You guys could be so good together, if only…" she stops. Then she purses her lips and huffs out a breath that blows her blonde bangs upward. "You know, my uncle isn't an unreasonable man. That clause is there because of one stupid, selfish bitch. If Henrik knows how much you and Peeta like each other, he would—"

"Delly," I say gently, "stop. Clause or no clause, Peeta and I are not meant to be. And besides, he wasn't lacking for company last evening."

Delly's eyes widen with sympathy as I relay the details of the TMZ post speculating on Peeta and Enobaria Delacroix's probable hookup.

"Oh, Katniss. There's got to be an explanation for it," Delly says. I wave my hand dismissively.

"No explanation needed. Peeta can have any woman he wants. More power to him." I have to give myself some credit—I sound almost genuine.

"But he wants you!" insists Delly.

"Delly." Henrik appears in the doorway and I cringe thinking that he overheard any part of my exchange with Delly. But when his gaze lands on me he smiles warmly and says, "Oh, hello Katniss. I didn't realize you were here this morning." He walks towards Delly and hands her an envelope. "Would you mind taking this to FedEx? There's one three blocks from here." He winks at his niece. "And grab some espressos on your way back."

Delly nods obediently and flounces off. And as much as I love her, I'm grateful for the reprieve from her third-degree. I give Henrik a little wave, earning me one of those luminous Mellark grins that his sons—especially his youngest—inherited.

Henrik disappears back into the office, and I make my way into the garage, where I pull on my coveralls, queue up my music, and slide into the driver's seat of Peeta's car.

A Formula 1 steering wheel is one of the most complex pieces of technology you'll ever get your hands on. It has to be, since drivers must be able to control its settings while going at nearly 200 miles an hour. Most drivers are meticulously particular about their wheels. Peeta is no exception and I learned his preferences quickly. Thus, his wheel is something I check, and recheck, and recheck some more, up until the very minute he slips into his car on race day.

I work in pleasurable quiet for a while, humming along with whatever comes on the shuffle. It's the perfect tonic—but it's only temporary. I'm fiddling with the ignition rotary switch when I hear a voice say, "You wouldn't have struck me as the type who trolls the gossip blogs." I glance up and find Peeta staring down at me, phone in hand. He angles his screen towards me, showing me the exact same image that Prim sent me: the online post from TMZ. Shit. Delly and her big mouth. I sigh and slump back against the seat.

"Is this why you couldn't wait to get away from me at the gym?" he probes, adding, "Because it's not what they made it out to sound like."

Without thinking, I say, "What it sounded like is that you had a very good time last night." Peeta's chest rises on a deep breath and he frowns. Then he lowers himself into a squat so that his face is even with mine.

"Will you get out of the car, or are we going to have to talk like this?"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Peeta. I—"

"Dammit, Katniss!" he hisses, blue eyes blazing. "Please get out of the car so we can talk!" He straightens to his full height and thrusts his hand towards me to help me extricate myself from the racecar. The minute his fingers wrap around mine my body erupts in shivers. Goosebumps race along my arms and my nipples pucker. Fortunately I'm wearing my coveralls so this time Peeta can't see the reaction he incites in me.

I stride away from him, over to the workbench and lean against it, planting my hands on my hips. Peeta follows, stopping too close to me for my comfort. I narrow my eyes at him and he automatically takes a step back.

"You don't owe me an explanation," I repeat. "And I'm not upset with you, if that's what you think. You are free to hook up with beautiful models or pop stars or whoever else you want. We've been over this." Because we have. Peeta and I had this exact same conversation when I saw him in that hotel bar in China with Glimmer.

He closes the scant distance between us and locks his eyes on me. "There's only one woman on the planet that I want. And you damn well know who she is. It's important to me that you know that, and it's important to me that you let me explain what happened last night. I swear I didn't just go find some other woman to get my rocks off because you rejected me."

The word "rejected" sounds so harsh. I stiffen and start to protest, "I didn't—"

"You did," he insists, his voice soft, with just the slightest trace of hurt. "You did reject me. I left for my photo session on clouding fucking nine thinking I had everything to look forward to, and an hour later you were pushing me away." He sucks in a breath and lifts his gaze to the ceiling briefly. He returns his eyes to me and exhales. "And so, yeah, I needed some distance after that, to clear my head. Between you and the run-in with my brother…I needed to be alone."

But you weren't alone. You were with that supermodel, I think. But I silence the jealous little voice inside my head and let him continue.

"Of course, it was naïve of me to think that would have been possible with a couple thousand people on that yacht." A bitter edge has crept into his voice, and it makes me think of the day he and I spent at the beach. That day he had seemed so nonchalant about his fame and the intrusions of privacy he constantly endures. But at this moment, I realize that Peeta—gregarious, charming, happy Peeta—is a far better actor than I've given him credit for. Sympathy for him tugs at my heart. I yearn to give him a hug, but I fear even a friendly embrace would be too dangerous, too tempting.

He rubs at his jaw. "A bit later on I ran into Enobaria, and she wanted to catch up. We had done an ad campaign together a few years ago."

Of course she did, that jealous voice nags again. I resist every urge I have to roll my eyes, and I bite my lip instead. Peeta doesn't miss it, and his eyes flare. He steps closer and his voice dips into that sexy-husky register I've grown so addicted to. "I know how it looked. But Enobaria is French. What that paparazzo captured was this." As his palms frame my jaw, my stomach bottoms out. He leans forward and brushes his lips over my right cheek. I can smell the mint on his breath and see the golden hairs stippling his cheeks and chin as he shifts and grazes my left cheek with his mouth. My heartbeat takes off in a sprint. He draws back, his eyes locked on mine. Waiting. Daring me.

I feel irritation flash in me as our gazes spar. Abruptly, I plant my palms on that broad chest and shove hard. His eyes round with surprise as he stumbles back.

"Enough with the games!" I shout, and then immediately wince. I need to lower my voice and keep my temper in check. I definitely don't need Henrik or Haymitch coming in here to investigate why I'm yelling at Peeta.

"Games?" Peeta folds his arms across his chest. His blue eyes challenge me.

"Yes, games," I spit. "Your little demonstration just now. You're deliberately trying to get a rise out of me!"

He shakes his head, a smirk toying with the corners of his mouth. "I did nothing of the sort. I'm showing you exactly how I kissed Enobaria last night. Just two friends saying hello. No spark. No fire.

"But you and I, Katniss…well, nothing about us is innocent, is it?" My fingers furl into a fist, but before I can argue with him his gaze sharpens and lands on my throat, where my objection is trapped. "Don't lie to yourself. This was different because we are different. You felt something just now. Your face has that pretty flush to it and—" He inches towards me cautiously, the way one might approach a sleeping animal, and he presses his index and middle fingers just below my jaw. My frenetic pulse leaps furiously against his fingertips. His lips curl in triumph.

"You're as turned on from that "innocent" kiss as I am," he whispers thickly. His fingers skim along my skin as he lets his hand drop. My eyes follow the movement to where his palm rests on his thigh. Right next to the very obvious bulge at the front of his jeans. For a moment, I allow myself to remember what his cock felt like pressed up against me last night. My sex clenches in response. I try to look away from his erection but don't do it quickly enough for him not to notice me ogling it.

"Yeah, I'm hard," he replies bluntly. "This is the effect you have on me, just from being near you. Thinking about you. And I think about you all the time, Katniss. All the fucking time. I was thinking about you the entire time I was with Enobaria and I was still thinking about you when I went home alone."

I mash my lips together to mask my reaction to his confession. Despite my promise not to spend my night thinking about Peeta Mellark, that was pretty much allI had done too. It hadn't helped that most of the conversations I had with people throughout the evening revolved around him. And really, how the hell was I supposed to resist thinking about him when I had to keep talking about him?

"I don't know what the fuck Rye said to you last night, but I know he had something to do with your sudden 180," Peeta accuses. His tone bears no bitterness; rather, he sounds anguished. And Peeta's pain is my weakness. I know from the flicker that briefly lights his eyes that my own distressed expression is his answer. "What did he say to you, Katniss?" he coaxes gently.

"It's not important," I say. But I don't sound even remotely convincing.

"It is important," he volleys back. I bite my lip. I don't want to do anything to further fracture his already tenuous relationship with Rye, but the beseeching look that Peeta is giving me reminds me that my loyalty lies with him. Our romantic entanglement might be a mess but I value our friendship more than anything. And so, with a deep breath I give Peeta an abbreviated version of my conversation with his brother. I try to shift any blame from Rye, but I can see Peeta's jaw lock tight and a vein in his neck ticks visibly as he listens.

"Why the fuck would you believe him?" he asks. He shakes his head. "I would never, ever disrespect you like that, Katniss. Am I a competitive person? Yeah. Do I like to win? Fuck yeah, I do. But you are not some fucking game to me. I want you because I want you. Because I can't stop thinking about how sweet you'd taste on my tongue or how fucking good you'd feel on my cock."

"Peeta," I warn, ignoring the free fall of my stomach and the urgent throb that pulses between my legs. He takes my right hand in his.

"You're not a game, Katniss," he echoes, his thumb trailing over my knuckles. "And it's very important to me that you know that."

"O-okay." I stutter. He squeezes my hand.

"So we're good?" he whispers hopefully. I stare down at our clasped hands and a strange flutter moves through my belly.

"We're good," I reply.

"Good." His smile morphs to a wide grin. "Because when you finally come to your senses and give in to the inevitable and you're under me and I'm inside you, I don't want there to be any doubt in your mind."

"You're incorrigible," I say, the flutter morphing into a full-blown tremor.

He laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now—" he pauses and releases my hand so he can pull his phone from his pocket. "How much longer do you think you'll be here?" I glance past Peeta to his car. There's plenty that I could do, but nothing that is truly pressing. There's another full day before qualifying. I shrug.

"I don't know," I say truthfully.

"I'll give you an hour. Then you're all mine. There's a gorgeous city out there and you haven't seen enough of it." He brushes past me, his fingers ghosting along my hip as he passes. "One hour," he calls over his shoulder.

Peeta keeps his promise, returning exactly sixty minutes later. For the rest of the day, I allow him to play tour guide. He shows me all his favorite sights in Barcelona. As we wander around the city, we argue lightheartedly about whether La Sagrada Familia is a breathtaking masterpiece (his opinion) or sheer foolishness given its 130-year construction work (my opinion). I learn he's an art lover during brief visits to the Museu d'Art Contemporani and the Museu Picasso. He talks animatedly about the paintings and sculptures and the artists who created them. I find myself listening rapt, despite my own indifference to art.

At the end of the afternoon, Peeta takes me to his favorite tapas bar, where he introduces me to authentic Spanish sangria. I'm not generally a huge drinker, but Peeta works his usual charm to persuade me to join him indulging in a large carafe of it. When I make a joke about having to work it off, Peeta's blue eyes gleam wickedly as he suggests he knows far more creative ways to burn calories than running on a treadmill.

So, yeah, that dangerous undercurrent of attraction still crackles between us, threatening to catch fire at any moment.

The morning of the Spanish Prix dawns dark and ominous. Gray clouds tinged with black, swollen with rain, threaten to burst at any moment. The first raindrops plunk down just as I reach the garage and steady drizzle is falling by the time Peeta takes to the track for warm-ups an hour later.

It's extremely rare that races are postponed for any kind of inclement weather. Formula 1 drivers just have to learn to cope with the hazards caused by wet conditions. A slick track requires even more concentration and precision on the part of the driver. Along with the usual obstacles, there's the added danger of hydroplaning, which of course dramatically increases the odds of collisions.

"Be careful out there," I say into my headset after Peeta completes his final tire and system checks and he gets into pole position on the grid.

"Oh, I love it when things are wet," he says. My mind takes a swan dive right into the gutter and my cheeks flame, because I can envision the deviously sexy smirk that I know is gracing his lips from uttering the innuendo.

"Peeta! I'm not the only one on this frequency," I scold.

"I'm not joking, Katniss. I don't mind the rain at all. Sure, it complicates things. But I'm very good at complicated matters. The race becomes more of a head game and it doesn't favor the drivers who are pure speed, like Finnick Odair and Cato Wagner."

I can see that. Part of Peeta's meteoric rise to success has been his ability to combine speed and precision. He's one of the most skilled drivers I've ever seen in action. My father, who was hailed for the same prowess in his day, would have been in awe of Peeta's talent. I feel a faint pang in my chest at the thought.

"Well, still…be careful," I warn again. "And good luck."

"The odds are in my favor. Trust me on this one." His voice oozes confidence. And I do trust him. Peeta makes it very easy to believe in him.

A few minutes later, the director switches off the paired lights and the race is on. The cars peal off, Peeta immediately jostling for position with the usual challengers.

The rain intensifies through the early laps, and the wet track definitely affects the drivers. But Peeta is exactly right: Finnick Odair and Cato Wagner ultimately fall to the middle of the pack. Marvel Allen, Capitol Racing's number-two driver, and Lewis Boggs, Star Racing's primary driver, are the ones vying with Peeta and Rye for the lead.

Eventually the rain stops. The sun appears through a fissure in the clotted clouds just as Peeta and Rye commence the final lap. It's clear that Mellark Racing is going to finish one-two; the only question is which brother is going to cross the finish line ahead of the other. When the checkered flag waves, Peeta edges Rye by a microscopic 0.174 seconds, the closest finish yet on this season's Prix. Our pit erupts into celebration.

Peeta climbs out of his car moments later, shedding his helmet and balaclava. "I told you so," he mouths to me and winks. He high-fives some of the crew and then vanishes for the post-race formalities while I wait patiently for the race officials to complete the inspection of Peeta's car. Once they give me the all clear, I set to work getting the car stripped and ready for transport to Monaco.

That night, I'm brushing my teeth when my phone lights up with a text message. I glance down at the screen and read:

Peeta: I have champagne.

I sigh, toothbrush still jammed between my back molars, and pick up my phone. Three words—but so much implied in them. My fingers hover over the keys.

Katniss: Congrats on your win.

Peeta: Thats exactly why I have the champagne. Now all I need is my best girl to celebrate w me.

Katniss: Long day. Tired. I was just getting ready for bed.

Peeta: I would be more than willing to help you w that.

I playfully roll my eyes at the little devil emoji that he's stuck on the end of his message. Another text comes through.

Peeta: But seriously…Please? I wont keep you up too late, promise.

I spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth. I can picture the exact look he'd be giving me, that one that rivals a stray puppy pleading to be taken home. He makes it so hard to say no to him.

Katniss: Ok. But Delly and Jo both asleep so will have to be quiet.

Peeta: I have a better idea. Come to the elevator.

Katniss: Already in my pjs.

Peeta: Cant wait to see that. I'll be waiting.

It's the last message I get.

After a quick glimpse down at my thin camisole and sleep shorts, I decide to pad back into my room to retrieve a zippered hoodie and my flip-flops. I shove my room key into the hoodie's pocket and tiptoe down the hall to the bank of elevators. Peeta's already standing inside the one nearest to me. His left hand clutches the neck of a bottle of champagne while his other hand rests on the button that holds the doors open. He looks effortlessly sexy in a snug white t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that sit low on his hips. He's barefoot, which somehow only amplifies his sexiness. I step inside the elevator and arch my brows at him quizzically. His mouth slowly curves into a smile as he releases the button and pushes another button. There's a chirping sound as he scans his room key. The elevator lurches into motion.

"I know you're tired. We don't have to stay up there for long," he says, reaching for my hand.

"Up where?" I ask. Suspicion fringes my voice but my nerves erupt in unexpected excitement. He purses his lips at me.

"The roof. It's a beautiful night now that the rain has stopped."

"Peeta!" I exclaim. "We can't go up there! The pool is closed!" He just threads his fingers through mine and squeezes. A moment later, the elevator glides to a stop. "This is crazy!" I hiss as he leads me towards the roof door. He slides his room key through a scanner and the little light on the door flashes green three times. He opens it and holds it for me.

"After you," he says, bowing theatrically. I shake my head at him as I step out onto the roof.

"How are we allowed to be up here?" I ask, my eyes sweeping over the pool. The water glows with an eerie blue tint from the underwater lights.

He starts to work on the foil on the champagne bottle. "You probably don't want the answer to that," he says.

"Well, of course now you're going to have to tell me." I watch his able fingers twist the wire cage loose from the cork. His chest inflates on the deep breath he takes.

"There's very little my name and my money can't get me," he replies, a sheepish, almost guilty expression stealing across his face. "And tonight what I wanted most is to be alone with you," he adds. A shiver skitters down my spine and my heart kicks my ribs. He motions for me to follow him across the darkened patio to the edge of the pool, where he sits down sideways on a chaise lounge and pats the cushion beside him. I take a seat as he uncorks the champagne with a loud "pop" and offers me the bottle. "Cheers," he says, pushing the bottle into my hand.

"Are we ever going to use glasses?" I ask, taking a small sip of champagne. I pass back the bottle and lick my lips.

"Nah. Guzzling champagne right from the bottle is our thing now. It's very classy." He flashes that grin that makes my heart skip a beat. Stupid heart—so easily led astray by this man.

"At the rate you're winning you'd better have a pretty big stash on hand," I reply, trying to calm my racing pulse by turning the conversation back to safer things. "Another impressive victory today."

His grin softens. "I told you, every win is as much yours as it is mine. We make a great team."

I take a long sip of champagne and let the bubbles dance over my tongue as I gaze out at the twinkling city, Peeta's words of praise burrowing beneath my skin.

Then I feel him gather my loose hair in his hand. "A great team," he repeats. His breath tickles my ear and my neck. A delicious chill washes over me. He kisses just below my earlobe. My pulse takes off again.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I say shakily. His lips continue to trek down the slope of my neck, worshipping my skin with gentle, deliberate kisses. His fingers card through my hair and his other hand slides the zipper of my hoodie down a couple of inches.

"Celebrating our victory," he whispers. His tongue paints a wet trail across my collarbone and I can't help but arch my back as desire flares in me.

"Peeta." I mean to say his name in a warning, but it comes out breathless, like a plea for more. He kisses the hollow of my throat and nudges my chin with his nose as he pulls back. Wordlessly, he takes the champagne bottle from me. His throat bobs as he takes several gulps, and then he sets it down on the concrete. As he stands up, my eyes stray to his groin and the very obvious erection straining against his jeans. With one fluid motion, he strips off his t-shirt and tosses it to the patio. I suck in a breath when I hear the click of metal and the soft switching noise as he undoes his belt and slides it from the loops. I raise my eyes to his navel. The carved slabs of his gorgeous abdominal muscles are cast in shadow. A moment later, his jeans fall to the ground.

He stands before me clad in only a pair of tight black boxer-briefs that do an even poorer job of concealing the evidence of how hard he is. I can see the distinct outline of his cock through the dark fabric. I lick my lips, slower than I intend to. I know he doesn't miss how long my tongue lingers on my bottom lip. His hands move to the waistband of his underwear and when I realize what he intends to do, it finally startles me out of my haze.

"Peeta!" I whisper-scream into the still night. "You can't!" He smirks at me as he works the briefs down his legs. Our gazes collide.

"I can and I am," he retorts. He remains motionless, daring me to look down. But I stubbornly keep staring up at him, knowing damn well if I lay eyes on his bound-to-be-perfect dick that I'll be a goner. My body rebels, heat blooming in my chest and arousal flooding the juncture of my thighs. I want to look. So help me, dammit, I want to look.

"Even in this poor lighting I can see that pretty blush on your face," Peeta murmurs.

"You shouldn't be naked." My voice sounds rough and foreign to my ears. He shrugs and swings his arms around several times, loosening them up.

"I'm not going to swim with my clothes on and I didn't bring a suit," he taunts back. With that, he turns and I get a brief but tantalizing glimpse of his bare butt as he executes a flawless dive into the water. I leap up from the chaise. My flip-flops slap noisily on the concrete as I approach the pool. He surfaces.

"Peeta! It rained earlier and that water—"

"Is heated," he supplies, his muscled arms moving lazily as he treads in place. The water ripples around him, dancing spider webs of shadow and light. "It's delightful." Curious, I kick off my flip-flops and dip a toe into the water. He's right. It's warm. Very warm. More like bathwater than pool water. I settle on the edge of the pool and submerge my feet, my hands resting behind me on the concrete.

Peeta floats on his back, giving me a perfect opportunity to unabashedly ogle his chest. I can only imagine how it might feel to splay my palms over it, to feel his smooth skin and the firm muscles flexing at my touch. My cheeks flame hotter.

He drifts closer to me. "You could come in and join me," he says, his lips quirked up in invitation.

"I'm good here, thanks," I reply, gazing up at the star-pocked sky, not so much for any reason other than to resist the temptation of a very naked, very wet Peeta Mellark only several yards away from me. I can hear soft splashes as he moves around in the water.

But then I feel the light pressure of his fingertips gliding up my calves. I drop my eyes just as he lunges up and yanks me down into the water, into his embrace. I yelp in surprise. He whispers hoarsely, "I think you're better in here," and he crushes his mouth to mine, muffling any objection from me. His lips are wet and hot and insistent as they coax mine to life. His hands slip under my hoodie to skim up and down my back, his touch electric through my now soaked camisole. He grasps my hips and urges me to wrap my legs around his waist. That nagging little voice in my head is screaming for me to push him away, but it's deftly muzzled by the wanton, reckless part of me that Peeta seems to be so good at rousing to life. He breaks our kiss and stares deeply into my eyes.

"Stop thinking, Katniss," he orders, cupping my jaw. The hunger I see dilating his pupils has my stomach doing a death-spiral. "I want you. You want me. This doesn't have to be complicated." I close my eyes, as much to break the connection between us as to gather my tormented thoughts. I do want him. I've wanted him from the moment I first saw him.

"Katniss?" I open my eyes.

"It is complicated," I say quietly.

"It doesn't have to be," he insists.

"Your contract," I say. Peeta makes a scoffing noise.

"Let me worry about that stupid fucking clause," he says.

"But I don't want to do anything that would jeopardize your job, or mine."

"Katniss," he says softly, "I would never allow anything to happen to your job. You're the best mechanic I've ever had. You're stuck with me." He touches his thumb to the center of my bottom lip. He gently draws it down and descends on my mouth for a whisper of a kiss. "Stop fighting this. Stop fighting us. Be with me. Please." His lips brush mine a second time, snipping any remaining threads of my logic. I'm powerless to resist him anymore. For one night I can give in to this thing between us. One night to get whatever this thing between us is out of both our systems.

I hoist myself higher on his solid frame and squeeze his hips with my thighs. My fingers delve into his wet hair. He holds me in place with one strong arm and cradles my neck with his other hand to deepen our kiss. His lips move against mine with more pressure, more urgency. He takes my top lip between his and the slight scrape of his teeth has me clutching him tighter, needing to be as close to him as humanly possible.

Unlike our previous kisses, there's something different fueling this one. We both know where this is going and that this time I'm not going to be stopping us. Our mouths tussle eagerly. Peeta's tongue circles my lips twice before nudging them apart. He slides his tongue along mine, licking tentatively at first but soon possessing my tongue with bolder strokes. I try to match him, but all of my senses are on overload and lust is clouding my brain, so I just give in and let his expert tongue guide mine.

After several minutes, we break apart to catch our breath, but the smoldering look in Peeta's eyes nearly makes me forget how to take the air into my lungs. He brings his thumb up to caress my cheek and keeps his eyes locked on mine as his other hand slowly unzips my hoodie the rest of the way. He eases it off my shoulders and tosses it onto the concrete, where it lands with a loud splat. The air between us thickens more and crackles with electricity as he lowers his gaze to my chest. My wet camisole is transparent now; my nipples are clearly visible through the sheer fabric. Peeta's thumb traces a slow path along my jawline, down the column of my throat, and pauses in the valley between my breasts. Slowly, he slides his palm across my right breast and traps the tip between his index and middle fingers. He tugs gently. I gasp from the sharp spike of pleasure that travels right to my core.

"Fuck do I love that sound," he murmurs. He plucks my nipple again. I issue a moan in response, and dig my fingertips into his scalp. He continues to pinch my nipple lightly. Bolts of current zip through me, my body starting to sing for him.

Peeta walks us to the shallower end of the pool, where he unwinds me from his waist and sets me down. His hands skate around to my back. He bunches up my sodden camisole. I gape at him, frozen, and raise my arms to allow him to peel the top off me. He flicks it over my head and I hear it smack against the concrete. My nipples tingle, anticipating his touch. His hands coast up my ribs, hovering just below my bare breasts.

"Do you remember the first thing I ever said to you?" His eyes are glassy, glazed with lust. They flicker back and forth, searching my eyes for a response. I remember, of course, but I can't find my voice. He continues, "I said that I wanted to know what I had to do to get you to touch me the way you were touching my car. Like it was the most precious thing in the world." His thumbs graze my nipples. The contact invites a grateful sigh to part my lips. Peeta bumps his pelvis against me. His cock prods my stomach.

"But fuck, Katniss, what I wanted even more was to touch you like that. I've wanted to get my hands on you every damn minute since that day." He slants his mouth over mine. This time when his tongue invades my mouth it's in a slow, sensual exploration. His hands roam over my breasts, kneading them possessively but reverently. Each squeeze feels like it's tethered to my core. My clit throbs. Reflexively, I start rolling my hips forward, desperate for more contact with his erection. He makes a little growling sound and seizes my tongue, kissing me hard and deep. His hands venture to the waistband of my sleep shorts. He draws back, breathing heavily, and gives me a wicked smile before diving under the water. His hands skim up my outer thighs, and then he wrests my shorts and panties down my legs, resurfacing with both in his hand. He tosses them onto the patio beside the rest of our discarded clothing. He scrubs his hands through his wet hair and blinks the water from his eyes. A few droplets cling to those beautiful, long lashes.

I'm naked. He's naked. For several minutes we just stare at each other, as if we're both daring the other to make the first move. I moisten my lips and apparently that's all it takes. He winds an arm around my waist and I float closer to him. Our nude bodies are now just inches apart.

"You are so gorgeous," he says softly. His cock nudges my thigh. Impulsively, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the shaft. A little moan slips past my lips at the feel of him in my hand, thick and hard and ready. I slide my palm from root to tip and give him a squeeze.

"God, yes," he hisses. He tilts his head and presses his lips against my neck, suckling lightly. I tighten my grip on him. His tongue traces circles over my pulse point as his hand slithers up my belly to cup my breast. He strokes my nipple lazily. The pressure between my legs mounts as my orgasm starts to take shape. I moan his name and a low groan vibrates in his throat. He kisses me fast and rough before breaking away. I watch as he uses his strong arms to hoist himself up on the pool's ledge, giving me a perfect view of his toned ass. He clambers out of the pool, dripping water everywhere. When he turns around to stare down at me, my eyes hone right in on his groin. It's the first good look I've gotten at his dick, and holy shit it doesn't disappoint. I've never thought a penis could be beautiful, but damned if Peeta Mellark's cock isn't a thing of glory. He's fully hard—and very big. Pre-cum glistens on the crown. I feel an insistent tug behind my bellybutton and my skin prickles as my eyes traverse the length of him. His cock visibly twitches under my scrutiny, provoking an urgent twinge between my legs, along with a very dirty thought: I need that. I need him inside me.

I raise my eyes to meet Peeta's. His mouth curls into a devious grin. He licks his lips and then bends forward slightly. His hands wrap around my upper arms and lift me from the water effortlessly, as if I weigh no more than a feather. Goosebumps fleck my wet skin as I'm exposed to the night air. Instinctively I stretch forward, seeking the warmth of his flesh, but he holds me at arm's length and his gaze slowly treks down my figure. The raw hunger in his expression sends a fresh flurry of shivers rushing through me.

"So much I want to do to you," he starts, his voice low and smoky. "Your body…it's fucking perfection." He steps towards me, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each short, shallow breath. Slowly and deliberately he molds his palm over my left breast. His thumb skims across my nipple. The slight touch ignites heat everywhere, chasing away my chills. Peeta lowers his mouth to mine but he bypasses my waiting lips and I feel his other hand tangle in my damp hair. He tugs lightly, arching my neck, and the tip of his tongue samples my jaw before sliding down to my throat. A needy sound—half moan, half whine—vibrates in my throat right above where his lips are worshipping the tender skin of my collarbone. Peeta growls his approval and his hand guides me to drop my chin. He slants his mouth over mine and his tongue easily parts my lips to plunge into my mouth. Our bodies collide. My breasts crush against his chest and his cock presses against my belly. I coast my hands down his back to grasp his ass. The firm globes of muscle tense under my touch. His pelvis juts forward. His hands slide to my waist and he hoists me up. My legs wrap around his strong thighs and I cling to him.

He walks us backward, our mouths still fused together, until we reach a lounge chair tucked away in a shadowy corner. I wrestle my lips away from his, gasping for breath. Peeta sucks in a breath of his own and then flashes a dark smile. His fingers bite into my hipbones as he settles on the edge chair, bringing me with him. He tugs me forward. I'm so wet with arousal that his cock slips between my lower lips and easily nestles right up against me. It feels so impossibly good that I buck my hips and glide along his hardness again, moaning as it stimulates my clit. Peeta promptly takes my bottom lip between his teeth. The kiss quickly spirals into something desperate. We're ravenous for each other. Tongues duel. Teeth clash. Lips barely hit their target. Hands roam and explore.

Nightfall hasn't lessened the thick humidity in the air. His skin is slick with sweat and I'm sure mine is too. I keep rocking into him, nudging myself closer and closer to that peak I'm chasing. Suddenly he stands, with me still twined around him. He pivots and very gently lays me out on the lounger. Without another word, he strides over to our discarded clothes and bends down to grab his jeans. I sit up on my elbows to watch him as he walks back towards me, his erect cock bobbing with each step. The moonlight catches the foil packet he holds and it gleams briefly.

"Too much," he whispers, stopping beside me. "You were going to send me right over the edge. And I want to be inside you when I come. I want to feel you coming on me. It's all I've been thinking about for months." He rips the packet open and I watch, captivated, as he sheathes himself with the condom. Cautiously he climbs atop me on the lounger, caging me under his lean, hard body. I shiver from the intimacy of his incredulous gaze.

"Tell me we have all night." He takes his cock in his hand and rubs the crown through my soaked folds. I whimper, feeling the slight pressure of him right where I want him most. My clit pulses and my inner muscles contract. He pushes inside me just an inch or so and stares down at me, his blue eyes hazy, his jaw locked tight. "Tell me you're mine tonight so I can fuck you again and again." He penetrates me another inch. I swallow a moan and barely manage a nod.

"All night. I'm yours all night," I echo.

"Good." He grazes my earlobe with his teeth. "Because once isn't going to be enough for me, and right now…" His hot breath causes me to shudder. "Right now, this is going to be..." He exhales and drives into me the rest of the way. I cry out, unprepared for the sheer size of him. Immediately, he stills. I take a deep pull of oxygen and exhale it slowly, letting my body adjust to the sensation of being filled by him.

"You okay?" he asks. I clench my jaw and nod.

"You're…it's…um, been awhile since I..." I stammer. Peeta's eyes round fleetingly and he kisses me slowly and possessively, his kiss speaking his obvious contentment with my awkward confession. He pulls out and then thrusts back into me, beginning a steady but intense rhythm. I arch into him and start to loop my arms around his broad shoulders, intent on letting him take control, but he catches one of my wrists in his grip. He raises my arm above my head and threads our fingers together. He uses his other hand to urge my leg higher on his hip, allowing him to drive even deeper inside me. The way he moves his hips grinds his pelvis into me, placing exquisite pressure on my clit. That familiar tightening in my belly builds. I sink my teeth into my lip and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the climax that is approaching much too quickly. My body feeds off him like I've been starved. Which, I guess, it has. I wasn't lying. I haven't had sex in years. It's been an eternity since I was with Gale. (And if I'm honest that sucked. Both times.) And it's not like I've been getting myself off with any regularity.

Okay, maybe a little more than usual since I started working for Mellark Racing…

But it can't be only these things that have me responding to him the way that I am. Some part of me knows that this is about him—it's Peeta who is inciting this reaction in me. The thought is terrifying and it's far too much to consider in the moment. This needs to be about sex and only sex. Nothing more. I try to silence my thoughts by concentrating on the noises around us: The erotic sounds our bodies are making. Peeta's harsh breathing. The occasional curses that he rasps out. The faint hum of the traffic and tourists on the street below.

Peeta stares down at me, his brows and forehead glistening with perspiration. His blue irises blaze with heat and I can see his pulse hammering in his throat as he tips his head back. An errant bead of sweat rolls along his temple and down his cheek.

"You're so much better than my fantasies," he says between sharp pants for breath. "So fucking good. So tight. So perfect."

I suck in a breath through my nose and clench my muscles around his cock in an attempt to hold off my orgasm. He makes a guttural noise in response, and pounds into me so hard, so deep that I can't fight my climax any longer. The most incredible orgasm rockets through me. My mouth falls open on a moan of his name as my inner muscles spasm wildly, gripping Peeta's cock tighter with each flutter. He groans and rocks into me faster and faster. I close my eyes and give in to the languid bliss overtaking my body.

Inexplicably Peeta's thrusts slow almost to the point where he stops moving, his cock buried deep inside me. I open my eyes in surprise and find him gazing at me in a way that makes my already racing heart accelerate even more. He untangles my fingers from his grip and his hand curls around the nape of my neck to raise me towards him.

"Goddamn, Katniss. Watching you come…it might be the best thing I've ever seen." Something flickers in his irises and his lips kick up into a faint smirk. "I need to see it again," he rasps, his breath skating across my lips. He nudges my knees up to my chest and shifts his weight. As he resumes thrusting, his lips possess mine with a renewed urgency. He wields his mouth like a wand, drawing me under his spell. He really is a phenomenal kisser.

Peeta's hand wedges between our slick bodies. His hand palms my breast and his thumb rouses my nipple. I moan into his mouth and dig my fingertips into his shoulders, bowing my legs wider for him. My first orgasm has barely ebbed, but another one quickly starts to crest.

I know Peeta is nearing his own release when his hips start to stutter and his thrusts become increasingly less controlled. He drags his mouth down to the crook of my neck as his hand slithers further south so his fingers can strum my clit. I can hear him mumbling my name. A few more pumps and he comes. His cock pulses inside me in unison with my heartbeat, trigging my second orgasm. I fall over the edge again, as wave after wave of pure pleasure wash through my boneless body. I feel Peeta lift his mouth away from my neck.

"Open your eyes, Katniss," he says, his voice gravelly. Obediently, I lift my heavy eyelids and look into the bottomless pools of blue staring down at me. He kisses me, his tongue lingering on my bottom lip, before resting his forehead on mine. He's so close I could count each and every one of those mile-long eyelashes.

Our labored breathing mingles in the small space between us. It's the only sound for a good thirty seconds, until Peeta whispers, "Holy fuck, that was incredible." A grin lights his eyes. He releases his grasp on my breast and brings his hand to my mouth. Slowly, he rubs his thumb back and forth along the swollen curve of my bottom lip. "I could do this all night." My eyes stray downward to where we are still joined, his cock gradually softening inside me. Something stirs in my chest, and deeper still, low in my belly.

"I thought we did have all night," I say. Though tendrils of bliss continue to waft through my blood, I'm already thinking about another round. If we only have tonight, I'm going to be a greedy bitch about it and take everything Peeta will give me.

He laughs. "I meant lying here staring at you." He tangles his hand into my damp hair and draws me towards him, our lips just inches apart. "You are so beautiful," he says, before molding his mouth to mine. We kiss, unhurriedly, and it's only when Peeta's cock twitches and starts to get hard again that he reluctantly breaks the seal of our lips and pulls out of me. As soon as he climbs off me, my body laments the loss of his warmth and I shudder as my sweaty, naked skin is exposed to the night air. I sit up and rub my palms up and down my arms. I squint, following Peeta's path into the murky darkness across the patio. The moonlight paints his golden skin a pale blue as I watch him deposit the spent condom into a trash bin. Then he moves around the perimeter of the pool to gather up our clothes. I stand, shivering once more, and walk towards him. He shakes his head when I reach for my soaked camisole and boxer shorts.

"Don't need them," he says. I frown.

"Peeta, we can't go traipsing through the hotel naked!"

"No one is going to see us traipsing through the hotel naked," he whispers teasingly. "There's an elevator that goes directly to my penthouse suite."

"Your father? Your brother?" There's a glint of irritation in his blue eyes at the mere mention of Rye.

"I haven't shared a room with Rye since I was eight years old. We get our own suites. Stop worrying. No more excuses." He descends on my lips for a kiss and maneuvers me backwards towards the roof door. Once inside the elevator, he lets our bundled clothes drop to the floor and uses his body to pin me to the back wall. His hands coast down my hips and around to my thighs. His resurgent cock presses insistently against my belly as his mouth commands mine to move.

This kiss is deep and decadent. Peeta's tongue coils in sinuous circles, chasing and retreating and claiming my tongue again and again.

"If I had another condom on me…" he grits out when he pauses to take a breath, "…I'd fuck you again, right here, right now." My eyes fly open.

"I'm…we can't…I'm not…" My cheeks flame. I feel ridiculous not being able to voice my concern, given what we just did, not to mention the fact we're both still naked, but sex is simply not something I've had much experience with. Intimacy is new to me.

"I wasn't asking permission," he says softly, the desire in his eyes replaced with apology. "I will always protect you, Katniss."

My lids shutter. Because I can't look at him. While I'm grateful to him for understanding what I meant without me having to admit aloud that I'm not on birth control, somehow I don't think his vow had anything to do with Pills or condoms. And I will not—cannot—allow myself to think about anything other than this one night with Peeta Mellark.

I had intended to end this chapter in Spain…but I'm still not there yet, and so we have a little more to go before the next leg in Monaco. I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading. ~C.