A hard body pressing against my back pulls me pleasurably from my slumber. Hot lips tease the nape of my neck, wandering hands sneak under the sheets to wrap around me. I sigh, but not a sigh of dissent. I crack an eye open to focus on the clock. Peeta's home much earlier than I expected. It's only just past midnight. As if sensing I'm awake, he rolls me over, and I can't help but snicker.

My husband is drunk.

Peeta isn't much of a drinker. All through college he was the first to volunteer to be the designated driver. These days, he'll have the odd glass of wine with dinner or bottle of beer on the weekend, but not much more than that. So seeing him flushed and bright-eyed, golden curls dishevelled, well, it's kind of adorable. "You're awake," he tries to whisper, and I snort.

He kisses away my smirk with an intensity that takes me by surprise. "You're home early," I whisper against his lips.

"Missed you," he slurs slightly, as I pull his tie from his collar, the neat Windsor knot long since unravelled. "Was bored. No fun without you." I laugh softly. I don't know much about bachelor parties, since Peeta didn't have one himself. But tonight was about celebrating his brother, Rye. And Rye's kind of a party animal.

"You were surrounded by strippers all night. You couldn't possibly have been bored." I admit, I wasn't thrilled when Peeta told me that their eldest brother, Graham, had booked exotic dancers for the party. But I trust Peeta, implicitly. As much as it shocks me, even after all of these years, I know he only has eyes for me. He frowns, shrugging off the shirt I've unbuttoned for him, and the T-shirt beneath.

"Wasn't surrounded. There was just one, for Rye. And she couldn't hold a candle to you." I laugh, but it's an insecure little noise, and I know he can tell. He hovers over me, blue eyes boring into mine. "I only want you," he says, and his serious tone belies his inebriated state. I wrap my arms around him.

"I only want you too," I murmur against his neck, and he shudders, then shifts to pull back the blankets. And though I'm wearing a simple tank top and ratty shorts, he looks at me like a starving man might look at a delectable banquet.

"You are so beautiful," he groans, blue eyes lidded with lust.

"And you are so drunk," I laugh, reaching between us to cup him through his trousers. He moans, thrusting against my hand. "You sure you weren't just a little turned on by that girl?"

He growls, pushing my hand away. He strips off his pants and boxers, then grabs my hand to wrap around his bare cock, hot and hard. "Not her," he groans. "You, always you. The whole way home in the cab all I could think about was you."

He rolls us, so that I'm on top, and I rock against him, the thin fabric of my shorts hardly any barrier. "Take this off?" he asks, toying with the hem of my tank. I reach down to pull it off and he stills my hand. "S-slowly." I nod, and inch the fabric up. "Oh fuck," he gasps as my breasts are finally bared. I expect him to reach up, palm them, tease me until I'm begging. But he doesn't. He simply grips my hips hard, eyes fixed unblinking on my small breasts, swaying in time to his thrusts. When I cup the small mounds myself his eyes flutter shut. "Shit," he grunts. "I can't wait any longer."

Peeta still has all of his high school wrestling moves. He has me under him, shorts flung somewhere across the room, before I can even process what he's said. And when he slides into me he moans in relief.

He moves in me, deep, powerful thrusts that leave me breathless. And he whispers in my ear, how the entire cab ride home he could only think of me, dancing for him, taking my clothes off while he watched, unable to touch. Grinding on his lap like the stripper was doing for his brother. He comes with a shout, shaking and sweaty, before collapsing half on top of me. He barely manages to pull out before he's asleep.

I lie awake for a while, squirming yes, but also thinking about the things he said. He's never shared a sexual fantasy with me before; we've been together since we were fifteen, just having sex was a fantasy then. And I can't help but wonder if he would actually like that. Me, dancing just for him.

He doesn't mention it again. But I keep thinking about it. I google 'how to give a lap dance', and actually read the articles. Even stand in front of the full length mirror in our bedroom one Saturday morning while Peeta is at the bakery. Following the instructions.

Start with your hips. Place your hands on your hips and sway left and right. Notice how your whole body curves in response. Then thrust your hips forward and notice how your spine arches.

The woman in the mirror looks like she's having a seizure. I feel idiotic, like a parody. I vow to forget about it.

But I can't. Two weeks later I somehow find myself standing in Victoria's Secret, browsing the racks of diaphanous lingerie, balking at both the price tags and the sleaziness of it all.

"This is stupid," I groan under my breath, stalking towards the exit. I'm halfway out of the shop when I see it. Lonely and neglected on the clearance rack. The colour - sunset orange - is so last season. A negligee, practically prudish compared to most of the wares. Layers of delicate fabric fall from the sheer bra cups just to the hip. The entire confection is held together by ribbons. There are even tiny matching panties. Absolutely perfect.

Though I'm generally not a great cook, I make a mean lamb stew, which is bubbling happily away on the stovetop when he gets home. "I'm in here." I call when I hear the front door open, fiddling nervously with an empty wine glass as he tromps through the house. I've spent the better part of the day talking myself into - and out of - acting out his drunkenly-confessed fantasy for him. I'm petrified.

"Smells amazing in here," he says as he enters the kitchen. His face lights up when he finds me in a simple black wrap dress and heels, my hair loosely piled on top of my head and just a little kohl circling my eyes. "Katniss," he beams. "You look beautiful." He kisses the top of my head while I continue to fidget, trying to control my nerves. "What's going on, what's the special occasion?"

"No special occasion," I say, reaching for the bottle of wine on the counter. "I just thought we could have a nice evening together."

"Every evening with you is a nice evening, Love," he says, taking the bottle from me and opening it expertly.

But over dinner - and two glasses of liquid courage - I begin to relax. And I can see he's getting tipsy too; a flush paints his cheeks, his smile is bright. When his hands start sneaking under the hem of my dress to stroke my thigh I know it's time.

I take his wine glass and set it beside my own, pulling him to his feet. He follows unquestioningly, but when I lead him to the living room instead of our bedroom he crooks an eyebrow at me, amused. I simply shake my head and press him into the chair that I had set in the centre of the room earlier.

He grins and reaches for me, but I step out of his reach. "Uh-uh," I say. "No touching." His smile widens and he raises his palms in supplication.

The soulful opening chords of the Righteous Brothers fill the room, and I see Peeta smirk just before I lower the lights. In the dim, I close my eyes, take a deep, shuddering breath, and force myself to relax. Remind myself that this is for Peeta. Of their own volition, my hands skim along my body to settle on my hips, guiding my body to sway left and right. Figure eights, just like I practiced, then the same thing but facing away.

I bend forward to shake my butt in his face, but the stilettos are a bit of a challenge. I don't wear them often and, combined with the wine, I feel unsteady.

His pained whisper of my name sets my heart hammering. He sounds embarrassed. But I press on, determined. Swaying in time to the music, wiggling my ass. My skirt swishing around my knees reminds me that I'm far too overdressed to be sexy.

I spin around again, facing him though I can't look at his face. Then I pull the tie that keeps my wrap dress closed. "Holy shit," he breathes as the fabric falls open, slips off my shoulders. I let the dress slither slowly down my arms to pool at my feet.

Dressed in the soft orange babydoll and panties, teetering on heels, I feel ridiculous. Peeta is utterly silent. Blood rushes into my cheek, paints my neck and chest with shame. This is just so bad.

I try to step closer to him, but I get my heel caught in my dress, still pooled around my ankles. I stagger, arms flailing to regain my balance. From the corner of my eye I see him flinch.

This was such a stupid idea.

I kick off the damned heels in frustration, but any sort of rhythm I'd managed to build has completely vanished. I'm a failure, a laughing stock. This is the absolute opposite of sexy. I've probably scarred him for life with this ridiculous plan.

With a groan, I reach over and snap the light on. But as I'm reaching to shut off the music too, I catch a glimpse of Peeta's face. His eyes are as wide as dinner plates, his fingers clutching the arms of the chair so tightly they're turning white. His breath comes in sharp pants and the evidence of his arousal strains against his trousers. "Please don't stop," he whispers, deep and lust-choked.

"You… you like this?" I ask. He only nods, swallowing hard.

The music is still playing, I start swaying again, tentatively, barefoot this time. With the added stability I feel a little more comfortable, and with the extra illumination I'm not so afraid of falling. And more importantly, I can see Peeta. See the love and awe that shines in his eyes as I wiggle just out of his reach.

And suddenly, I don't feel stupid anymore. I feel sexy and sultry. I feel powerful.

I circle around the chair, dragging my fingers along his broad shoulder, tensed and trembling. His golden waves, in need of a trim, beckon. When I run my fingers through his hair he sighs. I can do this. I run my hands over his shoulders, the hard muscles flexing, and then drape myself over him like a backpack to caress his chest. Kiss his cheek before singing a few of the lyrics softly in his ear.

"Oh, Katniss," he whispers, and I realize it's not embarrassment choking his voice. He's clearly turned on.

I wiggle my way in front of him again, abandoning all of the youtube moves I learned and simply dancing. It's not professional in any way, but it doesn't seem to matter. Peeta is transfixed, watching me. I lean forward, resting my hands on his knees, putting my breasts on display for him, nipples rigid and straining against the sheer cups. I can see the pulse leaping in his throat as his eyes follow my tits, swaying along with my hips.

And I smile. Because this is Peeta, my husband, the man I've loved always. Seducing him isn't a chore, even if the means might be a bit unfamiliar. I know what he likes. And I like to please him.

When I climb into his lap he actually whimpers. But as he raises his hands to touch me I slap them away. "No manhandling the performers, Mr. Mellark," I purr, and his head drops back as he gasps. "Oh, Mr. Mellark," I continue, enjoying his reaction. "I really don't think you want to look away." And clearly he doesn't because his head snaps forward, eyes large and glassy.

It's awkward, a little, the chair a bit too wide for me to wrap my legs around, but I manage to find a stable position. Then I grind against him, swivelling my hips, and for a few moments forget that this is supposed to be for him as his jeans rub against my clit. His moans suggest he doesn't mind.

His curls, golden and sweaty, call out for my touch, and I twine my fingers in the strands, tugging gently. Controlling his movements. I lean in, brushing my lips against his, not quite a kiss. Each time he tries to chase me I retreat, allowing him only the barest hint of contact. "You're so sexy," he groans, the words skating over my lips. And I grin. Then I pull his head down, pillowing his face between my breasts. We lose our balance a little and I startle, letting go of him, but his arm wraps around my waist and his legs brace firmly against the floor. "Fuck," he gasps, unconcerned by the idea of tumbling off the chair. "Do that again."

So I do.

I tease and torment him, rocking against his erection, suckling his throat, palming my own breasts before his hungry eyes. And he sits back, enjoying the attention, the show. His arm stays around me, offering me stability but not interfering. I control the ride.

When I pull at the ribbons that keep the teddy closed over my breasts I think he might actually hyperventilate. I move as slowly as I can, stretching it out. And when the bits of fabric flutter away he practically sobs, even though the lingerie was virtually see through anyway. "Katniss," he gasps. "Katniss, oh my God, you are the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I need you," he babbles, breathless like he's run a mile. "Please tell me I can have you."

"I've always been yours, Peeta," I murmur, abandoning the character I've been playing. He stands, one arm still locked around my waist, the other gripping my ass, left mostly bare by the teeny-tiny orange panties that are all I'm wearing. I lock my ankles around his hips and lay my head on his shoulder.

After more than thirty minutes of teasing him, I expect him to take me hard and fast. Instead, he lays me on our bed, worshiping my body with his mouth and fingers, pushing me over the edge time and again even as he breathes his gratitude into my flesh. I'm nearly delirious when finally he pushes inside.

As he moves, the words spill out, not unlike his confession all those weeks ago. In between the 'I love you's and 'so fucking sexy's I hear words like 'amazing' and 'thank you'.

And after, wrapped around me like a vine, he laughs softly. "I can't believe you did that for me," he breathes. "That was the fucking hottest thing I've ever seen."

I'm exhausted and elated, surrounded and filled by his love. Amazed that something so silly and so simple made him so happy.

I know I'll do it again for him. But next time I'll order from Victoria's Secret's online shop.