I deliberately picked up a piece of meat with my fork, holding it near Finnick's mouth.
"Feed me with your mouth," he said, tilting his head, that sharp glint in his eyes making my pulse skip.
I wanted to snap at him—he was teasing me—but then he added, "Do you still want to keep your interview at the press conference?"
Bullying me, aren't you? My cheeks warmed, but for the sake of the magazine, I obeyed. I put the meat in my mouth and leaned closer. Finnick's hand reached out, and I stumbled onto his lap. Our lips met as he caught the piece of meat between us, and the world narrowed down to just him and me.
The next few days, Finnick was buried in work for the new fund. He came home late, every night, and my heart ached for him. I stayed awake, waiting, ready to offer a massage, to let him rest, to let him take his fill of me, whatever he wanted. Even as he moved constantly, always in control, he needed these moments to calm the storm inside him.
