He grinds down and her legs shift apart almost automatically, wider. The stupid tree dress is long gone, but her stylist had shoved her into another skirt, apparently under the impression that her own little girl act still had some life left in it. She huffs out a soft, mocking laugh, although whether it's at the way Finnick sucks in a breath or her own thoughts, she's not sure.

Either way, the sound trails off into a moan. His teeth scrape her skin, and she twitches, caught between pleasure and panic. Adrenaline pumps through her, her body on the edge of anticipation, waiting for the killing stroke. Her mind might know Finnick won't hurt her (seriously, at least), but she never really left the Games.

Now her nails dig in, and she screws her eyes shut with a gasp. She won't admit that she's clinging to him, but she's pretty much clinging to him.