"Three years, four months, twelve days." I don't have to calculate. I know exactly.
"That's a long time."
"I don't miss it." This is true. I don't miss casual contact. I don't miss the confusion of reading people wrong, touching when I shouldn't, not touching when I should. The unwritten rules that everyone else seems to know instinctively. "Touch has too many rules I can't see."
"What if someone told you the rules?"
"What do you mean?"
She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her. Close enough that I could touch her if I reached out. I don't reach out.
"What if I said, 'Finn, I want you to touch me, and you can't do it wrong because I'll tell you what I want'?"
My whole body goes tight. "That would be... clearer."
"Then I'm saying it." She takes my hand—her skin is warm, and places it on her hip. "Touch me. I'll tell you if I don't like something. Otherwise, assume I do."
Clear rules. Explicit permission. I can work with this.
I kiss her.
I don't know how to do gentle, not with this much want built up. I've been watching her for a week and wanting her almost as long. I kiss her like I've been thinking about it for days, which I have. She makes a sound against my mouth and pulls me closer.
Feedback: positive. Continue.
I pick her up because simpler than walking on her healing ankle, more efficient, and it lets me feel the weight of her against my chest. Carry her to the bedroom. Lay her on the bed that's been mine alone for too long.
She pulls at my clothes and I help her, stripping us both with the same efficiency I bring to everything. Shirt, pants, undergarments, sorted and placed on the chair by the door. She laughs at that.
"You folded your pants."
"They'll wrinkle otherwise."
"Finn." She's still laughing. "I'm naked in your bed and you're worried about wrinkles."
"I can focus on more than one thing."
"Then focus on me."
I do.
"Tell me what you want," I say, and I mean it literally. I need the instructions.
"Your mouth. Between my legs. I want you to make me come with your tongue."
Clear. Specific. Perfect.
I settle between her thighs, spread her open with my thumbs, and study her for a moment. Pink and wet and swollen. Beautiful in a way I can quantify—symmetry, responsiveness, the way she twitches when I breathe on her.
I lick a long stripe from her entrance to her clit, and her whole body jerks.
"Good," she gasps. "More. Focus on my clit in circles, then direct pressure."
I follow instructions. Direct pressure when her thighs start shaking. I slide two fingers inside her because she's clenching on nothing and that seems inefficient.
"There. Right there. Don't stop, don't change anything!"
I don't stop. Don't change. Give her exactly what she asked for until she's coming on my tongue, her pussy squeezing my fingers so hard I feel the contractions.
