Chapter 5 Finnegan
five
Finnegan
Kate talks. Not constantly, but unpredictably, which is worse.
I'll be focused on a task and she'll ask a question from nowhere, and I have to stop and reorient.
She moves things. Small things, things she probably doesn't notice, but I notice.
Yesterday she shifted my salt container two inches to the left.
I moved it back three times before I realized she was using it to season her food and putting it down wherever her hand happened to be.
I could ask her to put it back in the same spot. I don't. I'm not sure why.
But she also sees things.
When I show her my tracking notebooks, she doesn't comment on the organization. She doesn't call it obsessive or weird or too much. She just starts reading, her fingers tracing my careful columns of data, and within an hour she's found patterns I'd documented but never connected.
"This is incredible," she says, spreading both our notebooks across the table. Our data side by side. "Your elk migration shifts match my zombie movement timelines exactly. Something's affecting both species the same way."
"The canyon." I point to a location on her map. "Wind makes a low sound through the rocks. Below human hearing range, mostly. Herds avoid it."
"Sound." Her whole body goes alerrt, her shoulders straightening, eyes widening. This is what she looks like when she's excited. "Finn, what if it's sound frequencies? What if someone's using acoustic signals to direct the herds?"
The theory is solid. I've thought about sound before and I’ve noticed how certain areas stay clear, how others always have activity. Never had the framework to formalize it.
"We could test it," I hear myself say.
"We could test it." She's grinning now. "Small scale first—different frequencies near the cabin, record how stragglers respond."
"I have speakers. From the settlement, before. Never threw them away."
"Why not?"
I don't answer. I don't know. Some things I keep without reasons that make sense.
Kate doesn't push. She just says, "Can I see them?"
We work until midnight, rigging equipment, planning experiments. She talks through her process out loud, which should be annoying but isn't. It means I always know what she's thinking. No guessing, no ambiguity, no trying to read expressions I can't interpret.
"You're easier than most people," I tell her, and she laughs.
"That's not a compliment most women want to hear."
"It is from me."
She stops laughing and looks at me.
"Finn. When's the last time you touched someone? Not practically. Just... touched."
"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.
I work her through it and wait for the shaking to stop. Then I ask, "What next?"
She laughs breathlessly. "You're really good at following instructions."
"I prefer them to guessing."
"Then here's an instruction: Fuck me. Hard. I want to feel it tomorrow."
I can’t help but grin. I move back up to her, my cock thick and heavy between my legs. Just looking at her and tasting her has made me harder than I’ve ever been.
She watches me with dark eyes, still breathing hard. "You're big," she observes. "Bigger than I expected."
"Is that a problem?"
“Of course not.” She spreads her legs wider. "Go slow at first. Let me adjust. Then give me everything."
Slow at first. I push in inch by inch, watching her face for discomfort. She winces once and I stop.
"Don't stop. Just—give me a second." She breathes. Shifts her hips. Nods. "Okay. More."
I give her more. Seat myself fully and hold still, every muscle in my body screaming to move.
"How does it feel?" I ask.
"Full. So fucking full." She wraps her legs around me. "Now fuck me. Hard, like I said."
I move.
Hard means hard. I pull back and slam in, and she cries out—pleasure, I check her face, yes pleasure—so I do it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that makes the bed frame groan.
"Yes, fuck, just like that!" She's clawing at my back, her nails leaving lines I'll feel tomorrow. "Harder, I can take it!"
I brace my hands on either side of her head and put my weight into it. Drive into her so hard she slides up the mattress with each thrust and her tits bounce against my chest. She reaches between us, circles her clit, and I watch her face as she builds toward another orgasm.
"Gonna come," she gasps. "Come with me, I want to feel you."
"Tell me when."
"Now! Fuck, now!"
I let go. Bury myself deep and come so hard my vision whites out, feeling her clench around me in waves. It's overwhelming, too much sensation, but she's holding onto me and that grounds it. It gives me something to focus on.
Afterwards, she laughs again. "Holy shit."
"Was that good?" I don't know how to finish. "Correct?"
"That was so far beyond correct." She pulls me down for a kiss. "You're full of surprises, Finnegan MacLeod."
"I just followed instructions."
"Then I'm going to give you a lot more instructions." She grins against my mouth. "Consider this an ongoing experiment."
I can work with that.
It’s morning. Kate's warm body is pressed against mine.
For a moment, I don't move. Just observe the sensations: her head on my shoulder, her leg thrown over mine, her breathing slow and even. I've disrupted my own sleep cycle staying up with her. Haven't checked my traps yet. Haven't started my morning routine.
None of that bothers me the way it should.
Kate stirs, makes a soft sound, and blinks awake. Her eyes find mine, and she smiles—small, satisfied, the smile of someone who got exactly what they wanted.
"Morning," she murmurs.
"Good morning." I'm still not sure of the protocol here.
Do we pretend last night didn't happen?
Acknowledge it?
Repeat it immediately?
She stretches, wincing slightly. "You weren't kidding about the 'feel it tomorrow' part."
"Did I hurt you?"
"In the best possible way." She traces a finger down my chest, watching me carefully. "Are you okay? With all of this? I know last night was... a lot of variables."
I consider the question honestly. "You were correct. The emotional component does enhance the physical experience. Significantly."
She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression I can't quite categorize. Affection, maybe. Amusement. Something warmer.
"Finn, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest."
My body tenses. This is where she tells me I did something wrong. That I was too rough or not rough enough, too intense or not intense enough. That I misread the instructions somehow.
"Okay."
"Do you want this to keep happening? Or was this a one-time thing?"
Relief floods through me. That's a question I can answer. "I want it to keep happening. Frequently."
She kisses me. "That's a yes, then," she says against my mouth.
"Yes. Definitively yes." I pull her closer. "But I need protocols. I don't want to assume I can... initiate. I need clear signals."
"How about this: anytime you want to touch me, ask. And anytime I want you to touch me, I'll tell you." She runs her hand down my side. "For example, right now I would very much like you to touch me."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
I flip her onto her back and kiss her before she can finish the sentence. She laughs into my mouth, wraps her legs around me, and suddenly my morning routine seems very unimportant compared to mapping every sound she makes when I touch her.
I'm learning that some disruptions are worth it.