2. Seamus
two
Seamus
A Few Day Later
The lab hums.
Postdocs whispering, machines blinking, breakthroughs on every screen, neural mapping and AI-assisted decision-making models.
None of it touches me.
Not since…
I used to believe I could change lives.
Now I sit during my R4 research year watching data scroll by, wishing I could go back in time.
Wondering, as I do every day, if I’d done something—said something else.
Goddammit . I feel so fucking useless.
Nothing holds my attention the way it should. Months ago, when I submitted my research proposal, I thought I’d be thrilled to step away from the brutal pace of residency. To immerse myself in something groundbreaking.
Nope. I can’t bring myself to give a shit.
Each day I stare blankly at the ECoG data in front of me, watching brain wave patterns light up on the screen. Cortical representation of fine motor movements—important work, as it relates to alcoholism, supposedly.
I’d hoped it would be a distraction. A way to keep myself from thinking about the one person I failed so spectacularly.
Miranda Black.
Her name has been carved into my brain since the moment I walked out of the OR and her parents looked at me with shattered eyes, begging for an explanation I didn’t have.
How is this fair? Me staring at neural pathways while she lies in a bed somewhere, locked inside herself…
Fuck .
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling hard.
“What’s with you today?” A familiar voice jolts my attention to the present.
I glance up. Sarah Patel, one of the postdocs I work with on a daily basis, stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You’ve been staring at the screen for an hour,” she scolds. “Either you’ve figured out the secrets of the universe or you’re slowly losing your mind.”
I smirk, though there’s no real humor behind it. “The latter.”
She leans against the desk, looking at me a little too closely. “You know, when you presented your research proposal last year, I thought you’d actually be interested in it.”
“I was back then,” I say glumly.
Sarah folds her arms across her chest. “What changed?”
Everything .
She doesn’t know about Miranda. Few people do. Surgeons lose patients every day, it’s not even a normal topic of conversation. We’re trained to compartmentalize and move on. I rub my temple with my thumb. “Eh—a little distracted.”
“Hmmmm.” Sarah studies me for a beat before shaking her head. “Try not to burn out so soon.” She pushes off the desk. “We need you on the fMRI analysis later.”
Annoyed, I wave her off and watch as she disappears down the hall.
She’s not wrong, though. I am burning out. Not on the research—on my life.
I used to know exactly what I wanted. I came into medicine to study the brain. Originally, it was about addiction, about understanding what had turned my father into the man who nearly destroyed my family with his alcoholism and violent temper.
When I was ten, he punched my brother Liam and knocked him unconscious.
Nearly put my other brother, Padraig, in the hospital.
I’ve never understood why my mother stayed and kept us in danger.
She has her reasons, I guess. At least he’s been sober for a while now and our family seems to have healed, for the most part.
Once I started pre-med, I buried myself in research to understand TBI and alcohol’s effect on cognitive function. I presented my findings at the UWSOM Fall Poster Symposium, thinking I’d dedicate my life to this research if I was lucky enough to be a neurosurgical candidate.
When my nephews, Torin and Tristan, were born—holding them. Helping my brother, Connor and his wife, Ronni watch them. Something clicked.
I didn’t want to study the brain. I wanted to fix it.
To save kids.
It seemed so noble. With overachieving brothers, I wanted to matter.
Now, after Miranda, I don’t know if I do.
Or, if I ever will.
She’s still in the hospital bed.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her hooked up to the tubes keeping her body alive even though her brain will never function again.
It kills me. I need to do something to get the fuck out of my head. I need to find a woman. Make her come. Get myself off too. It’s been too long. Nearly two years.
No wonder I’m so wound up.
I manage to make it through the rest of my shift by going through the motions and letting the numbers blur into meaningless distractions, all while plotting out my next move. By the time I step out of the lab I know exactly what to do.
My foolproof way of handling my, um, needs without getting roped into something permanent.
Hospital staff.
They work the same hours, understand the stress of life and death and generally—if I’m crystal clear with my boundaries—are down for a quick, uncomplicated mutually beneficial situation with no attachments and no expectations.
I don’t have time for relationships. Dating. Feelings.
There’s a reason I’ve earned the nicknames I pretend I don’t know about.
I’ve learned the art of the female orgasm.
It started during anatomy lab in medical school.
At the time, I didn’t have much—any—sexual experience outside of hearing about my brothers’ endless conquests. I was too quiet and focused on my professional goals and the notion of fucking random women without any emotional connection turned me off.
Until one day when I overheard two of my female classmates while we were reviewing the clitoral structure. They joked about the men in our class and it stuck with me.
Tara Milan muttered, “ You know half these guys are going to ace this exam and still treat the clit like it’s a rumor .” Priya Desai snorted. “ Doesn’t matter how many diagrams they memorize. None of them care if a woman actually comes .”
It was a holy shit moment. I decided then and there, if I was going to learn about the female anatomy, I wasn’t going to treat it like trivia. I read everything I could get my hands on—nerve maps, clinical studies, arousal theory.
I wanted to understand it fully. Not just the parts, but the whole system.
Not long after, Priya caught me in the library. I was sitting in a remote area at a table piled high with my “research.” Once I explained myself, she convinced me to practice on her. Then told Tara about it and we started our own practice sessions.
So, my first real sexual experiences were in the library stairwells, learning exactly how to implement my book knowledge into action. Getting blowjobs in return.
Of course, word got out and things snowballed from there. I could barely get through the day without being propositioned.
By R2, the library stairwells became the hospital stairwells and it all became too much. Things were uncomplicated when orgasms were essentially transactional. Now, women seemed to be in competition for my attention, which was weird. Eventually, one woman became a little too obsessed.
It was a wakeup call. The last thing I needed was some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit when I’d put my personal life on a backburner to focus on my career.
So I stopped. Doesn’t mean I still don’t get propositioned, though.
Today? I’m feeling so low I don’t give a shit about risk. I need to forget and feel something to dull this ache in my body.
As luck would have it, I head into the locker room and Cecily walks in. She’s an ER nurse, one of many who’ve made it clear they’re DTF. She’s pretty enough—blonde hair, bright smile, curves in all the right places.
Perfect. It’s been too long. My cock stirs as she approaches.
“Hey, Shay,” she purrs, soft and teasing. “You look like you could use a quick break.”
I glance at her briefly and return to the text I’m tapping out to my brother, Cillian and begin the game. “I prefer Seamus.”
“Well, Shay -mus, I’m off the clock and…” She steps closer, her hand brushing against my arm as she raises her eyebrows suggestively. “I need something to relax me if I’m going to get to sleep tonight…what about you? Is the Orgasm Whisperer back in business for me tonight?”
Yeah. Didn’t take any effort whatsoever. “What do you have in mind?”
Cecily’s hand slides down my arm until her fingers intertwining with mine. “Come on,” she whispers. “I’ll suck you off and you make me come. I know the drill. We don’t fuck. There are no strings.”
I hesitate, now having second thoughts when she puts it so bluntly. I shouldn’t do this. I know it. Despite my lapse of judgement a few minutes ago, I’m not particularly proud of my behavior. It’s a little—juvenile.
On the other hand, fuck it. I’m tired. Lonely. Is it so wrong to want to feel something other than the weight of my responsibilities?
I let her lead me down the hall to the stairwell.
The dim, echoing cavern of concrete and flickering fluorescent lights is a place where many of my bad decisions have been made.
Cecily presses me against the wall, her hands furiously tugging at the waistband of my scrubs.
I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes when Cecily’s mouth engulfs my cock.
She’s enthusiastic, I’ll give her props. The sensation is immediate, electric, and I can’t help the low groan escaping my lips. Her tongue swirls around my crown, teasing and deliberate. My body responds, hips jerking slightly as she takes me deeper.
Cecily’s hands move to my hips, holding me in place. Her mouth continues to work me with such skill I should be losing my mind.
Instead it starts to wander.
I can’t stop thinking about Miranda. Or the way my mentor, Bryce Caldwell, seems to be completely unbothered by his fuck-up.
“ Mmmmm ,” Cecily hums around my cock, snapping me back to the present. The vibration sends a shiver up my spine. Her hands are planted on my hips. Nails dig into my skin.
Shit . I should be enjoying this.
I’m not into it. At this point, my dick’s reaction is pure biology.
She pulls back slightly, her tongue flicking against my balls. My breath hitches. I’m close. I want to get this over with. Her hands move to my ass, pulling me closer, and I push back into her mouth because it’ll get me there faster.
Getting off is easier than admitting this isn’t what I want.
I feel the pressure building. Tension coils in my gut. Even as my body responds and I shoot my load down her throat, I’m teetering on the edge of sanity.
I can’t shake the guilt of giving in to temptation. Or the emptiness flooding my system.
This isn’t who I am. Or, at least, it’s not who I want to be.
Ah, hell.
What’s done is done. I’m not going to leave her high and dry. I’d never dream of taking without giving.
Without warning, I pull her up and spin her around, pressing her against the wall. Cecily’s breath hitches. She looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes wide with surprise as my body pins hers in place.
From this point forward, it isn’t about me. It’s about her. I know exactly how to make her forget everything for a moment.
My hands move with practiced precision, tracing the curve of her hip before sliding between her legs. She’s trembling already, her body responding to my touch. I start slow, my fingers teasing her through the fabric of her scrubs, and she moans softly, her head falling back against my chest.
“Seamus.” Her voice quivers with need.
I don’t say a word. Instead, I slide my hand down the front of her scrubs, finding her soaking and ready.
I know exactly how much pressure to use, how to circle my thumb on her clit and when to slow down to tease her.
Cecily’s breath hitches as her body arches against mine.
She spreads her legs slightly and thrusts against my fingers.
I slide a finger inside her, my thumb still circling her swollen little nub and she gasps, her palms are clenched in fists against the wall. I locate the sensitive area on her inner walls and I press against it with constant, deliberate strokes until she’s writhing uncontrollably.
Her cries grow louder, more desperate, and I know she’s close.
“Oh God,” she keens, grinding against my hand. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I keep the pressure steady, my thumb circling furiously as my fingers work inside her. I can feel everything. Her body stiffening, inner muscles clenching around my fingers.
Good. She’s about to fall apart and I can get outta here.
When she comes, her hips jerk against my hand and her moans echo in the stairwell. This is where the magic happens. The reason why hospital women seek me out. Using my learned techniques, I’m able to draw out orgasms over and over until she’s barely able to stand up.
My signature.
By the time I finally relent, she’s breathless and disheveled. My scrubs are still around my ankles when she collapses back against me, her breath coming in short, eager gasps. “You’re…amazing,” she pants. “How do you it?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull my hand away, fingers slick with her arousal, yank up my pants over my softening cock and tie the drawstring. Cecily turns to face me. Her face is flushed and I can see the flicker of hope in her eyes.
The hope this might mean something.
Hope she might mean something to me .
It doesn’t.
She doesn’t.
So I mutter out some shit about needing to get back to work and leave her there.
Forget all about Cecily the second the door shuts behind me.