7. Marcella
seven
Marcella
Five Weeks Later
Seamus slams me against the stairwell wall, one hand fisting my hair, the other dragging my leg around his waist.
His mouth crushes mine—biting, breathless, desperate.
I moan into it. Grind against him.
I need more. Need everything .
He growls low in my ear, “You want it?”
I nod, shaking. I’m wet with anticipation.
“Say it, Marcella. I need the words.” He cradles my ass, pulling me against his cock.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Touch me, Seamus. Please.”
He groans, pushing up my skirt. His hands skim the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, stopping shy of where I ache for him.
“You're so soft,” he rumbles. “Spread wider for me, baby.”
I allow my legs to fall open, baring myself. His appreciative growl sends a thrill through me. He traces the damp cleft of my panties. “Ah, you're soaked. Because of me?”
“Yes,” I whimper as he rubs me through the drenched fabric.
Unbutton your blouse,” Seamus commands, his voice low and raspy. “I want to see those gorgeous tits.”
With shaking hands, I obey, revealing my lacy, black bra beneath.
“Now take them out,” he orders. “Let me see you.”
Tugging the cups down, I free my heavy breasts. He fills his hands, squeezing and plumping my soft flesh. I watch him work my nipples between his fingers, pinching and rolling, until they’re furled and pebble-hard.
“Look how pretty they are, baby.” He licks his lips in approval. “Luscious brown berries, all tight and puckered for me.”
Seamus ducks his head, sucking one into the wet heat of his mouth. I cry out, sparks shooting straight to my core as he nibbles and laves the sensitive bud. He moves back and forth, suckling and gently biting them until I'm writhing, desperate for more.
“ Ohmygod ,” I keen shamelessly.
“Can I lick your pussy?” Seamus’s blue eyes plead as he feathers a finger back and forth along the soaked crotch of my panties.
I suck in a breath. I’m thirty-seven years old and no one has ever asked me this question, they’ve taken what they’ve wanted from me. “Uh…yes?”
He yanks my panties aside, baring me to him. “Fucking hell, you're perfect.” He dips his head, giving me a long, slow lick. “You taste like heaven,” he groans, tracing his tongue around my clit. “Do you like me tasting your pussy, baby?”
I can only nod, pleasure stealing my voice. He swirls the tip of his tongue around my sensitive bud, flicking it gently. My hips begin to buck against his face.
“Yes. Fuck my face. I love how responsive you are,” he purrs against me. “I'm gonna make you come so hard.”
Seamus laps through my folds, alternating between spearing into my entrance with his tongue and sucking my clit. I’m pulsing and contracting as pressure builds throughout my core.
“ Mmmmm . You're getting close, aren't you?” he growls. “I can’t wait for you to come all over my face.”
I'm lost to the most incredible sensations. Mindless with bliss. Seamus holds me at the edge expertly.
“Rub your clit against my tongue,” he coaxes, grabbing my hips and showing me what to do. “Take what you need, beautiful.”
I rock into his mouth, allowing myself to let go. Pleasure crests and crashes over me when I topple over, gushing my release against his lips. He moans in satisfaction, lapping up every drop.
Seamus rolls to my side and pulls me into his lap. His rigid erection presses against my sensitive pussy, wrenching a whimper from me at the thought of having him inside me.
“Do you feel how hard you’ve made me?” He thrusts up against me slowly. “I'm gonna fuck you so good. Fill you up with my come. Would you like me to?”
I bury my face in his neck, tears pricking the corners of my eyes at the intensity of the experience. He holds me close, stroking my back soothingly.
“Shh, I've got you,” he murmurs. “You’re doing beautifully, Marcella. I'm so proud of you.”
The sharp buzz of my phone jolts me awake, ripping me out of the last traces of my dream—Seamus, the stairwell, his mouth on my skin. My body is still warm from it. My pulse thrumming too fast.
I sit up, untangling the sheets from my legs, and blink at the screen. My mother.
Exhaling, I swipe to answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“You sound half-asleep,” she chastises.
I glance at the clock. 6:57 a.m. “I was.”
“Chellie, it’s nearly seven. What are you doing in bed?” Her voice softens with concern. “Are you sick?”
I rub my face. “Sleeping. Like a normal person.”
“You’re working too much,” she says automatically, and I swear I can hear the disapproving shake of her head. “When’s the last time you took a break? Or better yet, when’s the last time you came to see us?”
Guilt pricks at me. I don’t need to answer. We both know it’s been months. “I’ve been super busy.”
“You know, the restaurant doesn’t feel the same without you sitting at the bar on Saturday,” my dad shouts from the background.
My parents own Costa del Sol, a Spanish restaurant on the Tacoma waterfront. It always smells of saffron and garlic. My dad makes every guest feel like family and my mom runs the show with unshakable authority.
My younger brother, Lucas, now manages the business side, always in a pressed button-down, juggling spreadsheets and supplier calls.
Our youngest sister, Rosa, runs the kitchen—commands it, really—turning out the best food in the city, if not the whole damn state.
I should know, I’ve got the hips, thighs, and ass to show for it.
I used to be here every weekend until I let my career swallow me whole.
Mom continues, her voice gentler now. “Rosa says if you don’t come soon, she’s taking paella off the menu to spite you.”
“She wouldn’t dare.” I suck in a breath.
“Oh, she would,” Mom insists. “You know how she can be.”
Ugh. Mom is probably right.
I lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes. “I’ll try to make it soon. I need to get through this trial.”
Mom exhales because she doesn’t believe me. She’s heard it before. There are always other cases.
“Please don’t work yourself into the ground, Chellie,” she says softly. “Your job might be important, mija . Living a balanced life matters more.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I love you, Mama.”
When I end the call and sit there in my barren apartment, staring at the open laptop on my nightstand, I wonder—what the hell is my end game?
Whoa !
I’m alone. My pussy is threatening to dry up.
My love life has come down to dreaming of a potential defendant—albeit the best-looking man I’ve never met—going down on me in the stairwell?
For the fourth time in a week ?
Yet the dream lingers, curling heat in my stomach. My body is still thrumming with an actual orgasm I had in my sleep. Maybe the most powerful of my life.
My mind screams nooooooo .
Jesus Christ.
It’s getting ridiculous. I can’t go on like this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
My body doesn’t seem to know it, though. My skin is too tight and my thighs squeeze together before I can stop myself. My panties are soaked.
It’s time to get up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare at the floor, grounding myself.
Tomorrow, I’m going to sit across from the man I’ve been fantasizing about and I cannot—will not—let this nonsense affect me.
I force myself to shower, drink coffee, and shove the dream into the deepest, darkest part of my brain where it belongs.
Then I go to work.
Ethan and Natalie are already in the conference room when I arrive, hunched over Bryce Caldwell’s deposition transcript. The table is covered in legal pads, highlighted passages, and evidence binders.
I set my bag down, rolling up my sleeves. “Tell me we have something useful.”
“Not useful. Definitely interesting.” Ethan pushes a page toward me.
I scan the text, recalling this part of the deposition. Caldwell didn’t distance himself from what happened in the OR—he tried to erase himself from it.
“He’s framing it like he had no control,” Natalie mutters. “Acknowledges McGloughlin’s warning. Claims it was distracting. He ignored it, though.”
I shake my head, tossing the transcript onto the table. “Utter bullshit.”
“Big time.” Ethan tosses his pen to the table.
“Look. Caldwell was in control. He was lead. The responsibility was his.” I flip through the notes, scanning the details of Caldwell’s history.
Two prior malpractice suits in the past fifteen years.
Two dismissals. Settled before trial, buried before they could make a dent in his reputation.
I lean back in my chair. “Did he have a resident assisting in either of these cases?”
Natalie’s fingers fly over her keyboard as she pulls up the old filings. “Looks like—yes. In both, the resident was named but not personally sued.” She glances up. “Caldwell shifted the focus to them, argued their actions played a role in the poor outcomes.”
My lips press into a firm line.
“So this isn’t new for him,” Ethan mutters.
“No.” I glance at Natalie’s tablet. “It’s his pattern.”
She leans back. “So, where does it leave us with McGloughlin?”
“It’s not about him. Not really. We don’t represent Seamus. He has his own lawyer and his career is his problem, not ours.” I pick at a chip in the table when I realize I inadvertently called the man by his first name. “We only need one thing from him—the truth.”
Because if we can prove Caldwell saw the blood vessel, he knew the risk and proceeded anyway, then he’ll settle. Big. Money.
“Remember. Tomorrow’s deposition isn’t necessarily about pinning anything on McGloughlin,” I remind them. “It’s about figuring out what he knew. Did he see the rupture coming? Did he try to stop it? Did Caldwell ignore him?”
Ethan nods slowly. “What if he backs up Caldwell’s version?”
I sip my coffee. “Then we go after him too.”
“I doubt he’ll be manipulated blindly.” Natalie flips through the medical records. “The surgical notes don’t lie. From all accounts, he’s not some reckless intern—he’s a fourth-year resident with a golden reputation in the OR.”
I glance at the two of them. “Reach out to the residents from Caldwell’s previous cases. See if they’re willing to talk.”
Ethan nods. “Good idea. If McGloughlin isn’t forthcoming tomorrow, knowing he’s not the first might shake something loose.”
“Exactly.” I stack up the papers. “If Caldwell has done this before, McGloughlin deserves to know he’s not special—he’s the latest in a long line of scapegoats.”
Natalie frowns. “What if he didn’t know what was happening was wrong?”
“A demonstratable failure in Caldwell’s leadership. The hospital still pays.” I stand and move toward the door. “Anything else? We can reconvene later.”
Natalie and Ethan shake their heads.
“Tomorrow, we should know the easiest path to get the Blacks their settlement.”
I need to remember why I’m doing this.
Forget my sex dream.
Justice doesn’t care about attraction.
It demands precision, not distraction.
Tomorrow, I’ll look him in the eye and do what needs to be done.
Count on it.