22. Seamus
twenty-two
Seamus
Two Mornings Later
Jesus. God.
I’m so glad I waited for her.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for this. Not books. Not theories. Not every stairwell encounter I thought would protect me from experiencing something real.
We’re sprawled across Marcella’s bed, limbs tangled and sheets rumpled around us. The only light in the room comes from her bedside lamp, dim and golden, casting flickering shadows every time one of us moves.
Her head rests on my chest and her hand absently trails over my ribs. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve done the deed this weekend. It doesn’t matter. It’s never enough and never the same. We’ve fucked. Made love. Screwed. Melded. Banged. Tangled. Humped. Railed. Merged.
Every time with her feels like a new discovery, like my body has been waiting my whole life to learn hers.
She shifts slightly, brushing her lips against my shoulder, then turns her face up to look at me. Her hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded and bright with mischief.
“You know,” she murmurs, “you really need to illuminate how you’re this good.”
I grin. “Good at what? Cuddling?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” She arches a brow, and I can see she’s fighting a smile. “No matter how much you explained it to me, there’s no way to comprehend your skill until…I mean, I can’t fathom how you were a virgin before this weekend.”
I kiss her temple. “Maybe it’s less about the clinical stuff and more about wanting to give pleasure. Or, it’s instinct. Who knows.”
Her laugh is soft and low. “It’s not instinct, Seamus. It’s practice. Technique. Clinical-level knowledge. You know what you’re doing and you know exactly how to do it.” Her fingers press lightly into my side. “Tell me.”
I trace a lazy circle on her bare hip, thinking.
“It’s not magic,” I say eventually. “I studied.”
Marcella lifts herself onto her elbow, fully interested. “I know, I know. I’ve heard the cliff notes. Give me the deep dive. Studied how?”
“I’ve never taken much time to analyze my motives until this lawsuit.
By med school, I ended up becoming obsessed with how little people knew about women’s sexuality.
” I try to articulate my inner thoughts.
“I still am, in a way.” I take a second to think.
“I guess it really originated with my classmates…men always come. Always expect to come.”
She watches me, silent now, the teasing gone from her expression.
“I hadn’t really paid much attention before then. Then it became so fucking obvious. Guys walk around like they’re God’s gift to women in bed and they don’t even care where the damn clitoris is,” I fume. “It’s so stupid. Selfish. I didn’t want to be one of them.”
Marcella presses her lips together. “Go on.”
“So, I started reading more. Research. Clinical studies. Old theories, new theories. Stuff Freud said got women labeled as frigid because they didn’t orgasm from intercourse alone.” I snort. “Don’t get me started.”
“I mean…” She tilts her head, lips twitching. “He was kind of a dick.”
“Right? Then I came across this theory from a French princess—Marie Bonaparte. She believed some women couldn’t orgasm during intercourse because their clit was too far from the vaginal opening.”
Marcella’s brow furrows. “Wait, what ?”
“Yeah. She actually had surgery. Multiple times. Tried to reposition it so she could experience orgasm from penetration alone.” I wince at the idea, surgery back then was a little barbaric.
“Jesus.” She’s fully upright now, sitting with one leg folded beneath her. The sheet falls away from her chest revealing a dark nipple, and I try to stay focused on the conversation.
“She wasn’t the only one. Researchers tracked what they called the CUMD—the clitoris-to-urethra distance,” I continue. “They found women with shorter distances had a higher chance of reaching orgasm during intercourse. Even then, it was never a guarantee.”
She stares at me for a beat, wide-eyed. “You’re telling me you read clinical studies to figure out how to get women off.”
“Anatomy is kind of my thing.” I let my hand trail up her spine. “If I wasn’t set on neurosurgery, I’d probably be an OBGYN.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “You’re insane. In a good way.”
“From what I’ve heard, most guys treat sex like a formula—insert my cock into her pussy, pound until I come. It’s no wonder so many women fake orgasms when their pleasure is so much more nuanced. It’s not only about mechanics—it’s trust, attention, attunement. You have to listen.”
“You really are the Orgasm Whisperer.” She bats her eyelashes at me.
“Yeah…well, it’s not so complicated. I don’t know why men aren’t more curious about their partner’s pleasure.” I pause.
Marcella looks at me like I’ve told her I’m from another planet.
Ah. It’s time for the million-dollar question. One I need to get answered before she and I take this much further. “Does it bother you? I’ve…experimented with a lot of women.”
“I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “I mean, numbers are numbers. We both have them. It explains a lot, actually. The way you touch me, I feel like my body isn’t even mine—it’s yours, in the best possible way.”
A flush creeps up my neck. Her honesty always hits me like a punch in the chest.
She runs a hand through her hair. “You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“At dinner I confided something to you I’ve never told anyone.
I spent years assuming there was something wrong with me.
Convinced other women knew something I didn’t.
I thought I was too hard to please. My mind was too complicated to let go.
” She swallows. “Of course, mainly I struggle with a deep-seated belief: if I were thinner or more conventionally desirable, my past lovers would have taken the time to learn me. I would have been worth it. I’ve carried insecurities around my sexuality for years—you’ve opened my eyes a bit.
I thought they took what they wanted and I let them. Maybe it wasn’t so personal.”
“Of course it’s personal.” This angers me.
I sit up, legs crossed, facing her. “You’re not complicated.
You’re not hard to please. They were lazy.
” Her eyes glisten, and I reach forward, brushing my fingers down her jaw.
“You’re not some puzzle to solve, Marcella.
You’re a woman who deserves to be worshipped.
Touched with care. Looked at like you’re fucking art. ”
She looks away. I don’t let her retreat. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I wish I knew…before,” she murmurs.
“Well,” I say softly. “I’m telling you now.”
We sit in the quiet for a beat until she exhales. “I don’t get it, Seamus. You’re not a callous asshole. It’s hard to reconcile. You studied all of this. Applied it. Perfected it. For what? Random stairwell hook-ups?”
Wow. Her words sting. I deserve it.
“I thought I could separate it,” I admit. “Use what I learned without getting attached. Give someone pleasure and then walk away, no strings.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Obviously, I was completely wrong, as you pointed out. The truth is—I was lonely. Medical school is a long road. Neurosurgery is even longer. Things are different with you, Marcella. I want more with you.”
The air shifts. Something deeper settles between us. Marcella reaches out and wraps an arm around my neck, her forehead rests against mine as she takes hold of my cock. “You’re a goddamn unicorn, Seamus.”
“I’ve been called worse.” I suck in a breath.
She presses her lips to mine, slow and lingering. When she pulls back, she says, “For the record, I’m honored you chose me to be your first.”
“Let’s go for twenty, no fifty more times tonight.” I buck into her hand.
She rolls her eyes. “God, you’re obnoxious.”
“You love it.”
“I really might.”
Marcella lies back on the bed, hair fanned out like a halo, curves soft and plush and goddamn perfect. Her lips are swollen from kissing. Her nipples tight.
I’ve made her come so many times I’ve lost count.
Now, I want to go deeper. Show her what I’ve learned—not from a textbook, not from some article—from intuition.
Dedication to loving her body. Show her the pleasure it gives me to tease out every gasp, every twitch, every moan.
Make her believe in the satisfaction I feel every time her thighs tremble and she breathes my name like it’s the only word she remembers.
I drag my palm slowly down her belly, letting it rest above the soft patch of hair between her thighs. She shivers. It’s not cold. It’s anticipation.
“Right. Let’s consider this extra credit.” I slide two fingers between her folds and find her already slick. “I’ve been taking really good notes.”
Her breath catches when I press my thumb to her clit—barely. Not rubbing, not circling. Just holding. Applying the right amount of pressure. Enough to keep her poised in a delicious limbo between tension and need.
“I figured out something about you,” I murmur, dipping my head to kiss the inside of her thigh. “You like a slow build. You think you don’t. Your body tells me otherwise.”
She exhales shakily. “I can’t believe you’re analyzing me like I’m your research project.”
“No, I’m learning the woman who means the world to me. It helps you’re my favorite study.” I grin against her skin.
Her hips jerk when I finally press my tongue to her clit, not softly—intentionally. Slow, firm laps, interspersed with the occasional flick, the occasional pull with my lips.
She moans, her hands flying to my hair. I gently pin her hips down, holding her in place so I can truly see what her body wants. Her thighs fight to close around my head, but I growl and press them apart.
“Stay open for me, baby,” I murmur, breath hot against her.
She nods, eyes wide, lips parted.
Then I switch it up—two fingers slip inside her, curling forward while my tongue strokes in rhythm. Her whole body arches. Her special spot. I’ve mapped it for hours.
Every time I feel it and witness how she comes undone? Nothing compares.
“There,” I whisper, watching her. “I’ve found it, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she chokes out. “Seamus, Jesus—don’t stop.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I resume my favorite task.
She grabs for me, not to push away—to ground herself. Her fingers curl into my forearm as I keep the pace steady—unrelenting, patient, exacting.
She comes with a strangled cry, clenching around my fingers.
Thighs quivering as her whole body locks and shakes as wave after wave crashes through her.
I don’t stop. Not until I’ve wrested six orgasms in succession.
Then, finally, I allow her tremors to subside and she collapses, boneless and panting, on the sheets.
When I finally slide up beside her, her eyes are still glassy. Her lips curve into something disbelieving and wild.
“You were right,” she whispers. “You really have been paying attention.”
I pull her into me, press a kiss to her temple. “From this point forward, only to you.”
She nuzzles into my chest, one leg sliding over mine, like she can’t get close enough. Fuck if it doesn’t do something to me all over again.
I spent years learning a woman’s body—nerve, rhythm, response.
None of it prepared me for Marcella.
Sex with her isn’t technique.
It’s everything I never knew I was missing.