26. Seamus
twenty-six
Seamus
New Year's Day
My body’s wrecked, my mind wide awake. I can’t stop watching her.
Marcella sleeps curled against me, her breathing soft and rhythmic, her cheek resting on my chest. Every so often she lets out a sleepy hum, like she’s exhaling whatever stress she carried into this new year.
Her hair spills over my arm and her thigh is slung over my leg like she owns the space between us.
She does. She absolutely does.
The sky outside her window is a soft, wet gray as expected. Seattle in winter rarely delivers anything other than misty rain and today’s no different. Drops sploosh steadily against the pane, making the light diffused and low, like the world hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet.
I don’t mind.
Not this year.
Not with her.
I’m completely obsessed with Marcella Delgado, the woman who has bulldozed every obstacle in her life with stilettos and sarcasm. She trusts me. Sleeps against me like I’m home.
I never knew I needed this. I can’t live without her.
We didn’t go out last night. No crowded parties or loud music. It was just the two of us, curled up on her couch watching the ball drop on TV. Our champagne flutes were untouched because we were too busy kissing when the clock struck midnight. Then we fucked until dawn.
It was perfect.
We didn’t spend Christmas together—our first major holiday as a couple felt too soon to crash into each other’s long-held family traditions.
We more than made up for it this past week—a blur of slow mornings, hard laughter, another dinner at her parents’ restaurant and Sunday at mine.
Stolen glances across the room and hours of mind-blowing sex.
Truth be told, I’ve barely been home since the first night I slept here. My townhouse smells like Pine-Sol and neglect and I only know this because I stopped by a few days ago for more clothes and my toiletries.
Marcella stirs beside me and shifts onto her back, blinking sleepily. Her eyes meet mine, and her mouth curves into the softest smile. “Happy New Year,” she whispers, her voice still husky.
“Best one I’ve ever had.” I smile down at her.
She yawns and extends her arms over her head, causing the sheet to fall down, exposing her glorious breasts.
My gaze drops and I’m not even subtle. My eyes drift over her luscious curves, taking in her dark, puckered nipples, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
I've explored every inch of her silky skin and I’m thoroughly addicted.
I trail my fingers lightly down her spine, savoring the way she shivers under my touch.
A blush creeps across her chest. “Don’t start,” she warns. “You’re insatiable and I can never resist.”
I cup her breast, brushing my thumb over her tight nipple until she squirms under my touch. “Why would you resist?”
Her breath catches. She tries to act unaffected. It won’t work, I know her body like the back of my hand now. Her tells. We’ve been here a lot lately.
It never gets old
I’ve never been happier.
My cock thickens against her plush thigh in spite of the countless times I've spent myself inside her over the last few days. She’s right. I am insatiable. So is she. I pull her closer, peppering her face with soft kisses. “Want you so much, beautiful girl.”
“Mmm, I want you too,” she admits happily, snuggling into my chest. “My amazing man.”
I never knew it could be like this, so perfect and right. The way she touches me, worships me, I feel like a king. “I'm so lucky I found you.”
“I feel like the lucky one.” She smiles and slides her thigh over mine, opening herself to me.
In one motion, I gently roll her under me.
I kiss my way down her chest, worshipping every inch of her smooth, caramel skin before palming her heavy breasts, squeezing gently, and sucking a dark nipple into my mouth.
I swirl my tongue around the pebbled peak until she's writhing beneath me, her hips rocking restlessly.
Slipping my hand between her legs, I’m not surprised to find her slick with arousal. “ Mmm , always wet for me,” I rasp, parting her slippery folds.
I circle her swollen clit with the pad of my finger, nice and slow, to tease her. She whines low in her throat, spreading her thighs wider.
“Seamus, please .” She cants her hips, desperate for more. “Need you deep in my pussy.”
God, I love it when she tells me exactly what she wants using words she probably never uttered before me.
I settle into the cradle of her hips. My cock nudges against her entrance and I moan brokenly.
Fuck, she's scorching. Drenched for me. I push in slowly, savoring the feel of her body accepting me, inch by incredible inch. She's snug, even after the countless times we’ve fucked this month. I have to grit my teeth against the urge to thrust wildly. She’s bound to be sore after how hard we went at it last night.
“Yes. Go slow,” she whimpers, her nails digging into my shoulders. “You’re back where you belong. Fill me up.”
Jesus. This woman. I bottom out, my hips flush against hers, and groan at the exquisite sensation. She's made for me. I'm made for her. This is exactly where I belong at all times.
I start to move, slowly rolling my hips, gliding in and out of her in long, smooth strokes. Deep and slow. I want it to be so good for her she’ll come apart for me, soreness be damned.
Our mouths move together in a rhythm mirroring the deliberate roll of our bodies.
Every kiss is hungry. Slick lips and searching tongues, like we’re trying to memorize each other from the inside out.
Her little whimpers hit me like lightning, soft and desperate, and I swallow them down greedily, wanting to hoard every sound she makes.
Her hands fist in my hair as her hips lift to meet me on every thrust, and I can feel her getting close—constricting around me, her breath catching on every gasp.
“Seamus,” she pants. “God, I’m—so close—don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” I promise raggedly. “I’ve got you.”
Then it slips out, not planned, not rehearsed—just real.
“I love you, Marcella.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and stunned. Not afraid. Not for a second.
Something shifts in her face—softens, deepens—and she pulls me closer, nails digging into my back.
“I love you, too” she whispers. “ So much .”
The words punch through me like a heartbeat and I kiss her harder, deeper, like I can fuse us together with my mouth and cock working in tandem. She gasps, her body tensing, shaking apart beneath me.
“Come for me,” I pant against her lips. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
I reach between us and rub tight circles around her slippery clit, just the way she likes. She comes with a keening cry, her pussy rippling around me, massaging my cock. I follow her over the edge with a guttural cry, spilling deep inside her.
We lay tangled together, my cock still buried, basking in the afterglow. I pepper her face with soft, reverent kisses, overwhelmed with love for this woman in my arms. “You're incredible,” I whisper against her kiss-swollen lips. “So beautiful. So sexy. So mine.”
“Yours,” she agrees, her hands caressing the side of my face. “Yes.”
We stay this way for a while—our bodies still joined, breath mingling in the quiet aftermath. Her fingers trace lazy patterns across my shoulder, and mine roam slowly over her curves. Almost like I’m trying to memorize her in this exact moment.
Because I am.
Eventually, she shifts with a soft sigh and I slip out.
She kisses my nose. “I need a shower.”
“Don’t be long,” I murmur.
I watch her pad naked across the room, unhurried and unbothered, the curve of her ass swaying like a silent victory. She’s not covering herself. Not glancing back to see if I’m looking. She’s bare. Beautiful.
She’s stopped trying to hide her naked body from me. Jesus, her newfound confidence does something to my heart.
Steam starts curling beneath the bathroom door within seconds. I lay there for a beat longer, letting the warmth of her body fade slowly from the sheets.
Then I follow.
Marcella doesn’t look surprised when I step in behind her, just smiles softly and lifts her face to let the water run down her cheeks. I wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, and she leans into me without a word.
We don’t do much talking. Or washing. Mostly touching. Kissing. Letting ourselves linger in the quiet before the world starts moving again.
Eventually, we emerge clean and flushed, wrapped in towels and sleepy grins. Marcella tugs on a hoodie and leggings, her hair piled into a loose, wet knot. I pull on the same scrubs I’ve been rotating through for the past few days, too content to care I look like a med school dropout.
She moves toward the kitchen, and I trail after her lazily. The room smells like rain—wet pavement and winter air drifting in through the cracked-open window. Light slants in, watery and gray. A winter morning begging for coffee and slow starts.
Marcella busies herself at the counter, pulling mugs from the shelf, starting the French press. I settle at the kitchen table, watching her move.
For the first time in days, my breath hitches uncomfortably. Not from love. Not from lust. From the low, creeping ache of dread.
Real life is coming. Fast.
Three days from now, I’ll be back at the hospital, under Caldwell’s watch. I have no idea what the hell’s going to happen. What version of him I’ll be facing. The fallout waiting for me.
I’ve spent the last few weeks in a beautiful, fantastical bubble with Marcella. This morning, I can feel it thinning. Expanding. Ready to pop.
Marcella turns and catches me staring, her expression softening immediately. “Okay,” she walks over with the mugs, “you’re officially stressed. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“It’s January.” I take the mug from her and try to smile. “Caldwell’s back next week.”
Her brow furrows. “Do you think he’ll retaliate?”
“No idea,” I say honestly. “He hasn’t reached out. I haven’t spoken to him since the day he confronted me.”
Marcella’s quiet as she sips her coffee. Watching me. Not pushing. It’s one of the things I love most about her. She lets me work through things without jumping in to fix or soften. When I speak, she really listens.
“I’m not scared of him,” I say finally. “I don’t trust him. I’m not on board with pretending like nothing happened.”
Marcella sets down her mug and reaches across the table, curling her fingers around mine. “You don’t have to pretend, not with me. Not with yourself. You’ll figure it out as you go.”
I stare at our hands, the way her thumb brushes over my knuckles, and something in my chest loosens. “Thanks, baby.”
“You still love it, don’t you? Neurosurgery?” She tilts her head.
I nod. “I do. What happened with Miranda changed something. Not my love for the work, my tolerance for people who treat it like a god complex. I just want to do it right. Help people. Not become some asshole surgeon who thinks he’s above accountability.”
“You won’t. I know you won’t.” Her eyes soften.
The trust again. Marcella seems to see the best parts of me even when I’m second-guessing myself.
I don’t know what it is about this woman. Her steady fire. Her insight. Her wit. Her body, for fuck’s sake. She makes me want to be better. Want to fight harder for the life I actually want. My thumb skims the back of her hand. “Can I say something ridiculous?”
“Is it about how hard you are? Again?” She raises a brow.
I laugh. “No. Though, thank you for the segue.”
She rolls her eyes, grinning.
I lean in, heart thudding. “I love you. I’m going to marry you.”
Her smile slips. Not in fear—more like awe.
“I know it’s early and it may not happen for a while,” I add quickly. “I also don’t expect you to be ready yet. I just want you to know where my head is at. This isn’t about sex, though it certainly sweetens the deal—you’re the woman I want to wake up to. Every. Fucking. Day.”
Marcella stares at me like she’s trying to process my confession. Then she stands, walks around the table and straddles my lap.
I look up at her, breath stuck in my throat.
“I love you so much,” she whispers. “I’d marry you tomorrow.”
I’m gone.
My hands slide under her hoodie, up her thighs, until I’m palming her ass and kissing her like I’ll never stop. She moans into my mouth, grinding against me, and I feel myself harden beneath her.
“Are you sure?” I murmur.
She grins against my lips. “We haven’t had kitchen table sex.”
I don’t argue.
We knock over a salt shaker. She tears off my shirt as I hike up her hoodie and slide her leggings down just enough to give me access. Her fingers are yanking down my waistband when I turn her and ease her over the edge of the table, spread her legs and slide in. She’s slick and ready, as always.
Her hands slide down the table, anchoring her as I start to move. Intense, reverent thrusts sending sparks flying up my spine. She meets me stroke for stroke, her neck craned and eyes locked on mine.
This isn’t just sex.
It’s communion.
Her lips part in a whimper and I watch her come undone for me, again, and again—until I follow and fall against her, completely wrecked.
A few minutes later, as we clean up—laughing, breathless—she wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my back. “I’m not looking forward to work either,” she says softly. “I’ll be back in the office full-time next week and I’ll miss this so much. We’ll get through it, though.”
She’s right. We’ve been living in a world of our own—slow mornings, bare skin, quiet laughter.
The outside waits. Work. Pressure. Noise.
When she assures me we’ll be fine—voice steady, eyes clear, conviction carved into every word—I won’t brace for a crash.
I’ll believe her.
Even if I know it isn’t true.