30. Seamus
thirty
Seamus
The Next Day
It’s just past ten when I crack an eye open and realize two things:
One, the sun is already blinding.
Two, the woman curled against me has somehow managed to steal all the covers.
Again.
Marcella lets out a sleepy noise and snuggles deeper under the blanket, her thigh sliding over mine. I grin into the pillow.
“You awake?” I murmur against her hair.
She hums. “Barely.”
“Good.” I kiss her temple.
She nestles against me, slow and decadent, her warm curves pressing into mine with all the familiarity of a woman who knows exactly where she belongs. “What time is it?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“We’ve got a couple hours,” I murmur, brushing her hair back to kiss her temple. “Plenty of time to be fashionably late to my ma’s.”
Marcella giggles and buries her face in my chest. “She’ll know exactly what we’ve been up to.”
I grin. “Especially if you hoard her brown bread like a dragon. She’ll know how we’ve worked up an appetite.”
She snorts, her laugh vibrating through my ribs, and I strengthen my hold around her. It’s easy again. Comfortable. Like we’ve been waking up tangled in each other for years, not just a few short months.
Three and change, to be exact.
Three months of falling hard and fast. Of messy honesty and a couple near implosions. Of figuring out what it means to choose each other when the world’s spinning too fast and trying to pull you apart.
We’ve already had a rough patch. With moments when I wasn’t sure we’d find our way back.
We did.
Now it’s like we can’t get enough of each other. We’ve been trying to erase the ache of those weeks every time we fuck each other like feral rabbits on a countdown.
We’ve earned this part—the love. Sex. Ridiculous banter. Our return to something steady. Grounding.
She finally pushes the blanket down and rolls to her back, one slow movement at a time, her body arching, like she’s waking from the deepest sleep of her life. The sheets slide off her skin.
My breath catches in my throat. Every. Fucking. Day.
She’s bare from head to toe—draped in morning light and nothing else.
Her heavy breasts rise and fall with every breath, full and flushed from where I’d already spent the better part of the night worshiping them.
Her nipples are dusky and tight, drawing my eyes like a fucking magnet.
One leg is bent, the other extended, her hip curves into the mattress like a sin I’m about to commit all over again.
The sleepy smile on her lips?
It wrecks me.
She reaches for me—one slow, inviting curl of her fingers—and I go without hesitation.
Crawl over her and brace my forearms on either side of her head like I’ve done a hundred times before.
Sex with her still feels new. Electric. She tilts her face up, and I meet her lips with a tender, reverent kiss, then deepen it into something hungrier.
My cock is already hard again—has been since she woke up. I don’t rush, though. I lower my mouth to her neck, dragging my lips across the soft skin just beneath her ear. She shivers and tilts her head to give me more.
“God, Seamus,” she breathes.
I hum against her skin, trailing kisses down the slope of her shoulder, over the swell of her breast, and finally closing my mouth over her nipple. Her back arches like it always does—beautiful and instinctive—and I lick and suck until her fingers are in my hair, tugging, guiding.
“More,” she whispers, hips rocking against me. “Please.”
I slide my hand down the warm curve of her belly, then lower, until my fingers slip through slick heat.
Fuck.
Always so ready for me.
I stroke her slowly, circling her clit until her legs fall open wider, her thighs trembling as I build her up, up, up. I don’t let her come—not yet.
When I finally slide inside her, it’s one long, deliberate thrust, so exquisite it punches a hole in my chest. Her breath hitches and her legs wrap around my hips, locking me in place like she can’t stand the idea of any space between us.
This isn’t a quick fuck. It’s not frantic or wild.
It’s something else.
It’s the way she gasps my name like it’s the only word she remembers.
The way her nails dig into my back when I angle just right.
Slide against the spot that makes her come undone every single time.
The way she looks at me—eyes wide, lips parted, makes me feel like I’m giving her something she didn’t know she needed.
We move together like we’ve done this for years. Like we’ve memorized each other’s rhythm in another life and are just falling back into it now.
Her hands frame my face, fingers sliding into my hair, and I brace one arm under her shoulder, the other on her hip, pulling her into each thrust. Her breasts press against my chest, her skin hot and slick with sweat, and every inch of her feels like fucking heaven.
“Harder,” she whispers, her voice ragged.
I shift, digging my knees into the mattress and drive into her harder, deeper. Her moan catches in her throat, one hand clinging to my shoulder while the other slides down between us.
“Let me,” I pant, and she nods, allowing me take over.
I rub her clit in tight, perfect circles, never breaking rhythm. I can tell her body starts to react by the way her inner muscles grip my cock like a vise.
“Let go.” I press my forehead to hers. “Come for me, baby.”
She breaks with a cry—low, guttural, desperate. Her body trembles beneath mine, her back arching, mouth open as she falls apart. I ride it out, every flex of her body dragging me closer to the edge.
When she starts to come down, I slow just enough to keep us connected, then shift again—rolling her on top of me in one motion. She blinks down at me, dazed and glowing.
“Ride me.” I brush her hair off her face.
Marcella sinks down on me slowly, taking me back in with a shudder. Her mouth drops open. “Fuck…”
She starts to move, her hands braced on my chest, her pace unhurried and delicious. Every roll of her hips is heaven. Watching her like this—hair wild, breasts bouncing, skin flushed, pleasure etched into every line of her face—makes it impossible to last.
I grasp her waist, thrusting up to meet her, losing myself in the rhythm we create. It’s raw. Intimate. Holy, even.
“I love you,” I breathe.
Her eyes fly open. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
She leans down, kissing me so hard it’s like she’s pouring everything she feels into our kiss. Her hips never stop moving.
“I love you too. Come with me,” she whispers against my mouth. “I want to feel you fill me up.”
God. I’m already there.
As she requests, I thrust deep and explode. My body shakes, and hers follows, both of us clinging to each other like we’ll never let go.
We collapse, breathless and completely spent.
I pull her close, pressing my lips to her shoulder as her breathing evens out.
“Jesus,” I murmur into her skin. “You’ll be the death of me.”
She laughs softly, snuggling into my chest.
Because we both know—this is the kind of death you welcome because it feels like being reborn.
I must doze off for a bit—just long enough for the edges of the morning to blur. When I crack one eye open again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now, angling through the windows just so. Marcella’s head is on my chest, chestnut hair spilled like silk across my ribs.
Her fingers absentmindedly trace the lines of my stomach. “We should probably get up. Your mother’s going to guilt me for stealing her son if we’re late again.”
“We’ve got time. Plenty.” I settle back into position.
She tilts her head up, eyes half-lidded. Playful. “Yeah? Join me in the shower?”
It’s all the invitation I need.
She’s up before I am, padding across the room with zero concern about being naked—warmth floods my ribs in the best way. Gone are her insecurities. She moves like a curvy queen who knows damn well she’s worshiped.
Because she is .
I watch her go, letting myself enjoy the view for one long beat before I push off the mattress and follow.
By the time I enter the bathroom, Marcella is standing under the spray, eyes closed, hands running through her wet hair. Water glides over her skin, beading at the tips of her breasts and sliding down the curve of her stomach. She’s unreal. A fucking masterpiece.
I step in behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She melts back into me like she’s been waiting for hours, not minutes.
“Took your time,” she teases.
“Worth it,” I murmur, brushing her wet hair off her shoulder to kiss the spot just beneath her ear.
She tilts her head, giving me better access, and I trail kisses down her neck and across her shoulder, while my hands slide up her slick skin to cup her breasts. She’s already breathing heavier.
Her hips roll back, pressing into me, and when she feels how hard I am, she lets out a low, wicked laugh. “Again?”
“Always.”
Marcella turns in my arms and I kiss her before she can say another word. Wet and hungry. I walk her slowly backward until her back is against the tile. Her leg lifts, wrapping around my waist without prompting, and I reach down to guide myself inside her in one slow thrust.
I brace one hand against the wall, the other holding her thigh as I drive into her. She bites her bottom lip, trying to muffle the moan ripping out of her when I pull out and thrust again, harder this time.
The sound of the water, the slap of wet skin, her breathless cries—it’s all I can hear as we fuck.
When she comes, her head tips back against the tile, and the quiet, broken sound she makes?
It undoes me. I follow her over the edge, my hips stuttering, emptying everything I have with a guttural cry pulled from somewhere deeper than my lungs.
We stand there for a long moment after, forehead to forehead, still breathing each other in.
Eventually, she laughs softly. “Okay. Now we really need to get ready.”
We step out into the thick bathroom air, grabbing towels and bumping into each other as we move. She shoots me a mock-glare when she realizes her lotion bottle is empty. “You used the last of the good stuff, didn’t you?”
“You’ll survive.” I grin, wrapping my towel low on my hips.
She narrows her eyes. “If you’re not careful, I’ll hide your razors.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I chuckle, leaning in to kiss her wet cheek.
We bicker our way back into the bedroom, laughing and towel-drying—our effortless banter is like breathing.
Like routine.
Like us .
By two, we’re dressed and heading to my parents’ house. Marcella’s in jeans and a soft black sweater. Her is hair twisted up with pieces falling loose.
I steal a kiss in the elevator down to the garage, and she shakes her head at me, smiling. “What’s gotten into you today?”
“I’m happy,” I say simply.
She doesn’t answer, her hand finds mine and squeezes.
The drive over is full of music and light teasing. Marcella reads me a few text messages from her brother Lucas, who’s trying to convince Rosa to put some lamb dish back on the menu. I let her vent about the new witness who just blew a hole in her deposition strategy.
We talk about everything, other than Caldwell. He can wait. I still haven’t let anyone from my family in on what’s happening. Not until we have our ducks in a row.
Inside, the madness is already in full swing. As usual, Liam and Padraig are in a heated discussion about setlists and gear logistics. Connor’s listening, clearly distracted, his curls pulled back and his brow furrowed.
Teagan is balanced on Ronni’s hip, babbling nonsense. The twins, Torin and Tristan, are chasing each other around the living room, hopped up on sugar and mischief.
The rest of the afternoon and evening moves in a blur. Marcella plays referee when the twins argue over who gets the last tea cake. She talks music with Liam, legal drama with Ronni, and even gets Rory to laugh when she compliments his vintage flask collection—she knows damn well the house is dry.
When the table is finally set, Ma waves everyone in. We take our usual seats—Marcella beside me, Connor on the opposite side with the twins flanking Ronni, who has Teagan in a high chair next to her.
Across from us, Brennan has a look on his face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Not smug. Not calculating.
Content.
Maybe because his girlfriend, Astrid, has changed his life. When she speaks, Brennan leans in close, like her smile is a gravity he can’t resist. It hits me hard.
Because for all the ways he’s wired differently, and disappears into code and algorithms and neural net mapping—this, right here, is simple. Human. He’s in love. It’s written all over him.
I glance at Marcella beside me, her eyes shining as she chats with Ronni about some ridiculous Boyfriend Experiment theory, and I realize my brothers and I are not very different. Not when it comes to love. We partner for life with women who make us better men.
Dinner is roast lamb with rosemary, buttery mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and parsnips, and the famous brown bread. As always, there’s noise and love and way too many stories about someone’s embarrassing moment. Cillian’s absence is palpable and never spoken about directly.
After the meal, Ronni and Marcella slip off to the living room with Teagan while I catch up with Connor and Brennan. We talk quietly about Cillian. Connor, ever the perceptive older brother, asks how work’s going and I give a noncommittal shrug. They don’t push. Not yet.
Later, Marcella and I step out onto the porch. The air is crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and pine.
“I love them,” she says softly.
“Me too.”
She looks at me. There’s something vulnerable in her eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer honestly. “I’m better. The proposal’s in. You’re here. We have a plan.”
She points to the street. “Then let’s go home.”
Her fingers thread through mine like she’s never letting go.
We head down the stairs, into the future and whatever comes next.
Hope doesn’t shout. It settles.
Certain. Steady.
Mine .