33. Marcella
thirty-three
Marcella
“Let’s steal a minute?”
Ronni’s hand touches my arm—light, but purposeful.
It’s phrased like an invitation. I know better.
She’s offering something—wisdom, maybe a lifeline.
I’d be a fool not to take it.
I follow her out of the sitting room, taking a glance back at Seamus who is talking to his brother, Connor.
They’re angled slightly away from us now.
Seamus is nodding, his expression tight, like he’s forcing composure he doesn’t actually feel.
His hand grips the armrest like he might crack it.
Whatever Connor’s saying, it’s hitting deep.
My man is unraveling, quietly and with restraint. I feel helpless.
Ronni gives my arm a small tug, leading me through the open doorway and into the kitchen, polished and warmly lit. There’s purpose behind her unhurried steps. This isn’t small talk. She wanted me away from Seamus for a reason.
Or, more likely, she wanted to give the brothers space for a one-on-one. Older brother to younger.
Ronni stops by one of her kitchen islands and leans back against it, arms folded loosely across her chest. Her posture is relaxed yet her eyes are sharp. “Tell me the truth. Are you okay?”
“Define okay.” I face her and slump against the opposite island.
Her lips curve. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“Honestly? I hadn’t let myself…uh. Shit . I’m trying to process the sheer volume of it all. Forty women, Ronni. Forty.” I wince, picturing my boyfriend in the fucking stairwell with other women—thinner, more beautiful, younger…
“You love him.” She nods, slow and steady.
It’s not a question. “I do. So much it scares the hell out of me.”
“Then I’m going to tell you the same thing my therapist told me the first time a tabloid published a rumor about Connor’s sex life after they found out we were a couple.” She glances at me sideways. “You don’t get to rewrite the past. Only the present and the future.”
I exhale, eyes trained on the edge of the counter. “My head knows it. My heart tells me it’s different when it’s your person. I hate knowing those women felt the type of pleasure he gives me. Physically at least. It messes with your head.”
“Of course it does.” Ronni’s voice softens. “You’re human. You need to remember you have something they didn’t. Seamus didn’t just open his body to you, Marcella. He’s given you the part of himself no one else has. The best part.”
I swallow hard.
Ronni steps toward me and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear in a gesture so motherly and intimate it nearly undoes me.
“Don’t let shame write the script. You have every right to feel hurt, or confused, or even angry.
If it’s any consolation, I’ve known Seamus a long time.
He’s kind. Loyal. Complicated, yeah. He’s got a steady heart. He needs you to hold steady, too.”
I press my lips together, holding back tears.
Ronni smiles, then opens a drawer and rummages around until she finds what she’s looking for. A business card, which she hands to me. “This is the firm I recommend. You should vet them. If there is any doubt, we’ll regroup.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I stare down at the card, the weight of it heavier than the cardstock should allow.
“Connor is going to help his brother financially,” she adds. “For what it’s worth, Seamus needs to handle this. As a man. With you at his side, not in front of him with a shield.”
“I get it,” I whisper. “I just hate feeling like I can’t fix it for him.”
“You can’t,” she says gently. “You can only stand beside him while he cleans his own house. You’re not alone, Marcella. We’re here for you too.” She pulls me in for a brief, fierce hug. “I mean it.”
After a moment I’m able to steel myself and we make our way back into the den.
Seamus is waiting with my car keys in hand. He’s smiling at something Connor said. The moment he sees me, the smile falters. Not entirely—enough.
The ride home is quiet, humming with everything unsaid. I rest my hand on his thigh, and he covers it with his own. Our fingers interlace without thought.
He’s thinking about the women. I know it. About the money. The fallout. The way I looked at him when Ronni said “forty.” I didn’t mean to recoil. I couldn’t help it, the number hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
We don’t talk until we’re inside my condo. He kicks off his shoes and hesitates like he’s waiting for me to say something.
Instead, I grab his hand and lead him to the bedroom.
He pulls me back again. “You’re not…angry?”
“I’m furious,” I correct him. “Not at you. Not really. I’m angry you have to carry this. Even more pissed the truth might not be enough.”
His face falters for a second. The quiet devastation nearly guts me. Before the weight of it can drag him under, I kiss him—soft and deliberate. Then deeper, until we’re breathing each other in like the only air we need lives between us.
His hands come to my waist, tentative at first. Then certain.
He breaks the kiss with a gravelly whisper, “I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe not,” I tug his sweatshirt over his head, “you have me anyway.”
“I want to rewrite it all.” I unbutton and unzip his pants and he lets me.
Doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush. Watches me like I’m something holy.
“All those women who only wanted a piece of you in a stairwell—all the ones who took what you gave without seeing the man underneath? I want to erase them. I want to be the one who rewrites those memories—with love, with depth, with forever.”
“You already have.” His voice breaks. “Marcella. You’re all I ever wanted. All I ever dreamed about—even when I didn’t think someone like you was real.”
We move in sync—quiet and slow—stripping down as we make our way to the bedroom, discarding the day piece by piece. I pull back the covers and climb in first. He follows a beat later, warm and solid, sliding up behind me until our bodies are flush.
He wraps around me, draping his hand low over the curve of my belly. He buries his face against the back of my neck like he’s anchoring himself there. “I love you,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’ve changed me.”
“Say it again.” I reach back and run my fingers through his hair, guiding him closer.
“I love you,” he repeats. “Not just in an I-want-you way. Not just in bed. I love your mind. Your fire. Your mouth, even when it terrifies people in the courtroom.”
He shifts, pressing himself inside me in one smooth, reverent stroke. I gasp, and clutch his forearm, holding him against me as he begins to move. Slow. Deep. Each thrust an unspoken vow.
“I didn’t know I could ever feel like this,” he says against my shoulder. “I thought I understood desire, pleasure, connection. I didn’t know a damn thing. Not until you.”
His rhythm doesn’t change—it’s steady, like he’s savoring the feel of me around him. Letting it burn through every layer of fear and doubt still clinging to him. “I want to give you everything. Not just orgasms. Or weekends and weeknights and whatever’s left after the hospital grinds me down.”
He wraps his arm tighter around me, his hand slipping between my legs, finding my clit with the ease of a man who’s mapped my every nerve ending.
“I want to build a life with you. Marry you. Have babies with you, if you want them. I want to fall asleep with my cock buried inside of you every fucking night. I want holidays and bad reality TV and your hair in my sink. I want it all.”
“Seamus…” I arch against him, trembling, undone from the inside out.
His hand moves in tandem with his body and my whole world sharpens into white heat. I come with a breathless cry, his name on my lips. He follows, pulsing deep inside me.
Afterward, he holds me so tight I can feel his heartbeat in every part of me.
We don’t speak again for a long time. We don’t need to.
No words. No doubts.
This is what it feels like to belong to someone—completely and irrevocably.
He’s mine. I’m his.
Whatever comes, we face it as one.