He turns his laptop screen toward me. “I swapped out my hospital shifts. I’ve been putting together an important proposal.”
“Proposal?” I blink, trying to catch up. We haven’t seen each other in two days. Our texts have been pretty sparse.
“Yeah. For my R5 year.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m officially pitching a focused study on the intersection of neurosurgical pathways and female sexual function. Dr. Madison said she’d consider it if I gave her something concrete.”
My eyes widen. “Wow.”
“I pulled some of the old Stanford studies, plus the fMRI data from the Arnow trials, and I’m mapping a study to incorporate both neurological imaging and surgical case reviews.”
He’s talking fast—too fast. His words are technically enthusiastic. It’s weird, there’s no joy behind them. I’m watching someone in full panic mode.
I step closer, placing my hand on the table near his. “Sounds…ambitious.”
“It has to be.” Seamus’s mouth twitches. “If Caldwell’s going to continue ignoring me, I have to figure out a way to get through the next three years.”
There it is.
“So nothing’s changed?” I sink into the chair next to him. He’s been so tight-lipped. It’s time for him to tell me what’s going on.
He shakes his head. “Well, yes. It’s worse. People are talking. I can feel it when I walk into the hospital. It’s like I’ve got a target painted on my back.” I reach for his hand, but he stands abruptly, pretending not to notice. “Anyway. This isn’t your problem. Did you have a nice visit with your sister?”
His back is to me as he organizes a stack of printouts. The brush-off stings.
Feeling desperate to connect to the man I love, I move behind him, press my chest to his back and slide my arms around his waist. “You’ve been working nonstop.” I trail my fingers along the tensioned line of his shoulder. “Let me take care of you.”
He exhales—shaky, uncertain. Doesn’t say no.
I shift closer and press a kiss to the back of his neck. I feel the way his entire body tenses then sags slightly. I inch my hands under his sweatshirt, palms warm against his skin, tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen. He shudders when I trail kisses to the spot just behind his ear.
“Come sit,” I whisper.
He lets me guide him, pliant but distracted, and lowers himself onto the couch with a soft grunt. I slide between his knees, the hardwood floors beneath mine, and rest my hands on his thighs.
His gaze meets mine. Open. Vulnerable.
I tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Lift up.”
He raises his hips and I ease his pants down. His cock is already heavy and half-erect, resting against his abdomen. He watches as I take him in my hand, stroking slow at first then more assertively. His lashes flutter and his mouth parts slightly. Leaning down, I lick him from root to tip before taking him fully into my mouth. His fingers twist into the couch cushion.
There’s a beat—one long, suspended moment—where it’s just us.
The weight of him on my tongue. The soft, guttural sound he makes when I hollow my cheeks and suck. The way his hand slides to the back of my neck, not pushing, just grounding.
I close my eyes and lose myself in it. In him. In the way his thighs tense under my hands. His salty, musky taste leaking from his crown as it hits the back of my throat. The way my lips barely manage to encompass his thick cock.
Without thinking, Seamus breathes my name like it’s a prayer he’s not sure he deserves.
His hips move and buck and when he comes, it’s with a broken gasp—his whole body bows toward me, one trembling hand fisted in my hair like he’s trying to hold on to something real. I swallow everything he gives me, gently licking him clean, not stopping until I feel his fingers relax.
When I do sit back on my heels and glance up—
He’s not looking at me anymore.
His head drops into his hands, elbows on his knees, body still shaking. Not from pleasure.
From something else.
My heart squeezes so tightly I can hardly breathe.
