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…And I shiver.
“Out,” Clay barks, making Patrick jump before he skitters towards the door.
“I’m tellin’ you!” he throws back. “You lay your hands on—”
“Our hands?” Eamon growls. He and Clay slowly stand, rising to their full, huge height as my core tightens and my pulse quickens. They start to make their way around the table, their eyes locked on me like I’m a meal they’re about to devour. When Clay locks the back door on his way around, I actually have to hold back the whimper in my throat.
They stop right in front of me, and my breath catches as I look up into two gorgeous, dark, captivating, and powerful faces.
Two pairs of eyes spark with pure fire, two chiseled jaws tighten, and two growls catch low in their throats as Eamon starts to smile hungrily.
“Oh, we’re going to use much more than just our hands.”
My eyes dart to Patrick in time to see his face turn bright red with fury, or maybe just embarrassment, before he whirls and storms out the door to the bar. Clay follows, and when I hear him slide the deadbolt to the door shut with a metallic “clunk”, my pulse skips a beat, and I blush furiously at the totally wrong feeling of heat pulsing needy and aching between my thighs.
“And now, sweetheart,” Eamon groans deeply, moving closer to me. His hand slides to my hip, making me gasp quietly at the strength in his hand as it slides around my waist. I feel a presence behind me, and when I hear the rumble of Clay’s growl, and when I feel his huge, powerful hand slide over my other hip, there’s no stopping the whimper from falling from my lips.
“Now,” Eamon purrs, pulling me close as Clay presses into my back.
“Now it’s time to claim our prize.”
2
Eamon
I’m so fucking hard.
It’s honestly almost the only thing I can even focus on—the fact that my cock is throbbing against the zipper of my pants that’s vainly trying to hold it back. My balls ache for release, and my swollen head pulses, precum leaking freely into my boxers.
…It’s been like this since the very second I laid eyes on this girl.
Sharp, emerald eyes. Red hair blazing like fire around her pretty, freckled face. That green dress hugging every single sinful curve of her body the way my hands demand to.
I’ve wanted her since the moment I saw her, and I want all of her.
Some men see a beautiful woman and want to possess her body, or something equally basic. Now, I do want her body, and I will be having it, on that, I’m certain. But it’s more than that. One look at this woman, and I knew I wanted it all. I want her heart, her soul, her mind. The whole fucking thing.
And I know Clay is feeling the same damn way.
No words have been spoken here at the poker table. None have to be. I’ve known Clay for too long, since we were kids dodging bullets and car bombs up in Belfast during The Troubles. We’ve hammered, and battered, and fought our way to where we are today as kings by brute force and through sheer fucking will. And you don’t go through all of that with a man, from childhood to being crowned, without basically being able to read his mind.
Clay sees her the same damn way I do, and he wants what I want.
We want that fire that so obviously blazes through her veins. We want that wild spirit you can see barely contained behind those sharp green eyes and her wild, fiery red hair. We want the moans dripping from her lips and her sweet submission tumbling from her tongue—and oh, she’ll moan for us. For both of us.
Phoebe Wright. Or, soon to be Phoebe Morrow, as I hear. The piece of human trash we just took for a ride at the poker table who calls himself her fiancé, Patrick, is the nephew of the very man who is the entire reason for our visit to Boston.
Just one more reason why she’s forbidden. And yet, one more reason we’re both willfully disregarding.
We’re ignoring the warning signs with her. We’re ignoring the common sense that would say to Patrick “no deal” when he offers up his girl as collateral in a goddam poker game, when his uncle is the most powerful man in the Irish underworld in this city. Letting our eyes linger on her too long could upset our whole mission. Touching her could start a war.
But common sense? Warning signs? Playing it safe?
…All of those can go get fucked. They went out the window the second she walked in the door. They stopped even being considerations the very second we both realized how fucking hooked we were on this girl.
And that’s never fucking happened before.
