by Madison Faye
Get Lucky
Madison Faye
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Also by Madison Faye
Mailing List
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye
Cover: Coverlüv
Photography: Wander Aguiar
Models: Patrick, Danielle, Jacob Cooley
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1
Phoebe
The shiver starts somewhere in my core. It tightens there, teasing through me, sending tingles to dark, wicked places, before it trips its way up my spine. I can feel my skin prickling, despite the warm temperature of the dark, smoky room. Heat flushes through my cheeks and sparks through my green eyes.
I swallow thickly. My thighs clench. Electricity teases through me as my nipples brush against the silky fabric of my slinky green dress.
The room is pin-drop silent and packed with men. Rough, crude, wicked men, most of them. And I know most of the eyes in the room are locked onto me, considering what’s just happened. But I’ve somehow tuned all of them out. All the thugs and the crooks—the rough-and-tumble types that work for Patrick’s uncle, Terry Morrow.
Yes, that Terry Morrow. The de-facto head of the Boston chapter of the Irish mob.
They’re all here for the poker game. But again, I’ve tuned out the rest of the eyes staring me down—the henchmen, the bouncers at the door, the dealer, all of them with eyes lingering on me in this moment. I’ve even managed to tune out Patrick, my god-awful, hot-headed slime ball of a “fiancé”.
I’ve tuned out everyone. That is, except for two of them.
I shiver again in the dimness of the smoky back-room of the bar, where the high-rollers game is being played out. You can vaguely hear the dull murmur of the revelers out in the main bar of O’Doyle’s, not to mention out on the streets outside. It is Saint Patrick’s Day, in Boston, after all.
Suddenly, I blink, and everything around me starts to tumble out of the slow-motion speed it’s been moving in back to normal. I turn, my eyes locking onto Patrick as my brow furrows.
“I’m sorry, what?!”
His weaselly face goes pale, and then it flashes with anger as he whirls back to them—the two men sitting across the table from him. It’s a very different look from the smugness he was wearing when he made the bet right before this last hand was dealt. Five minutes ago, when I’d objected, he’d just rolled his eyes and waved me off, swaying slightly as he knocked back what had to be the tenth glass of Jameson’s he’d had in the last two hours.
“Fuckin’ relax, Phoebe,” he’d slurred, glaring at me. “I ain’t gonna lose.”
Except, he just did.
I shiver, feeling the eyes on me still, and when I swallow and drag my gaze past Patrick across the table, I feel my breath catch. Because there they both are, staring right at me. It’s a hard look—fierce, fiery, and so full of energy you can almost feel the air crackling between us. And the men they belong to?
Well, they’re every bit as hard as their looks.
Eamon Lear and Clay Moreland are two of the reigning Irish mob kings, visiting from Dublin. Tall, big, brooding, rough, and at this moment, probably two of the most dangerous men in the entire city. Oh, and they also happen to be one other thing.
Gorgeous.
It’s not in a pretty-boy way, it’s more like this dark, off-limits, dangerous sort of way. The both of them have dark hair, cut clean, with chiseled jaws, fierce looks, hulking shoulders and arms, and muscled chests. Tattoo ink peeks out around the edges of their sleeves and from their shirt collars, and they sip the whiskey in front of them with cool, calculated smoothness.
Eamon’s got these piercing blue eyes, which happen to be lancing right into me at this very moment. Clay’s the one with the dark, brooding eyes and the swath of beard across his jaw. And it’s those eyes—both of theirs—that I feel burning right through me, and I shiver under that heated, unblinking look.
And once again, that shiver goes to dark, forbidden places.
There’s a crash as Patrick lurches to his feet, his chair knocking backwards.
“Fuck this!” he screeches, his voice breaking as he stumbles slightly on his feet. “No, fuck this. The deal’s off.”
He’s fuming mad, and believe me, I know how Patrick can get when he’s drunk and mad. But across the table, Eamon and Clay don’t even bat an eye. They don’t flinch, they don’t move. Actually, all they do is slowly and almost imperceivably start to smile.
“The deal isn’t off.”
Eamon’s whiskey-and-leather growl rumbles through the room, colored by his Irish brogue accent.
“You lost, and now it’s time to pay up.”
I shiver.
It’s time to pay up.
See, because it’s not money Patrick is about to lose. He ran out of cash twenty minutes ago. It’s not his watch either—also in the pot—or the keys to his Porsche.
…It’s me.
Because five minutes ago, right before the last hand was dealt, my sore-loser, douchebag of a fiancé decided that after losing literally everything else he walked into the game with, he had one more bartering chip: me. He put me into the pot.
Patrick and I aren’t a “couple” or “engaged” in really anything but name. It’s an arrangement, made due to my “family connections” to one of the crime families in Chicago and with Patrick being Terry’s nephew. But an “arrangement” is exactly what it is. The creep has never touched me. Trust me, I’ve made damn sure of that. He’s certainly tried, but I’ve made it clear that nothing is happening until the wedding.
…Which, in a perfect world, I can put off basically indefinitely, because I loathe the man I’m “supposed to” marry.
“You lost, boy-o,” Clay grunts, his thick, deep voice rumbling through the room. “So, run along.” He smiles thinly. “Unless there’s more things that belong to you that we could…” his eyes slide back to me, dragging slowly over every inch of me and making me shiver under the heat and the power in those eyes.
“Take from you.”
Patrick swears viciously, and I watch his hand dart to the gun he keeps tucked in a holster in the small of his back. Except, this time, there’s no gun there. There’re no guns anywhere in the room, since the rules are that they get checked before a game.
“Run along, little boy,” Eamon says darkly before his eyes move to me, drinking me in like I’m a slow, tall glass of something strong.
I swallow, heat flushing through my cheeks.
Patrick moves away from the table, muttering and swearing. Now there are two players left—each of them dark, dominant, wicked as sin, and gorgeous as hell. And after one more hand, one of them is going to have me. The idea is so wrong, and in any other situation, it’d be a nauseating thought. But not when I’m face to face with the both of them, and with that power behind both of their eyes.
One of these men is going to claim me.
I bite back the whimper as I tremble in my skimpy green party dress, teetering on my glossy green stilettos.
One of these rough, older, sinfully sexy and totally dangerous and off-limits crime kingpins is
going to have me, in just one more hand of a freaking poker game.
Patrick is still fuming, muttering to himself as he scrolls viciously through his phone, when the dealer meekly clears his throat.
“Uh, last hand, gentlemen—”
“No.”
Eamon smiles thinly, his eyes looking at no one else but me as he shakes his head.
“No more hands.”
The dealer frowns. “Gentlemen, it’s a winner take all ga—”
“Fine,” Clay snarls darkly, impatience darkening his face. And from the hungry look in his eyes, I have an idea what he’s impatient about.
“Deal.”
The dealer nods and quickly passes out the cards, all while Patrick paces the room swearing furiously, and while I stand there froze to the spot. My heart races, my tongue wets my lips, and my eyes dart between the two of them, wondering which of these dangerous, powerful men is going to “win me”.
They both snatch their cards up quickly, and my pulse quickens. But suddenly, the two of them just glance at each other before smiling quietly.
“I fold,” Clay grunts, tossing his cards down.
My eyes fly to Eamon, and instantly, I shiver as those piercing blue eyes sizzle into me.
“Me too.”
I blink. Wait, what?
Eamon throws his cards down too, fire blazing in his eyes as he levels them at me, his fingers steepling together.
The dealer sputters. “Wait, gentlemen, you—I mean—that means—”
“That mean’s, if I’m not mistaken, and according to house rules of this game,” Clay growls. “That it’s a draw.”
My heart leaps into my throat, and slowly, my mouth starts to drop.
Eamon smiles wickedly, easing back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes find mine, and something fierce sparks in that look that has my breath catching.
“That means we’re gonna share the pot,” he purrs lowly.
Patrick whirls, his face red and sputtering as he jabs a finger at the men across the table. “You motherfucking—”
“Leave.”
Clay Moreland’s gritty baritone booms through the room, and instantly, the entire freaking place starts to empty. Normally tough looking guys glance nervously at the two imposing, dominant Irish mob kings as they skitter out through the door back into the bar and the other one that leads into the alleyway out back. And then it’s just Clay, Eamon, me, and Patrick.
“You ain’t laying a hand on—”
“You don’t leave now, boy-o,” Eamon growls lowly. “And you’ll be leaving without a hand.”
The weaselly little shit glances at me, and slowly, his look sours.
“This ain’t over, bitch,” he spits.
It was your bet, asshole! I want to scream back. But, I don’t, because I can’t. Because my mouth is so dry, and my heart is pounding so fast that I can barely think let alone make words.
We’re gonna share the pot.
Me. I’m the pot. And suddenly, the full weight of what’s happening sinks in for me.
…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.
The hands have been played, and we watched Patrick down drink after drink. The goal was always to take him for a ride and get him riled up. Taking his fucking fiancée was never part of the plan though. But the second his dumb ass mouth opened and said those words, I already knew she was ours.
“Fuck it. My girl’s in the pot.”
He was a shitbag of a man before he uttered those words. But he was less than a man at all
the minute he did. Wanting her is bad. Taking her is worse when it’s tied that close to Terry Morrow. But she stopped being another man’s girl the second he put her up for a poker game.
She became ours.
Considering what we’re here for with this business with Terry, this could destroy everything. But I want her. We both do. Clay and I? Well, we aren’t the type of men who deliberate and hem and haw about what we want. When we see it, we know it, and there’s no stopping us once it’s in our sights. And right now, Phoebe’s the only damn thing in the world either of us wants.
Like I said, I knew it the second she walked in. But looking at her now as Patrick slinks from the room, I know it’s more true than even I anticipated.
She played it fierce before, yelling at her fiancé when he used her in a poker game. Or glaring at him when he inevitably lost to us. But I saw something else in those big green eyes when she realized what was happening here. I saw that look teasing at the shadows of her face when she realized she was ours.
Hunger.
That’s what I saw. Nervousness, sure. Maybe a little fear. But mostly? Well, mostly, all I see is heat on that pretty face. And that look just might be my undoing, come what may with the consequences.
Clay slides the lock to the door, and I watch as her face flushes. I see that little tremble teasing through her body. I see her nipples, poking hard through the thin little green dress.
…I see the excitement hiding behind those green eyes, and fuck if my cock gets even harder somehow.
She’s going to be ours, and there’s no stopping any of this. I know it, Clay knows it, and I can see it written in forbidden excitement all over her gorgeous face.
We’re going to take her. Right here, right now, consequences be damned. I knew it the second we started playing. And now?
Well, now I’m going to seal that deal.
There’s no thinking about the consequence. No worrying about what happens once I cross this line. Not giving a single shit about the repercussions. Her body trembles under my touch, her big green eyes look up into mine, and when I watch those pillow-soft, pouty pink lips of hers part ever so slightly, the last of my resolve crumbles.
