Hooked: A Christmas Romance: The Doyles, Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  “Come for me.” I rub her clit with the ball of my thumb, still pushing deep, deeper inside her.

  “Yes, make me come,” she says, eyes closed, head tossed back. “It feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

  I attack her clit, rubbing in fast, firm circles as I fuck her relentlessly. She’s right there.

  “Now,” I growl. “Come for me now, Sia.”

  Her orgasm rips through her and she grabs my shoulders, digging her nails into my skin. I push into her as deep as I can, one, two, three times, until the tension building in my balls crests and I bite her neck as I come buried inside her.

  “Fuck.” I push off of her so I don’t crush her with my far larger body. She’d had to buy a bigger bed when we started dating—her little full size wouldn’t have been large enough for just me, let alone us together.

  But that was about three years ago now. We still live part-time in Boston and part-time in Martha’s Vineyard, though we’ve talked about buying a house now that we’re married.

  “So good,” she sighs, cuddling up next to me.

  The sun streams in through the apartment window, bathing Sia’s beautiful face in light.

  “Nothing like mind-blowing sex in the middle of the day.” She stretches, arching into the light.

  “One of the perks of being your own boss.” I trace a finger down from the hollow of her throat, down her cleavage, and toward her mound. She presses my hand right above it.

  “We’re going to have a new boss,” she says softly.

  “New boss?” I ask. My hand spans the taut skin of her belly.

  “I’m pregnant, Vinny.”

  “Already?” I press my hand gently against her. We’d just started trying.

  “You’re very virile.”

  “Oh my god, Sia, that’s amazing!”

  I’m going to be a dad. We’re going to be parents.

  I press a thousand kisses into Sia’s face.

  “We’re going to give our kid the best life,” she says, stroking my hair. “Not perfect, but the best we can.”

  “We are. And I’m terrified and excited.” But I can’t stop smiling.

  “Me too,” she says. “But I’m glad we’re doing it together.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather be on any journey with, but especially this one. I love you, Sia.”

  “I love you too.”

  It’s amazing how good, how wonderful, life can be when you decide to live it.

  Thank you so much for reading! Ready for more of the Doyle boys? Read on for a preview of Ringer!

  Here’s links to all the stories:

  Owen’s story: Knockout

  Connor’s story: Grind

  Seamus’ story: Hustle

  Kieran’s story: Thug

  Ronan’s story: Devil

  But wait, there’s more!

  Spend the holidays with the Doyles! Enjoy a Doyle family Christmas in Hooked and then see how they celebrate the New Year in Ringer.

  Vinny’s story: Hooked [Spend Christmas with the Doyles!

  Jack’s story: Ringer [Celebrate the New Year with the Doyles!]

  I’m so grateful to you for enjoying the Doyles!

  Once you’ve read the whole series, sign up for my newsletter to receive a special bonus epilogue that gives you a look at all the Doyle boys, their wives, and where the families are few years later. But save it until you’ve enjoyed all the books!

  And don’t worry: after the Doyles, there’s a new series headed your way for the bad boys Boston. Get Finn’s story, book one of the Carneys, in Rake.

  I’d love to stay in touch! Sign up for my mailing list! Stay tuned for releases on Boston’s big-hearted tough guys and plenty of fun stuff along the way.

  Xoxo,

  Sophie

  Preview of “Ringer – Book Seven of The Doyles”

  Preview: Ringer, Book Seven of The Doyles

  Chapter One: Jack

  The lights are low.

  Christmas carols pipe in over the gym’s sound system.

  Who the hell works out to Christmas carols?

  Straining, I listen beyond it. For the sounds, the vibrations, the smallest details that my opponents give me.

  In the battlefield, with the Marine special forces. In the ring, when I’m fighting MMA against a guy like Owen Doyle. In the bedroom.

  That’s been awhile though.

  Duck, dodge, take a hit to the gut but roll with it to mitigate the impact. It’s rare I get a chance to fight a guy my own size.

  Owen’s always the best guy to train against.

  Funny how Owen’s father Murphy Doyle and my dad did some jobs together back in the day, and I ended up buddies with him and Sean O’Brien. Owen knew even then he was going to be a fighter. Sean ended up a cop.

  Me? I only saw one way out of the hell I grew up in: bootcamp.

  One of the main reasons that I agreed to watch the gym so Owen and Molly can go spend a few days with family over the holidays was the chance to train with Owen.

  Not like I have anything going on over Christmas.

  “Not much’ll happen,” Owen said. “Give you a chance to train.”

  Chance to train.

  Chance to clear my head.

  Chance to not do something stupid I’ll regret.

  We’re dancing on the matt, and Owen’s not relenting.

  It’s good.

  I need to win this fight come New Years.

  That fight, it means a lot of things.

  Means a guy on the edge of forty, basically a dinosaur in the special forces, isn’t washed up yet.

  Means I’ve got something to look for when I finish up my last enlistment here in a year.

  Means money I can use to fly out to see my kid, who my ex got court permission to move 3000 miles across country.

  To live with the guy she left me for.

  Punch.

  The one that was supposed to be our marriage counselor.

  Punch, punch, punch.

  The one that knocked her up with twins three months before I came back from my last deployment.

  Punch. Kick. Punch.

  “Jack, dude,” says Owen’s voice. “Take it easy.”

  Back up. Breathe.

  Punch. Dodge.

  Better this way.

  Punch.

  Never loved each other anyways.

  Punch.

  Not better for my son, who should be near his father, but he seems happy with his new step siblings and can’t stop talking about the big house on the West Coast.

  Kick.

  The golden retriever. The fancy karate school. “So much better than our old house, Dad.” Plus, I get out to see him every chance I get.

  Slam. Punch. Jab jab jab. Straight to the heart.

  Can’t afford much on Marine pay – not even Special Forces officer paygrade. Can afford even less with child support and alimony. At least the alimony only lasted the three days it took her to get hitched after the divorce was finalized.

  Punch.

  I hate how bitter I sound.

  Honestly, I just want her to be happy. Even now, the look on her face the night she tracked me down three months after a one-night stand to tell me about our son haunts me.

  Just an idea then.

  Dodge.

  Tear-filled eyes. Fear. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want me. Didn’t want the military wife life. None of it.

  Duck. Punch.

  I just wanted to do the right thing. Give her whatever she wanted. Make a good life for my kid and for her, if she’d have me. I barely knew her, but I thought we’d grow to love each other in time.

  Punch.

  Shows how little I know.

  Spent thirteen months of the first eighteen months of JJ’s life on mission, overseas. No choice.

  Punch-punch-punch.

  Came home to the first request for marriage counseling. Counseling. Guys like me don’t go to fucking counseling.

  Kick.

  But I did
it. For the kid. And for her. Just wanted to make them happy, the way nobody ever thought about making me happy.

  Work hard, make a steady paycheck, stay faithful, don’t hit anybody. Four things my old man never managed.

  Just do that and it’ll work out fine.

  Punch. Punch. Punch.

  Four more years. Five more counselors. Six more deployments. And then one night. Finally coming home for good.

  Used everything I had, every ounce of political currency and goodwill, to get a special post bear Boston. Three years, limited time in the field, in the only city she said she could live and then I could retire.

  Punch.

  My CO looked at me hard. You be sure Mulvaney, because you got a lot of guys pulling a lot of favors to make this happen. You miss the field? Tough shit. Wife wants to move to Florida? Tough shit. You hate your life every day? Tough shit.

  No sir. This is what I want.

  They are what I want.

  Kick, kick, kick. Dodge.

  Then I take seventeen-hour flight home from a real mind fuck of a tour in Asia. Can’t wait to get home. I walk in and the lights are on. She waited up. She never waits up. Maybe this really is the fresh start. And I feel something new, something different: hope.

  I take one look at her face.

  Nope.

  Punch.

  We have to talk. It’s over. There’s someone else. No, I don’t want to try anymore.

  I act like an idiot. Say marriage was forever; still believe that. I’m a man that keeps my commitments.

  She looks me in the eye. I’m pregnant.

  Punch-punch-punch.

  A second of hope. I love my kid. Another one would be amazing. But then I realize – it’s been years since anything happened with her and I. Years.

  Three months pregnant.

  I’d been gone five.

  Not my kid.

  I’m sorry, Jack, but you have to leave. Now. I stand up, grab my stuff, and drive to a nearby motel. Headed out the door and she calls, where will you stay?

  Part of me hopes. Maybe she still cares. Maybe there’s a chance for JJ to have a good, two-parent family.

  Nope. She served me divorce papers at 7:59 am the next morning.

  Kick. Kick. Kick.

  Families are tough things to hold together. They’re like bones and hearts and lives not held together by discipline. Easy to fracture.

  Easy to break.

  Easy to lose focus.

  “Jack,” there’s a warning note in Owen’s voice.

  I focus on his face.

  Be here now. Prepare to win the fight.

  The real fight you’re training for today. Not the one you lost three weeks before Christmas, almost two years ago.

  “Sorry, man,” I grit out.

  Focus.

  Losing focus gets you hurt.

  Gets people killed.

  Gets you blindsided.

  He gives me that big Owen grin. “No worries, man. Let’s do one more round, you dodge. You’re going to need to be able to dodge Manfredo.”

  We’ve studied the tape. He’s right: it’s all in the dodge.

  My opponent in the New Year’s fight.

  Twelve days.

  I breathe, center, focus.

  The Christmas carols change, from something about white snow on Christmas to a breathy woman singing something dirty about Santa.

  I look up to clear my eyes.

  The door to gym swings open on a cold gust of air, a swirl of white flurries cascading in around a form.

  Small form, female, shapely. She’s wearing a big red winter coat with a huge hood that obscures her face.

  Tilts her face up.

  Holy shit.

  A face I never, ever thought I’d see again.

  She’s like something out of a dream, every good dream I’ve had since I was nineteen years old. I’ll be thirty-nine New Year’s day. That’s a long fucking time.

  But the long dark hair and the wide blue eyes. High cheekbones. The curves.

  I’d know them anywhere.

  Suddenly, I can’t take my eyes off her.

  And that’s how I fail to dodge the hamhock of a fist hurling through space straight at my face at lightning speed.

  Owen’s swearing even before it makes contact, but it’s too late.

  I hear the sound of my own nose break.

  Explosion of light. Gush of blood. Pain like I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Can’t fucking breathe.

  I stay on my feet – come on, I’m tough – and even as my hand comes up to my nose, I still don’t take my eyes off her.

  “Jack, what the hell man?” Owen is saying, his voice taking on that little kid edge of horror. Big bruiser of a guy hates to hurt people, even with what he does for a living.

  Owen probably wouldn’t have made a good soldier. Hell of a guy though.

  “Put pressure on it,” he’s saying. He’s trying to push me back to the bench at the edge of the ring, but I won’t budge. I can’t seem to move. When I take a step, it’s not back where Owen’s pushing me.

  It’s forward, fighting him, to get to her.

  “Molly,” Owen calls, something like fear in his voice.

  I try to say her name, but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry, there’s blood everywhere, and my nose is crooked.

  Great. I’m going to be even uglier.

  The woman who came in has just frozen, and her eyes sweep the gym. At first they’re locked on Owen, but then they come back to me. Away.

  Back.

  Wider.

  Mouth forms an O.

  I take another step, Owen’s arms tightening around me as he calls for Molly again.

  I don’t know where she comes from, red curls flying and she leaps into the ring with enough prowess that I think, not for the first time, that she’d make a damn fine marine.

  But she sees my face, she whirls on her boyfriend, “Owen Doyle, did you break his god damned nose?”

  Owen looks a little stunned. “He was supposed to duck.”

  Fingers snap in front of my face, forcing me to take my eyes off the woman by the door and look at Molly. “What the hell, Jack?”

  “I’m fine,” I growl. Blood’s everywhere.

  Definitely not fine.

  She snorts. “Yeah, you look great. Sit down.”

  If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to follow orders.

  But my eyes are locked on the woman in red. Molly sees her at the same moment.

  “Oh thank Christ, Alix. Get over here. This idiot,” she indicates Owen, “punched this idiot,” she indicates me, “and for some reason he didn’t duck.”

  She sounds exasperated.

  But Alexandra Winthrop, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and the ghost of every good thing that ever existed in my life once, is inexplicably crossing the gym, sliding under the ropes, and coming to stand in front of me.

  I swallow hard.

  Hands go on hips that are wide and perfect and I can’t breathe for reasons that have nothing to do with my face. She purses full, cherry lips.

  “Well, Jack Mulvaney, good to see you’re still a fucking mess.”