by Madison Faye
“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.”
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Sneak Peek - Claiming Candy
Looking for more vaguely holiday-themed steamy MFM stories? Scroll on for a sneak peak of another two-on-one book of mine, Claiming Candy!
Trick or Treat, Candy’s sweet.
We’ll give her something hard to eat.
We’ve waited long, behind jail bars.
But this Halloween, we’ll make her ours…
Rough, untamed, and recently escaped from the psych ward at Tucker Prison. They say we’re dangerous—that we’re a couple of animals. That we’re unhinged, deranged maniacs.
…They ain’t wrong.
Tonight, we’re on the run, and on the prowl. And when we stumble upon the “date” auction at the local college sorority and see her up on that auction stage? Well, we know we’ve found our prize.
She’s far too innocent for two big, hardened, beasts like us. But, that ain’t gonna stop us. Nothing will. There’ll be no shaking us once we’ve caught a scent of her, no holding us back once we’ve gotten a peek of those sweet curves and honeyed lips.
She’s never been touched. We’ve gone far too long without. And tonight, little red is about to meet two big bad wolves out in the woods.
Two big mouths, the better to eat her with. Four big hands, the better to hold her tight between us with. Two big…well, let’s just say the better to claim her with.
Something wicked her way comes. Two somethings, actually. And tonight, sweet little Candy is about to find two things that go bump in the night…
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Grab some candy, hunker down, and get ready to pull the blankets up to your eyes! If you’re looking for hot, wild, a little scary, and fun, with a big ‘ole helping of wrong, you’re in the right place! This book contains themes that may be triggering to some readers. But, if you’re brave enough to get through it, I promise there’ll be a treat for you at the end ;).
This mfm romance is all about her - no m/m. As with all my books, this standalone novella has no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.
Prologue
Roarke
“Sold!”
The gavel bangs, and my blood pulses through me. My skin tingles with anticipation, muscles clenching as if already grabbing her.
Claiming her.
My sweet, sweet Candy.
Our Candy.
My cock hardens, and a low, tight growl rumbles through my chest. Beside me, Jensen does the same thing, and slowly, we both drag our eyes across the stage from the girl dressed as an auctioneer to her.
Candice. Candy for short.
Five-foot-five, one-hundred-twenty-four pounds of pure sin, tied up with little brunette pigtails and pert little tits that I’m dying to get my hands on. Long legs, a tight ass, and lips that were made to stretch around my thickness. Mine and Jensen’s.
Normally, Candice is a dean’s list student here at Anderson University. She’s smart. Driven, and poised. An unblemished, straight-As track record. Perfect attendance in class. Cute and alluring, without being trampy. Gorgeous without letting it all hang out like some girls.
She’s eighteen years old, a freshman, and a new pledge at Sigma Iota Tau Epsilon sorority.
And tonight, she’s ours.
All of her. Bought and paid for. Sold to us.
She’s dressed for the Halloween-themed party the same as the rest of the little college shits filling the basement of the Sigma house. That’s where we are. Because of course we are. The huge basement of the enormous old Victorian mansion that houses the sorority is where tonight’s auction is being held.
But, there's Candy, dressed to entice.
She’s little red riding hood tonight, the red cape and all. A skimpy, silk red top that I know Jensen’s going to enjoy ripping off. Red heels that I’ll have up in the air when I get between her smooth thighs. A little red skirt that’s no match for our lust.
Tonight, Candice Littleton is ours. Tonight, and every night.
“Sold!” Beside her, the auctioneer chick beams out at the crowd, looking right at Jensen and me. We’re dressed as wolves, masks and all. But fuck, none of these pricks realize just how real that is. None of them realize how very much the wolves we are in this crowd of sheep.
“Sold, to the two very well paying gentlemen in the back!”
The crowd cheers, turning to look at us. A couple of douchebag frat brothers turning and whooping it up, trying to offer us beers.
Fuck these people. And fuck these frat boys with their pretend machismo and their wannabe toughness. Jensen and I would break them in half if it came to it. And tonight, it may.
“Yeah bro!” A wild-eyed, drunk little shit whirls, grinning sideways as he spills beer on my boot. “You gonna tear that ass up tonight or wha—”
“Get fucked,” I growl, shoving him aside. He blinks, and for a second, I can see he wants to start something. But even through my wolf mask, and with him being drunk, I think he senses the danger.
He sees the crazy in my eyes.
And he pales.
“Whatever,” he mumbles.”
Yeah, whatever.
“C’mon up and claim your prize, you big bad wolves you!”
My jaw tightens at the girl’s bubbly, valley-girl voice as she beckons us up to take what’s ours.
Right, wolves. Jensen and I are both wearing these big furry masks — ears, snouts, teeth. The works. It’s a little much, considering most of the “costumes” at the costume party tonight are either guys wearing football jerseys or girls dressed in as little as humanly possible while still saying they’re Pocahontas or a nurse or some shit.
Young, nubile, college-girl flesh everywhere, and Jensen and I have been without for far, far too long. So long that I feel the aching need for feminine skin under my hands and my lips. So long that my cock aches for release, my balls swollen with cum.
But forget the rest of these students. These phonies. These jackals.
…All we have eyes for is her.
We’ve waited. We’ve plotted. And tonight, we’re taking it all.
“You ready?” I growl.
Towards her.
She’s chewing on her lip, her fingers twisting. She looks nervous. Oh, she has no idea.
I can see her whirling and talking quickly to the auctioneer chick — Melissa, her name is. She’s the president of Sigma house, and I know she runs it like a dictatorship.
Oh, that’s going to change tonight too.
Candice is talking quickly, animated, panic in her eyes as she darts them towards the both of us and then back to Melissa. I can almost imagine what she’s saying.
“There's only supposed to be one of them.”
“Wait, I don’t want to do this.”
Oh, but it’s too late. And if I know this Melissa chick, she doesn’t give a fuck. I watch as she sneers at Candice, waving a hand dismissively and shoving her towards us. She’s probably saying some shit like “it’s for the good of the house,” or “do your duty,” or some stupid shit like that.
No matter. None of it matters. Not Melissa. Not the drunken fat boys whooping it up around us. Not the frightened rabbit look in little red riding hood’s eyes.
Because she just got fed to the wolves, and it’s time for us to collect.
It’s time for us to claim.
It’s Halloween. And we just found the one treat we’ve been craving.
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Also by Madison Faye
Find all of Madison’s books, available at your favorite book retailers!
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Irish Syndicate:
Get Lucky
Her Irish Twins
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Standalones:
Cream Pie
Cherry Pie