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  I kiss her. Hard.

  My lips crush to hers with a bruising force, taking her breath away as she gasps. I kiss her possessively and fiercely, and when I suddenly feel her resistance melt, and hear the soft sound of a moan into my lips, I know.

  I know how ours she is.

  My hand tightens on her hip, the other cupping her jaw dominantly—pulling her to me and keeping her lips sealed to mine and tasting those soft moans. Her body slowly undulates against me, and I groan at the feel of that heat between her thighs grinding against the thick bulge in my pants.

  Goddamn is she nice and wet. Her little pussy is so fucking wet that I swear I can smell her sweet honey from here. Like a teasing little scent of heaven that I can’t wait to bury my tongue in.

  Slowly, I pull away.

  Her eyes blaze with green fire, and we both stand there panting, staring into each other. Her gaze is shock and heat. Mine is hunger for more.

  “Now him.”

  Her cheeks flush pink, and I watch that soft bottom lip of hers catch between her teeth.

  “What?” she breathes.

  “Kiss him,” I growl, nodding past her to Clay. She gasps again, turning slowly in my arms and looking up into my best friend’s brooding face—his jaw clenched tight and fire blazing across his hooded eyes from having just watched me kiss her.

  I move against her back, pressing my cock into the crack of her ass through her slinky little green party dress. My hands slide over her hips, keeping her tight against me as I push her into Clay’s arms.

  “Don’t leave him out, sweetheart,” I purr into her ear. She gasps quietly, and I feel her tremble against me as Clay moves in. He cups her jaw, titling her mouth up as he brings his lips to hers. And when I feel the moan murmur through her as my friend claims her mouth, I know this is happening. Now. Whatever the consequences.

  We’re going to have her. We’re going to share her. And we’re going to make her ours.

  3

  Phoebe

  Fire blazes through my core, the feel of two rock-hard bodies pressing into me from either side sending my head reeling. I gasp as Clay’s mouth crushes to mine, his powerful hands cupping my jaw, his tongue demanding entrance to my lips as I melt into him. I can feel Eamon pressing into me from behind, his firm hands gripping my hips possessively, his words still teasing through my ears.

  “Now him.”

  A minute before, I’d been tingling with forbidden heat, wondering which of these dangerous, gorgeous, powerful mob kings was going to “win” me—which one was going to claim me as a prize.

  Now? Well, now it looks like there was no need to wonder at all. Because it’s not going to be one of them taking me as the winning prize.

  It’s going to be both of them.

  I moan softly into his lips, panting, my whole world spinning as my mind whirls. This situation would be insane in any capacity, with any two men who’d just “won” me at a game of cards. But these aren’t “any” men. These are two Irish kings of the underworld. Back in Dublin, there’s a council of five who run the Irish mob organization, with a reach so powerful that it reaches even here, to Boston. Terry, Patrick’s uncle, might be the “boss”, but even he reports to the council of kings.

  …And here I am, sandwiched between two of them.

  Kissing them.

  Of the five members of the council, Clay Moreland and Eamon Lear are the most feared. The most respected, too. But certainly, the most feared. They’re both huge, towering above my five-foot-four. And dark, and dominant, and so freaking good looking it’s not even funny.

  In fact, it’s a problem.

  Because everything about this situation should feel wrong. I should be screaming and running from the room. Not just because these are two strangers, however gorgeous. Not just because of who they are. Not just because I’m—technically—engaged to another man, however horrible he is, and however bullshit an arrangement that is.

  There’s more. But before I can even think about it further, I’m gasping as I’m whirled, pulled away from Clay and spinning back into Eamon’s arms. He growls when he kisses me, and this time, I’m willingly opening my mouth for his tongue—willingly melting into him and moaning as his powerful hands drag my body tight to his.

  This is wrong.

  This is very very wrong, on so many levels. But the longer I kiss Eamon, and the longer I tremble at the feel of Clay’s lips on the nape of my neck, the more reason is being shoved aside. The more my ability to say anything but “yes please” is burning away.

  This could destroy everything. This could ruin months of work I’ve put into getting into the position I’m in now. But I can. Not. Stop. Kissing them.

  They whirl me again, and this time, I’m falling right into Clay, my palms landing on his hard, muscled chest and my moans drowning in his lips.

  “Got you all to ourselves now, little princess,” Eamon growls into my ear, making me tremble as Clay kisses me hungrily.

  “Now what are we going to do with you?”

  Clay pulls away, and I pant, my face burning hot and electricity teasing through my body.

  “You—you could let me walk out of here?”

  Clay grins wolfishly.

  “And I could pull a pot of gold out of my arse too, but I don’t think it’s going to happen, do you?”

  His hungry, gorgeous smile sends fire teasing through me. Our eyes lock, and I swallow thickly, trembling as I feel both his hands and Eamon’s tighten on my waist.

  “A kiss like that doesn’t say you want to run away, now does it,” Clay purrs.

  I bite my lip, shivering, not knowing what to say.

  “Does it,” he growls quietly.

  I whimper, shaking my head. “No.”

  “How about ‘no, sir.’” Eamon growls into my ear from behind me, making me tremble heatedly.

  I shiver. Not even a little one, a big, body-trembling, core-tightening, panty-dampening shiver.

  Fuck is that hot. And I don’t even know why. Maybe because it’s so wrong to call the two dominant, dangerous mob kings who’ve just won me in a poker game “sir”. Or maybe it being so wrong is exactly why it lights a fire inside of me.

  “Sir, hmm?” I toss back, my voice breathy, trying to steady my nerves with sass.

  “Yes,” Clay growls.

  “Well maybe I’m not that kind of girl?” I breath.

  Eamon chuckles darkly behind me as he pulls even closer into me.

  “See, I think you are,” he says darkly. “I think you’ve been waiting for a man to dominate you a little bit for longer than you want to admit.”

  I blush.

  “Answer me.”

  “Maybe,” I gasp quietly, heat shuddering through me.

  “Maybe?”

  “Yes.”

  I tremble.

  “Yes, sir.”

  My voice comes out heated and breathy, like an admission of guilt.

  “Good girl,” Clay purrs.

  “Our good girl,” Eamon growls into the soft skin of my neck, making me gasp sharply as something hot teases down my spine.

  “Our good girl, looking for two big dominant men to claim her,” he purrs. “To show her how a man treats his woman, not that piece of shit you walked in here with.”

  “That why you’re still here, sweetness?” Clay grunts darkly. “Why you’re not running from the room?”

  “You—you’re keeping me here,” I whisper back.

  His eyes flash, and the corners of his lips turn up slightly in a dark grin.

  “Are we now?” He glances past me at Eamon. And suddenly, with a nod, they’re both moving away from me. Eamon moves around to stand beside Clay, the both of them folding their arms over their muscled chests, their eyes burning fiercely into me.

  “You’re free to go,” Eamon growls.

  My eyes dart between them, my breath hanging like a secret, my pulse racing.

  …My feet staying right where they are.

  And slowly, th
e longer I stay right there, the longer the both of them start to smile hungrily at me.

  “Aaah,” Eamon grunts. “So perhaps there’s something keeping you here, but it’s just easier to tell yourself it’s because we’re not letting you go. That it?” The both of them move towards me, and I gasp, slowly stepping back until I feel the edge of the card table against my ass.

  “Nah, sweetness,” he purrs. “We’re not making you stay. You just want to stay, because you’re dying to know how far you can push this. You’re dying to see if we just fucking snap and start tearing your clothes off, and fucking having you, however we want, until our hunger is slaked.”

  My thighs clamp tight together, and I shiver at the sizzling, forbidden heat that tingles over my skin.

  “Oh, I think you might just like that,” Clay grunts, his jaw clenched tight. “I think you might just like the idea of two big, older men pinning you down and taking what’s theirs to claim. That what you want, sweetness? You want us to show you what happens to bad girls who hang around bad, bad men like us?”

  They move right against me, both of them pressing me into the card table at my back. I gasp at the feel of both their hard, muscled bodies pressing into me. But when I feel something else—something else—forbidden desire teases through me.

  I can feel them, pressed against me. Even though I almost think it can’t be. That the rock-hard, throbbing bugles I’m feeling pulsing against my tummy can’t actually be what I think they are. But when the two of them grab me, and when their lips tease over my neck on either side, and when they growl into my skin like I’m a meal they can’t wait to devour, I feel it. I feel those two hardnesses pulse against me, and I know they’re very much real.

  “You’re never had a man talk to you like this, have you princess,” Eamon grunts.

  I shake my head.

  “And you’ve never had two before, have you,” Clay growls lowly.

  I blush, biting my lip as I shake my head.

  “You’re about to.”

  The words leave Eamon’s mouth, and I instantly whimper. They hear it too, because the both of them grin hungrily as they move in, looming over me, hands sliding up my sides as I gasp sharply.

  “Show us,” Clay growls.

  “Show you?”

  His eyes blaze.

  “Show us how wet your little pussy is, sweetness.”

  I blush fiercely, knowing they can see the spark of it in my eyes.

  “Wh—no, I’m…” I shake my head, blushing furiously. “I’m not.”

  Clay’s brow arches sharply, and I tremble.

  “I’m not, sir,” I whisper, the words sending a thrill through me as I see the fire and the power blazing in their eyes.

  “Liar,” Eamon grunts.

  “No—” I bite my lip, losing myself in his eyes, and then Clay’s. “No, sirs.”

  “Well why don’t we find out.”

  Oh God.

  The both of them press into me, their hands sliding down my sides, down over my hips and trailing down the sides of my legs. And when their fingers find the hem of my slinky green dress, I shiver.

  I start to lose myself entirely with them.

  Clay and Eamon both pull, tugging the dress up and peeling it back up my thighs. I can feel my breath panting faster and faster, and as the dress gets pulled higher and higher, I realize just how badly I want this—how badly I want them, even with every single thing telling me why I shouldn’t.

  The dress tugs up, until it’s just under the edge of my soaked panties. My eyes close, my breath catches, the fire throbs its way through my body. And then, there’s a final tug, and even with my eyes closed, I can feel the both of them groan.

  …And I know why.

  Because I know that my panties are soaked, and I know that the two powerful, dangerous, dangerous men pinning me to the table with their filthy words melting through my ears can see it.

  “Bad, bad girl,” Eamon purrs, moving into me and making a tsking sound. I whimper, feeling that thick bulge in his pants pressing into me and feeling his teasing breath on my neck.

  “And you know why I think we’ve got ourselves a bad girl?” he growls into my ear.

  I whimper, taking a stuttered breath as my head shakes.

  “Because good girls don’t get messy wet panties when they get locked in a room with two bad, bad men. A good girl’s pussy wouldn’t get all slick and wet when those two bad men promise to make her theirs, would she?”

  I whimper, panting, my entire world spinning and blurring as they close in around me, hands sliding down over my bare thighs as they keep my dress pulled up high over my panties. I don’t what it is—maybe it’s their tone, or the accents, or the raw power behind their eyes. Whatever it is though, there’s something about them that takes away any common sense I have.

  And I’m helpless to resist them.

  “Now,” Clay growls into my other ear, his lips brushing my skin as his big, thick fingers push between my legs. “Now you’re in big trouble, little girl.”

  I am, but he doesn’t know the half of it.

  Like I said, I should be running from the room. And again, it’s not just because these are two strangers, however gorgeous. It’s not just because of who they are, or because of Patrick and that whole bullshit arrangement.

  It’s because I’m not the daughter of a captain in the Chicago mob. In fact, my dad walked out on my mom and I when I was four, and I’ve never even been to Chicago.

  It’s because of who I am, and who I am is not in fact a mob princess.

  …I’m an undercover agent with the FBI.

  And the fact that I’m still not saying no, or running away from the two rough, powerful men about to put their hands all over me means there just might be something very, very wrong with me…

  4

  Clay

  Fuck do I want her. We both do, badly. Like we’ve never wanted any girl ever. It’s like nothing exists but her. Not our empire, not the danger of us being on US soil, what with being who we are. Not with the sleeping dragon we’re taunting by being here, alone with her, after winning her in a goddamn poker game.

  I knew who she was the moment I saw her walk into the bar with that fuckwit Patrick, Terry’s nephew. I’d heard about her—we both had. But neither Eamon or I had ever laid eyes on this mysterious new fiancée of the nephew of the man we were sent here to kill.

  No, that’s not why Terry thinks we’re here.

  Obviously. If he knew the real reason for a visit by two members of the council from Dublin, and if he had any smarts at all, he’d be halfway to fucking Mexico by now. Further, if I were him.

  But trust me, I am nothing like that piece of shit.

  Terry believes we’re here to renegotiate the rates of some of the taxes he sends back to Dublin. Or, at least I think that’s what he thinks. It’s what he’s been told, at least. See, Terry’s been a problem to the council for years. As head of our entire Boston operation, the man has responsibilities. He has a reputation to uphold—not so much his personally, but the organization as a whole. And on both those counts, he’s been fucking up, hard.

  But you don’t warrant a hit from two council members for fucking up on the job. Some strong words, some warnings perhaps. And even if you continued to fuck up in the manner Terry has, and it was decided that you needed going, it’d be a professional we’d send to do it clean and emotionless.

  …This isn’t going to be clean. And it sure as fuck isn’t going to be emotionless.

  See, Terry letting rivals take territory is one thing. Him letting his dealers get away with murder because he’s too busy snorting coke twenty-three hours a day is one thing. Besmirching the name of the Irish mob, and thumbing us the finger form across the Atlantic? Well, those are bad ideas, but they don’t warrant Eamon and I personally flying over to put a bullet in the back of his head.

  It’s what he did to Kelsey Hanity. That’s why we’re here. And that’s why he’s going to die.

  Ke
lsey’s nineteen—beautiful, funny, smart. And she happens to be the daughter of Connor Hanity, one of the members of the council of kings, just like us. A month ago, Kelsey came over to Boston to see some friends she knew from college, and through her father, got put in touch with Terry for protection. After all, in our world, she’s a princess, almost literally.

  Except Terry was doing worse than anyone thought. His drug issues were out of fucking control, as were his appetites for… other things.

  And Kelsey found that out the hard way.

  Terry came to collect her alright, but he didn’t protect her. He tried to hurt her. He tried to force himself on her, fucked out of his mind on whiskey and cocaine. And when she managed to get away from him, he laid into her with his fists before leaving her to bleed.

  That would warrant a shotgun shoved so far up his arse that it breaks his teeth. But it gets worse. It was a girl who found her crying in Terry’s office after Terry ran off. A working girl. A really young working girl.

  …We as an organization don’t run girls. And we sure as fuck don’t run girls that age.

  Terry had started his own thing, pimping young girls in secret. And between that and roughing up Connor’s daughter? Oh, you better believe his ticket was ready to be punched.

  But a message had to be sent. A faceless hitman was too easy, and this had to be personal. So, we laid our trap. We placated Terry, assuring him that Connor wasn’t mad, and that we were “sure there was a misunderstanding”. We told him Kelsey admitted to being drunk and in the wrong. And we didn’t mention shit about the girls we’d found out about.

  None of that has been fun for the last few weeks, but necessary for Eamon and I to come here on our own without spooking Terry. So we could lay our hands on him, tie him up like the beast he is, cart him back to the meeting table of the kings, and execute him like the scum he is.