Shaken Not Stirred (The Lucky Shamrock #2)

Chapter 1

DONOVAN

Ihated weddings.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. I didn’t hate weddings per se; it was more like I hated what they stood for, namely, loss of freedom, loss of choice, and loss of variety.

My big brother, Callum, didn’t quite agree with my sentiments, seeing as he’d just wed the woman of his dreams; though his wife, Maeve, was admittedly one of the very few women who was interesting enough to make me think twice about tying the knot.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many chicks like Maeve around.

This I knew because at that precise moment in time, I was standing by the bar at my brother and Maeve’s second wedding, but first wedding reception (don’t ask), talking to her adoptive sister, Erin, and I was bored out of my goddamned skull.

“She looked me up and down like I was a pauper,” Erin droned on. “But she was the one wearing last year’s Prada.” Her eyes bugged out at me. “Yeah, you heard me right, last year’s Prada. So I said...”

Please, somebody kill me now, I thought to myself, trying to stop my eyes glazing over because after seven minutes of conversing with Regina George’s biggest stan, I was literally losing the goddamned will to live.

Reaching toward the bar to grab my beer, I forced myself not to yawn as I glanced around the room.

But I didn’t take in the sage green flowers, or the thousands of artfully draped tiny white lights and swathes of gauze tenting the ceiling of the massive barn where my brother and his wife were holding their wedding reception.

Instead, my gaze settled on her.

Correction: my gaze settled on her ass.

Her fine, curvy, luscious ass.

My jaw dropped at the exact same time as my dick simultaneously popped his head up to take a peek.

Who the fuck is that?

A pang of recognition hit me deep, but I could only see her from behind. Though it was enough for me to know without a doubt that the woman was one hundred percent my type. And when I said woman, I meant exactly that.

All fucking woman.

She was small, about five foot three, but appeared taller because of the sky-high, gold ‘fuck me’ sandals she traipsed around in as if she were born to it.

Her long, black hair had been curled loosely at the ends and fell in waves down her olive-toned back until it hit the top of her ass crack, hinting at the promise of the lusciousness underneath.

Her cock-stiffening dress was devil red and flowing down to the floor, but the entire top half appeared to be made of peekaboo lace that flashed glimpses of skin.

Moreover, I could see by the way she walked—no—strutted, across the reception room, that it was split entirely up one leg from toe to damned hip.

Staring at her, my mouth salivated, and my dick leaked in my shorts.

Small, dark brunettes with entirely too much tits and ass for some men (but never me) were my catnip. I’d heard the term pocket rocket before, and now, lo and behold, here I was half-chubbing while I drooled over the embodiment of one.

Lord, have mercy.

I mumbled some inane excuse to Erin, not even waiting for her reply before I was on the move with my beer still in hand, being shamelessly led by the goddamned dick toward the sexy little temptress whose presence had struck me like a bolt of lightning.

A seduction plan began to form in my brain.

I’d give her a sexy smile, slash smirk, before introducing myself and immediately start to ask her questions and make her feel special.

Throughout the night, I’d lean in to whisper something outrageously naughty and make her laugh while I flashed my baby blues, giving as much eye contact as possible without being a creeper.

My witty repartee, longing smiles, and heated looks would seduce her, and then I’d finish the night by casually suggesting a nightcap back at the bar.

Job done.

It had been a while, but it was like riding a bicycle.

Plan decided, I watched her Jessica Rabbit-esque ass sway as she sashayed around the edge of the dance floor of the huge function room toward the cluster of tables at the front, where the close friends and family had all been placed for the sit-down meal that finished an hour before.

She turned her head to one side, and I got her profile, which included a glimpse of luscious, full lips, and something hit me hard in the solar plexus.

I knew her—very well in fact, as did my dick. It had been a while though, which was why I hadn’t immediately recognized her.

It was then that my eyes caught on Liam Doyle, a distant cousin and Erin’s brother, who was heir to the New York Irish Mob empire.

He rose to his feet from the round table he was sitting at with his da, his eyes lifting to take in the room.

His stare traveled through the woman and then he did a double take.

An animalistic grin curved his mouth, and he cocked his head as he took in every inch of her delectable little body.

I couldn’t blame him for being interested; she was stunning. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the burst of heat exploding from gut to chest, or the way my fingers twitched with the urge to stalk over and rip Liam’s damned head off.

My steps faltered because, hand to God, my reactions were weird. I’d never been a jealous man, but that didn’t stop my mind filling with visions of kicking Liam ‘Goodfella’ Doyle’s ass from one end of the room to the other.

My forehead was about to pop a vein when, suddenly, Atlas Woods of all people swooped past Liam, took the woman’s elbow, and led her toward the cluster of tables that were filled with the Speed Demon brothers, their wives, and kids.

Liam’s eyes narrowed on them.

I grinned, rounded my shoulders, and sauntered my ass across the room to say a big ol’ howdy to my friends from the local biker club.

All the officers were there, along with Abe, who was a legacy member, and Carbine, aka Noah Hart, another brother who was good friends with Maeve and also happened to be the lead singer of a local band who Maeve had begged to play later at the party.

“Evening, all,” I greeted the guys as I approached. “Enjoying the bash?”

Carbine, who also happened to be a good buddy of mine, clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ve had a blast. How you feelin’ about later?”

“What d’ya mean?” I inquired.

“Your best man’s speech of course. Not nervous, are you, Donny boy?”

My eyes swept over the ass of the sexy brunette who was chatting with the women directly behind Cash. “Nope,” I denied. “But Callum should be.”

Atlas’s eyes narrowed. “You better not humiliate our Toots. She’s been through enough ‘cause of your boneheaded brother.”

I grinned cockily and waggled my eyebrows. “It’s not Maeve who needs to worry.”

Cash looked to the heavens, muttering, “Jesus,” under his breath.

“Young Donovan!” a deep voice called.

I twisted my neck to see John Stone, ex-president of the MC, approaching with his wife, Elise, under his arm. “When’s the music gonna start?” he demanded. “I’m in the mood for a little dance.”

Groans went up from the men.

“The photographer wanted a few more shots of Cal and Maeve, so they’ve gone back outside with Ma, Tadhg, and Aislynn.” I checked my watch. “I reckon the wedding planner will be in soon to rally everyone out onto the terrace while the staff get the room ready for the party.”

“I’m happy as a pig in shit with all the free Shamrock booze,” Atlas declared, raising his bottle and taking a long pull. “Don’t need no terrace or a party. Leave me in my bubble with a crate of cider.”

A peal of laughter went up from the group of ol’ ladies. The woman in red turned her head to say something to Kennedy Stone, and they both began to giggle.

I caught her profile again, immediately noticing that her lips were full, puffy, and as red as her dress. A memory of them encasing my cock as she deep-throated it down that delectable neck of hers flashed through my brain, and I had to adjust the crotch of my pants.

Unfortunately, I didn’t do this very discreetly, because Breaker’s head reared back, and he looked pointedly down at my dick. “Got an itch you can’t scratch there, bro?” Then he raised his hand and coughed “Chlamidya” into it.

Atlas threw his head back and roared.

Cash’s lips twitched.

Carbine chuckled.

My mouth opened, ready to tell the fuckers to suck my balls, when the woman in red slowly craned her neck.

My heart stopped, and it did that for three reasons.

Reason one: The woman was as beautiful and sexy from the front as she was from the back. She reminded me of a Kardashian sister, but a softer version, and as much as those chicks were loopy, they were easy on the eye.

Reason two: In the mists of time, I’d somehow forgotten how beautiful she was. The siren had lived in town but moved away a few years before to look after her ma when she’d suffered a mild stroke and subsequently received a cancer diagnosis.

And reason three: Before she left Hambleton, we slept together, though I used the word ‘slept’ loosely because no darn sleeping got done that night.

It had gone down as one of the best nights of my life, and if she hadn’t left town so abruptly, I would have gone back for seconds, thirds, and maybe even more; she was that goddamned scorching hot.

Weirdly, we’d started messaging about six months ago.

Now, most people would say there was nothing weird about that at all; people messaged, right?

Except I wasn’t that type. Messaging resulted in forming connections, and that wasn’t me.

However, we’d been friends for years, and I enjoyed her immensely, and I didn’t just mean her ass.

Dark, sultry eyes locked with mine, and a feeling hit me deep in the chest.

My stare dipped to her full, pouty lips, and I watched them curve into a small, knowing smile. Something in the tiny gesture hit me again, but that time in the dick.

Damn.

“No!” Atlas suddenly snapped.

My confused stare sliced toward him, my eyebrows pulling together in question. “Huh?”