Page 51 of Mafia Captor

ChapterSixteen

Ashely

I stand from my bench,my hands going to my hips as I assemble myself into a respect-demanding, classic big-sister pose. “Beckett. Michael. Is that atattooon your body?”

Boston laughs, calling out, “He’s not as innocent as you think.”

“What,” I say, “do you mean by that?”

“The kid’s no kid.” Boston looks at me. “He’s twenty-one, for Christ’s sake. He can get ink if he wants. And before you start, no, I had nothing to do with it.”

Beckett may be Boston’s new workout buddy, his new car mechanic, but he’s my blood. My emotions run sky-high. “I know how old he is. You think I don’t know how old he is? Who do you think’s been making his birthday cake every year since I could reach the kitchen countertops?”

Silence falls over the garden. I meant to keep my tone light but pain seeps through my voice. Boston’s features change, the laughter dropping from his face. He didn’t mean to upset me. I can’t hide a damn thing from him, can I.

Beckett looks from me to Boston, back to me. “Ah, guys, that’s my cue to take off.” He grabs his shirt from the weight bench. “Sis. We’ll talk about the tat later. Love you.” He gives us both a wave, taking off in the opposite direction from where I stand.

With Beckett out of earshot, Boston crosses the garden. He holds the end of his black tee, throwing it over his shoulder, and his natural swagger falls into his hips as he moves toward me. His eyes burrow into mine. “He mentioned you took care of him growing up—I didn’t realize to what extent.”

“Yeah.” I push back the barrage of flashbacks, me pushing a chair over to a cupboard, searching desperately for Band-Aids to patch up my brother’s bleeding, scraped-up knees. Trying to remember math problems I did five years before, poring over his homework with him, reading the backs of cereal boxes, convincing myself that there were enough vitamins and minerals in Captain Crunch to provide him a healthy dinner. Hey, milk has calcium, right?

“It was… pretty bad,” I say.

“It must have been—” Seeing something in my face, his voice trails off.

Boston drops his tee. Grabs my hand, pulling me up from the bench. He wraps me in his arms, burying his face in my hair. “You’re fucking strong. You know that?”

Am I?

I don’t feel strong right now.

His lips are warm against the skin of my neck as he works a line of sexy kisses up toward my ear. His hands brush up my arms, going toward my shoulders. His light touches leave delicious tingles dancing over my skin. The pads of his thumbs press into my collarbones, fingers wrapping around me.

His fire-sparking kisses leave my skin. A soft exhale of disappointment escapes me. I want his lips back on me.

He locks eyes with mine. “And your brother is strong too. You should know that. He doesn’t need you to take care of him anymore. You’ve got to let him go, let him become the man he wants to be.”

“You just help him sculpt his abs, and I’ll worry about the rest.”

“That’s what I’m saying. He doesn’t need you to be his parent. He needs to you to be his friend.”

A prickly heat rises in me, just thinking of relinquishing control over my little brother. “Wise words, but that’s a difficult transition and—”

“Trust me,” he says. “I’ve helped raise a few of my own.”

And now his lips are on mine and the conversation is over. My arms slip around his neck, into his hair, and my head goes all cloudy as I lift up on the balls of my feet, the soft soles of my shoes pressing into the pebbled walkway. The soft, silky feel of his hair momentarily distracts me from his hands at my waist, his fingers beginning to tug at the one, simple knot that has this dress hugging my body.

The fear of his staff getting a good look at the Italian lace meant for his eyes only shoots through me. I break away from our kiss, my hand reaching down to stop his. My eyes dart side to side, on the lookout for spying eyes.

I hiss out, “Not here. What are you doing? Anyone could walk by.”

“My team knows better than that. When I’m alone with my woman they know to give me total privacy.”

A jealous prickle dances at the back of my neck. “And exactly how many women have you had in this garden?”

“None.” He’s moving behind me, his stirring cock brushing up against my ass, his hands grazing my breasts, drawing my nipples toward his wandering fingers. “The garden’s my favorite part of the estate. It’s a privilege only worthy of my bride-to-be.”

“Bride? I thought we cleared that up.” I try to steer the conversation away from marriage. “If you don’t mind me asking, why have you been single for so long?”

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