Capone

by Lynn Burke

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2018 Lynn Burke

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-862-4

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For my marshmallow man

  CAPONE

  Fallen Gliders, 4

  Lynn Burke

  Copyright © 2018

  Capone

  Mom reached over the pew and grabbed my hand as I slid onto the cushioned bench behind her and Dad. She offered a small, tight smile, and in return, earned a glare from the narcissistic prick beside her. He didn’t acknowledge me as Mom’s smile faded and she turned away.

  Even after five years of staying away from my parents, I still managed to get my feelings hurt like the pansy Dad had always said I was. Jaw clenched, I stared at the back of his head, reminding myself of what I was—who I really was since I’d left that toxic relationship behind.

  A Fallen Glider. A badass biker who hung with brothers ten times worse than I had ever managed in my twenty-six years. A player who took what he wanted from any woman willing to drop to her knees or spread her legs. ‘Course, I always made sure they enjoyed the experience, too. Call me a gentleman, but I preferred to walk away knowing the lady had been satisfied as well.

  My brother and his groomsmen entered the church from a door to the right and took up positions beside the priest. A spitting image of Dad in his black-on-black tux and every bit a prick like him, too, my brother caught my eye, his face deadpan. At least he dipped his head in return when I offered a nod of greeting.

  Three men stood beside him, all assholes, all of his friends who had loved to gang up on me when we were younger. They were more his brothers than the one he hadn’t asked to be a groomsman, the one who wasn’t welcome to sit with their shared parents in the front pew.

  Why had I even bothered coming to my brother’s wedding? The invitation had come as a surprise—the invite, not the fact he would marry his long-time submissive girlfriend who’d put up with his shit since high school.

  She was just like Mom … subservient like a doormat, giving up all sense of self and dreams to the man who ruled her.

  Fucking made me sick.

  Muscles ticking in my jaw again, I returned my attention to the balding head in front of me. I tried to squash down the resentment I’d dealt with since middle school when I had realized what my father was—and finally had a label to put on the person who was supposed to love me unconditionally and teach me how to be a good man.

  Instead, I’d gotten “pussy” and “pansy” thrown in my face, all because I preferred being in the kitchen with Mom instead of hanging with my brother and his obnoxious friends—“real men” as Dad had called them even back then while frowning at my blackened eyes and tears.

  Things had only gotten worse when my dad’s sister died and left her farm a couple hours north to me—the only nephew who’d spent time with her whenever my family went to visit. I’d slaved in her garden, and in return learned how to be somewhat self-sufficient. Not that I put that knowledge to good use, but her land—mine, much to the disappointment of my father—was the perfect place to grow a couple marijuana plants.

  The organ whined, drawing me back to the Catholic church I’d grown up attending. Two women walked down the aisle, turned to the left and took up their spots, smiles bright and eyes shining.

  Why the fuck did women enjoy weddings so damn much? Who in their right fucking mind wanted to tie themselves down to a ball and chain, someone who would never give them the adoration they expected? Marriage equaled bullshit in my opinion. Better off fucking when you felt the need and leaving not long after.

  Pussy had pretty much become my favorite pastime after cooking once I realized my cock found more pleasure in a wet, clenching hole than in my damn fist. I’d been fourteen at the time, a fumbling moron, but she’d been older. Experienced. She taught me what a woman needed, how to keep her on edge long enough that her cries while coming would wreck her voice.

  I shifted on the church pew, pushing at the good old Catholic guilt that pricked me when sitting in a church. I hadn’t stepped foot in one in over five years, but that didn’t keep the past from rushing over me—especially when I glanced at the crucifix again looming over us.

  As a Fallen Glider, I’d seen more than my fair share of blood. Torture and gore. Hell, less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d sped north with Jonny, our president, to pick up one of my Fallen brothers who’d been shot. The bodies of the two men who had thought to take Digger out had been dealt with before I’d arrived, but the damage they’d inflicted on him had me wishing I’d been around to help do those two fuckers in.

  My Fallen brothers might not be blood, but they treated me better than the men in my family ever had.

  The third bridesmaid drifted past in a waft of feminine spice, the slope of smooth skin from the edge of her up-do of dark hair to the top of her strapless maroon dress drawing my gaze. My cock thickened without thought, and when she turned at the church’s front to face the witnesses, I nearly groaned.

  Mila Kunis has a fucking twin. Fuck. Me.

  It took me a few seconds to find my feet as the bride’s march spilled from the pipes, drawing everyone to stand. I stared at the maid-of-honor rather than turn to watch my brother’s bride-to-be as she walked down the aisle.

  Catlike eyes with arched brows. A square jaw, pouty, pursed lips—unsmiling. I held in a satisfied snort. At least one woman in the damn church wasn’t disillusioned by thoughts of happily-ever-after, rainbows, and white picket fences.

  Her gaze flitted my way and past, but jerked back to my face in less than a heartbeat. A slow, lazy smile lifted my lips as pink highlighted her prominent cheekbones.

  She was fucking gorgeous. Sexy as fuck, too, in the sheath dress that hugged the type of curves a man could get lost in. The scent of her perfume lingered in my nose, thickening my cock to the point of pain.

  Dad cleared his throat, and I tore my attention from the woman I planned on fucking before night’s end. Dark eyes narrowed and lips in a thin line, Dad glared at me. I wanted to flip him off, but I turned slightly to watch Sarah’s march toward her doom.

  Fresh-faced innocence, big brown eyes filled with hope and expectation like every bride, she clutched her flowers and offered my asshole brother a dazzling smile. Sarah had always been too good for him. Too sweet. Too kind, just like Mom.

  Poor girl should have known better after so many years with my brother, but I couldn’t be bothered with her impending broken heart and tears that would soak into a thousand tissues in the coming years. I sent up a quick prayer to Mother Mary they wouldn’t have kids to witness her heartache.

  Narcissistic assholes didn’t change. Selfish pricks who always had to one-up in every conversation. Know-it-all, arrogant dicks who only thought of themselves, laying waste to those closest to them.

  We sat, and I turned my attention back on the maid-of-honor. Head high, back straight … tits enough to overflow my palms, and an ass that promised to swallow every inch of my cock with plenty of cushion for the pounding.

  Fuck.

  I shifted again, and the priest started droning on about marriage, vows, and the shit that brought stars to most women’s eyes.

  Not my beauty. Pou
ty lips still unsmiling, she stood in witness, holding the bride’s bouquet in a white-knuckled grip, offering Sarah the ring she’d kept on her thumb of her left hand… No band on her own fourth, I noted. Not that one would have stopped me from getting my hands up under her dress.

  No panty lines showed beneath the tight dress hugging her hips and ass. Bare? Shaved smooth? Was she the type who spritzed perfume down the length of her body, coating her curves in the spicy scent still lingering in my nose?

  My mouth watered. Would she taste sweet? Tangy? My balls fucking ached, and I fought off the need to adjust the hard length pressed tight against my right thigh by black slacks I’d actually bought for a goddamn wedding.

  I’d planned on offering my congrats in the receiving line and getting the fuck away from my toxic family for a joint and some sleep, but the temptation of those curves, those greenish catlike eyes that glanced my way twice during the ceremony … yeah. I could handle being up a few extra hours if it meant I’d get to bury my cock inside of her.

  Because, have her I would. Come hell or high water, I’d have my face buried in her pussy, her thighs holding tight to my head, and fingers pulling at my hair as she came, coating my tongue with her cum.

  Fuck, that damn ceremony lasted longer than any Sunday Mass, and until I stood in front of her in the receiving line, my brother and Sarah’s necessary greeting over, I was ready to steal her away and bring a smile to her lips.

  “You’re David’s brother,” she said before I could utter a word.

  I flashed the smile that usually made women swoon and stuck out my hand. “Capone.”

  Her brow rose at the nickname, and she slipped her palm against mine. “Helina.”

  Soft and warm, her hand fit in mine better than my broken-in, winter riding gloves. Tingles spread up my arm, stiffening my cock again to the point of pain. Her lips parted as pink once more tinged her cheeks.

  I’d definitely be tasting her before long. With a wink, I released her hand and made quick work of the rest of the line before heading out into the cool air to climb on my Harley and fire it to life, drawing a few dozen heads my way from the guests lingering outside of the church.

  I’d taken the metal out of my face for the wedding, but there was no hiding the tattoos on my neck—especially the “67” on the right I’d had inked to prove to my dad that I was no fucking pansy. Outwardly, I appeared the badass I strove to embrace.

  Muffler rumbling, my bike took me away from the prim and proper for a joyride before the reception began. While I’d have loved to crash my head on my pillow from having been up for over thirty-six hours straight, I had a woman to bed.

  ****

  “Who is she?” I asked the second my brother finally found his way to me. The DJ’s music thumped, I had my good friend Jack Daniels in my hand … and the bridal party shaking their asses to some dumbass pop song kept my eyes occupied.

  “Hello to you, too,” my brother said, leaning against the bar beside me. “Couldn’t even bother buying a nice suit for my wedding.”

  I noted the scowl in his voice, but didn’t give him my attention he wanted. “At least I ditched the leathers,” I said, lifting my drink to my lips.

  “And took that damn metal out of your face.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I don’t do family.”

  I sipped, gaze plastered to the dark-haired beauty who had my cock hard as a rock. “So, who is she?”

  “It’s always about the pussy for you.” My brother snorted—his jealousy over my easy time getting laid too apparent, same as it’d always been until he hooked Sarah. “And Mom wonders why I didn’t ask you to stand beside me today while I vowed to be faithful to Sarah.”

  I ignored him, knowing full well why he hadn’t—his friends meant more to him than his own blood. Always had, always would. Hell, he didn’t even have the decency to seat me at the family table. Not that I’d have sat near Dad anyway. I hadn’t spoken to him for years and had no plans to speak to him for whatever years I had left.

  “So,” I said, “are you going to be a prick, or are you going to answer the fucking question?”

  “Helina Bodnar. Sarah’s best friend, and you’re not man enough for her.”

  She glanced my way, and I smiled, undeterred by my brother’s declaration.

  “She needs someone with a firm hand,” the asshole continued, his voice carrying the haughtiness that usually made me sneer. “An alpha man to put her in her place, bring her to heel. She thinks she’s too good for anyone now that she’s opened up her own law firm.”

  “Lawyer?” I asked.

  “Damn woman doing a man’s job….”

  Fuck, did he sound like Dad. Poor Sarah. I glanced at his new wife, who shimmied beside Helina, the woman I planned on sinking into balls deep before the clock struck midnight. So my beauty was an independent. From the lack of joy on her face during the ceremony, I expected jaded as well. She moved like she knew how to fuck … and not looking for a knight in shining armor to fulfill her.

  My type of woman.

  Helina glanced over her shoulder at me, catlike eyes giving off that “come and get it” shimmer as her lips lifted in a small smirk. She held a glass of champagne in her hand, the fourth from what I’d seen, while swaying that ass.

  I downed the rest of my drink, turned to plunk the empty glass on the bar, and clasped my brother’s shoulder. “Congrats, and best of luck in trying to make Sarah happy.” Not waiting for a reply, I strode toward my soon-to-be conquest, my cock leading the way.

  Helina

  God, those eyes… Crystal blue and intense, they sent awareness through my body I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Every second of the damn ceremony, his gaze had sent tingles down my spine to settle between my thighs. Every second of the too-damn-long reception while I guzzled bubbly rather than eat filet mignon. Toasts. Cutting the cake. When Sarah’s tossed bouquet had landed at my feet because I stepped back out of its way, I felt his stare and my pussy responded.

  It’d been too long since I had given into my baser instincts. Too long since I’d allowed a man in my bed. Too long since someone other than myself and my trusty vibrator had given me an orgasm.

  I wanted Jeremiah Caldwell—or Capone as he called himself—wherever the hell that nickname had come from. Sarah’s brother-in-law. Pretty boy with mussed black hair, strong jawline, wide shoulders, and tattoos peeking from the button-down shirt tucked into black slacks … slacks that did nothing to hide the hard ridge along his right thigh as he leaned against the bar. I wanted him, so I would have him—just like every other goal I’d ever set for myself, the man would be conquered.

  His throat bobbed as he downed his drink, and my breath caught when his attention once more riveted on my face. Our gazes locked. Sexual energy rippled across the room between us as music blared and dance lights flickered.

  Mouth watering, I wiggled my hips again and waited for his steady gait to bring him to me. Still staring, he continued with that killer smile while pushing his way through the dancing crowd, lips unmoving with apologies he should have offered to those he jostled against. The distance between us lessened, and heat rushed over my skin, settling in my cheeks.

  When had I last blushed over a guy? High school? It was probably the shots we’d done in the limo … and the champagne I couldn’t seem to get enough of.

  I hadn’t been able to celebrate the opening of my firm downtown earlier that week because of Sarah’s wedding details, so I decided to silently toast myself a few times in between her family’s congratulations. Went straight to my head, but I didn't give a shit. Years of college, loans out the ass, but I’d done what I’d set out to do, something my stepfather told me I’d never accomplish. I deserved a night of drunken debauchery, and Capone would be the cherry on top.

  I managed one last shake of my ass before his palm settled on my hip. Firm and confident, his touch burned through the thin material of my dress, and I cursed myself for going without panties. A subtle
, yet mouthwatering, aroma of man and cologne clouded the air, weakening my knees as moisture smeared between my thighs.

  The rest of his body pressed against my back, and I bit back a groan as his breath caressed my ear. No words of how hot he thought I was, no cheesy pick-up lines poured from his lips. No womanizing bullshit, just pure electricity igniting between two bodies.

  Goddamn, could he move.

  I closed my eyes and gave over to the buzz tingling through my blood and spinning my head. Gave over to the arousing heat building inside of me and allowed him to lead, something I rarely did. His other hand slid around my waist to rest on my stomach, and I leaned back against his hard chest when he tugged me close.

  Good God. I moaned, uncaring if anyone heard—not that anyone would over the thump of the bass. Capone held me tight, his slow, erotic grind against my lower back thrumming my pulse—and pulsing my pussy. If we had been in a club rather than my best friend’s wedding, I’d have dragged him home without a backward glance and fucked him until I couldn’t move.

  I forced my eyes open and found Sarah frowning at me. Well on my way to drunk, I smiled and lifted my glass. She rolled her eyes and turned away, not that I gave a shit whether she approved or not.

  Capone, or Jeremiah as she called him, was the black sheep of his family, going so far as to join a motorcycle gang and all but disown his family for a bunch of thieves and rapists. A badass, one who would take what he wanted and disappear without a trace. The type of man a woman should guard her heart against, the type of guy who would soothe the ache between my legs and never call afterward.

  So damn fine, but so not the type I should be messing with even if it was just to fuck. Last thing I wanted was to end up beneath an alpha biker, for Christ’s sake. All too familiar with old ladies and their men, I should have shied away the second I noticed that “67” tattooed on his neck when he had taken my hand in the receiving line.