“I am not gagging for it,” I say, shooting him a playful look. “In fact, I’ve just been going along with this for …”
I trail off.
Arturo smirks.
“You’re too damn cute, Aida,” he laughs. “You were about to say you were just going along with this because you’re my prisoner.”
“Mind reader.”
“But you couldn’t, could you? Because you know we’re in too deep together for you to lie to me.”
“How do you do that?” I laugh.
“Do what?”
“Look at me and just know what I’m thinking?”
He reaches across the table and cups my cheek, sending warm sizzling tendrils through me. He tucks some hair behind my ear and lets out a growling sigh, the same noise I imagine an alpha lion makes when nuzzling its mate.
“I know you,” he says. “The first time I saw you, I felt like I’d known you my whole life. I feel like I’ve been cold and distant with every single woman who’s ever tried to be with me because they weren’t you. All my forty-one years, Aida, nobody was ever good enough. Nobody was even close. Because they weren’t you. You’re everything to me. I think that’s why.”
I blink and more tears slide down my cheeks, warm, tickling.
“They’re happy,” I moan, reaching up and grabbing his hand firmly, never wanting to let go.
“I know,” he says fiercely.
Ah, yes, of course, he does.
The sun finally sets, the world turning dark, but our little corner of the estate is blazing hot and bright, and my heart is burning even hotter.
All my life, I’ve never belonged. I’ve always been the odd one out, the outsider looking in.
But now I finally feel as if I’ve slid into place.
I just hope telling Dad doesn’t ruin everything.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Aida
Nerves swirl around me as I sit in the passenger seat of the car, Arturo deftly handling the wheel as he drives us out of his estate and down the country road.
It’s been two days since our date on the balcony, probably – no, definitely – the best two days of my life.
It took that long for Arturo and Dad to agree on a place to meet, both of them suspicious that the other one was going to try something.
In the end, we’ve settled for a warehouse at the Docks, the place the fighting Pits used to be held.
Several cars follow us as we drive out of the metal gates.
My heart thumps as though it’s powered by the engine, my thoughts flooded with all the ways this meeting could go wrong.
But it needs to happen.
I need to know if Dad killed those men, and Arturo needs to know if Dad is aware of this government agency, the one that ordered his second-in-command – and his and Dad’s old friend – to kidnap me. Elmo is still missing.
Maybe Dad killed him, a bitter voice whispers. Maybe he’s been killing people your whole life.
I push that voice away and focus instead on these past couple of days, waking up next to Arturo every morning, always sore with what we did the night before. He’s taken me hard and slow, and I’ve ridden him, too, taking the lead like I did in the library.
But we’ve done more than have sex.
He’s urged me to sing more than once, always sitting back with that intense look on his face, waiting impatiently like a beast about to devour a meal. But when I start singing, something in him seems to relax. That shadowy near-smile claims his lips and his eyes brighten for minutes at a time, even as he continues to gaze intensely.
“It seems like you enjoy it,” I murmured the day before yesterday, sitting in his lap in my bathrobe, feeling his desire flame through the thin fabric.
“Like it,” he said, voice as shadowy as his half-smile, his breath whispering across my neck. “That doesn’t do it justice. It’s … Jesus, Aida. When you sing, I don’t have to think, I don’t have to worry. I can just sink into the beauty of your voice. You’re going to make such an amazing mother. Everything about you is perfect for it. Your body is perfect for making babies, an impossible-to-resist curvy temple that’s all mine. And your personality … so kind, so loyal, so you. And that voice is going to be as perfect for lullabies as it is for chart-topping singles.”
I giggled, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.
“Don’t get carried away,” I said. “I’m not going to top the charts. I’d be happy if I could record a song without thinking it’s complete crap.”
“That won’t be difficult,” he growled. “I’ll just order you to do it, and like my obedient princess, you’ll do whatever I say. Because I own you.”
He claimed me then, right there where we sat, lifting me up and then lowering me onto his always hard manhood.
I bounced and grabbed his face, kissing him between the lust-filled motions, our teeth clicking together in the urgent carnality of it. Afterward, we lay together in bed, his hands making patterns in my hair, tickling, teasing.
“How can we feel so close?” he mused once the sun had set, the moon making patterns on the ceiling the same as he did across my scalp, as though the two were linked, his touch and the steel colored moonlight. “We met less than a week ago, and yet I feel like I know you. I’ve never believed in fate before. I never dreamed such a melodramatic concept could truly exist. A man takes what he can when he can, with whatever tools are available. Fate doesn’t come into it.”
“And now?” I whimpered, kissing his chest, tasting his sweat, tasting him.
“Now I don’t know what to believe,” he snarled. “You’ve opened me up to so much.”
“You’ve done the same to me,” I said.
He laughed grimly. “Yeah, I know that.”
“No,” I said, though my body flared at the implication of his words. “I’m not talking about that. Before we met, I never dreamed all my crazy fantasies could come true. I thought they were meant for other women. More … more traditionally attractive women, you know?”
Skinnier women, I was thinking, but I knew he’d fall into a savage rage if I put myself down in that way.
“You’re the most attractive woman alive,” he said flatly.
“And the singing,” I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief. “It doesn’t make me want to melt in embarrassment when I do it in front of you. I don’t know how that’s possible.”
“Because you know we’re always going to be together, so you might as well get used to it,” he snarled passionately.
Now, in the car, Arturo reaches across and gives my leg a squeeze, sending warm shivers up my thigh. They swirl around my sex. It’s sore from all the times we’ve fucked, made love, and everything in between these past couple of days.
My lips ache and my clit tingles with all the rubbing and licking and sucking, and yet I feel my hole quiver and my womb sing when he touches me, ready for more.
“Don’t worry,” he says firmly. “Everything’s going to be okay. We have each other – always – and that’s all that matters.”
I reach down and press my hand against his, holding on tightly, praying for the courage to believe his words.
“My only regret is you’re not dressed like my personal fuck toy,” Arturo rumbles.
I giggle. “Yeah, because that’d be a good look, wouldn’t it, rocking up to meet with my Dad in no underwear with my breasts hanging out?”
He chuckles. “You better stop talking like that. I’ll pull over and savage you right here.”
I stare at him, my man, in his iron gray suit, his hair the same color, shades of experience etching every part of him. I still have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming when I drink in the sight of him, forty-one years old, a man who’s waited his whole life for the woman he truly wants, he can’t resist.
And that’s me.
It doesn’t always feel real.
But when he touches me, kisses me, it feels achingly real.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Just how handsome you look,” I tell him.
He smirks. “You don’t have to compliment me, Aida. Compliments are for women.”
“Wow, sexist,” I giggle.
He glances at me. Behind him, the rolling hills of the countryside flit by, a light rain falling and the clouds throwing a gray filter over the world.
“The last thing a man should give a damn about is how he looks,” Arturo says. “Be presentable. Look professional. But don’t spend hours on end in front of the mirror, styling your hair, changing your clothes. It’s pathetic.”
“Oh, so what you’re saying is that you’re effortlessly irresistible, huh?”
He looks at me with his trademark smirk. “Yeah, sure, something like that.”
We both laugh together, the sound filling the car, his laughter like music to me.
Our daughter sits at the piano wreathed in shadows, her features, her clothes, her everything never settling. I can’t see the color of her hair or the shape of her face. But I can feel the love swelling inside of me as she plays, her fingers dancing over the keys, the music swelling around us. Arturo wraps his arms around me and presses himself close to my back, his hands resting on my belly, swollen and almost ready to give him another child.
“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. “I love you, I love you—wake up, Aida. Wake up.”
I blink, rising to consciousness even as I try to claw onto the dream.
I want the music. I want his love.
Love.
The word bounces around in my mind.
The certainty of it smashes into me.
But I won’t say it, not first.
I can’t risk it.
I open my eyes to find Arturo leaning over me, the world brighter than when I drifted off. The clouds have cleared and subtle sunbeams arch down on us.
I sit up and look around, seeing that we’re parked on the edge of the docks. A warehouse sits in front of us, a large square brick building with a large service delivery entrance, but the huge doors are closed now.
Instead, a small person sized door is open at the side.
A man stands at the entrance, his hand near his hip as if getting ready to draw a weapon.
It takes me a second to recognize him.
Snaps.
The man who was driving me the day they kidnapped me, with his twice-broken nose and his flat face.
“I guess it’s time, then,” I murmur.
Arturo nods.
“Let me take the lead in there,” I say. “He’ll be more open to talking with me. I’ll ask him about the murders, the war. I’ll ask if he knows anything about the government agency. And then after that …”
I swallow.
Perhaps absurdly, telling Dad about me and his old friend fills me with the most terror of all of this. It doesn’t make sense. I’m about to learn if my dad is a killer, and yet my nerves become swollen and fit for bursting inside of me when I think about uttering the words.
“I lost my virginity to your onetime best friend, Dad. We’re going to start a family together. We belong together.”
Will he laugh or cry or rage or kill?
Arturo nods. “I’ll let you take the lead,” he says. “But if I notice any of them making a move I don’t like, I’m getting you out of there. There’s no damn way I’m going to let them take you from me.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” I say.
I climb from the car. Arturo does the same and walks around it, standing close to me, but not taking my hand or wrapping his arm around me. We discussed this before coming.
Until we’ve told Dad, we’re not going to let it slip how close we’ve become.
We walk toward the warehouse, Arturo’s men – at least ten of them – trailing behind us.
Snaps’ stands straighter as we approach, his expression tight and cold as his eyes move over Arturo and then the assembled men. But they soften a little when his gaze settles on me.
He turns to Arturo.
“It was smart not to hurt her,” he snaps.
Arturo grimaces and opens his mouth. I can tell he’s about to unleash a tirade on this man that could possibly break out into violence. I can read him, and I can see that he doesn’t like the implication that he’d ever hurt me.
I break the no-touching rule and quickly lay a placating hand on his arm.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
I turn back to Snaps, whose eyes have narrowed, watching the short exchange perceptively.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “We need to talk with him.”
“We,” Snaps repeats. “Can’t say I like the sound of that, Aida.”
“Just tell me where he is,” I say firmly.
Snaps steps aside and gestures at the door. “After you.”
I make to step forward, but Arturo quickly darts ahead of me, moving with a swiftness that will never stop surprising me for a man his size.
Seven feet tall, he moves like a predator, no wasted movement, always calculating, always ready.
I follow after him, and then his men spill in behind me.
We walk deeper and deeper into the warehouse.
I try to ready myself to face my Dad.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Arturo
We meet in what must have once been the manager’s office, a room at the top of the warehouse that overlooks the main work area. It’s been gutted, the floor exposed, the walls covered in graffiti that looks surreal in the high-beam lights Franco’s men brought with them. The only furniture is the foldout chairs arranged in the center of the room, but we all remain standing.
Franco looks much more tired than the last time I saw him, his hair combed over his bald head, his once bright blue eyes dull and worn. He wears a baggy leather jacket that doesn’t cover the way he’s let his body go, every part of him soft.
It pains me to see my once-fierce friend fallen so clearly.
“Aida, come here,” Franco says, glancing at me and then his daughter, his mouth tight.
Part of me shivers in primal panic as the insane thought thunders into me that this has all been a trick, that Aida’s been playing me this whole time and now she’s going to return to her father.
But when I look at her – her loose-fitting jeans and hoodie doing nothing to hide that curvy-as-hell body, her hair pulled into a ponytail that only accentuates her beauty – I see that she’s standing firm. She turns to me, giving me one of her cute smiles, her eyes wide.
“I can’t do that,” she says, turning back to Franco.
Franco scowls. “Arturo, what the fuck is this? What have you done to her? What have you got on her?”
“Dad, you need to answer some questions,” Aida says.
Franco sighs growingly. “Is this some sort of a trick?”
“Dad,” Aida says firmly. “You need to tell me if you killed Arturo’s men, the murders that started this war. I deserve to know the truth. All my life, you’ve kept me in the dark. And maybe there was a time when I was okay with that. But not anymore.”
Franco makes a huffing noise and throws his hands up.
“It’s complicated,” he snaps.
“What’s complicated?” she hisses, the fire in her voice filling me with pride.
For the thousandth time – I’ll never get tired of it – I think about what an incredible mother she’s going to make, a mother bear fit to defend our children, to fight for them, to always keep them safe from the dangers of this world.
“Does it have something to do with the government agency? The one that ordered my kidnapping?”
“Wait, what?” Franco snaps.
He looks at me as if I’m holding something back.
Years fall away and I see the boy I’ve known since I first had memories, the innocent, carefree expression he once held, the way he’d always hold onto my every word, the little brother I never had.
I think he senses it, too.
He winces and turns back to his daughter as if the past is t
oo painful.
“What are you talking about, Aida?” he snarls. “How do you know he wasn’t behind that? It was Arturo...wasn’t it?”
“No,” I say, as softly as I can, even as thunder threatens to erupt into my voice at the prospect that I’d cause any harm to come to my queen.
“How do you know it was him then?”
“Who’s him?” Aida and I snap at the same time.
We stop, exchanging a glance. The corner of her lip twitches, as though she’s having the same problem I always have around her, trying to maintain a shield of gruff coldness when all I want to do is cheer and roar about how much I love her.
Love her.
The revelation hammers into me.
I almost shout it right now.
Only Franco’s presence stops me.
“He’ll kill me if I talk,” Franco murmurs, finally dropping into one of the foldout chairs as if all the energy has been sucked out of him.
“Who, Dad?” Aida asks, softer now.
We move closer to the chairs, and then take the two that are closest together without needing to discuss it. We both silently know that being together is better than being apart.
I can scent her above the reek of the warehouse, her just-Aida smell, her hormones and pheromones, and the sweet tempting tendrils of her womb, begging for more of my seed.
I love everything about her.
“Dad,” Aida pleads. “This person, whoever he is, he ordered Elmo to kidnap me.”
“Where is Elmo, anyway?” Franco asks, looking around as if our old friend might appear.
“They took him,” I snarl. “Whoever these people are, they arranged a hit on the detox cells and they took him. And they killed one of my men in the process. I thought it might be you—”
“No,” Franco says passionately. “Even if we parted ways, Arturo, I always followed the code. I never killed needlessly. I never killed, full-fucking-stop, not when it could be avoided. Rapists, monsters who laid their hands on children … but never for the sake of it.”
“So the men? The blood on the walls?” Aida says.
“How do you even know about this?” Franco snaps.
“Answer the question,” Aida says. “Dad, they took your friend, Elmo. They ordered me kidnapped. What do you owe these people?”
His To Claim: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance Page 10