His To Claim: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  “Most men,” Arturo chuckles. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  But he’s not like most men, not even close.

  We fly and fly, and I have to keep telling myself that this is real. No way is life this sweet. No way can this – this craziness that started in the forest with a gun pointed at the back of my head – end in some much sun-flecked happiness.

  But in what feels like a few hours of serene flying – making stops for gas here and there – the yellow baked landscape of the Grand Canyon comes into view, the holes in the ground looking like features on a smiling face from so high in the sky.

  “You listened to Mom’s suggestion, then,” I laugh in delight.

  Arturo grins wolf-like. “I’d be one stupid son of a bitch if I didn’t listen to my mother-in-law’s advice, wouldn’t I?”

  I laugh and make to banter back, but then the full force of his words slams into me.

  Mother-in-law.

  Does that mean …

  But then he smirks and starts the descent, making it difficult to think about anything other than the helicopter dropping toward the ground. I scream and laugh, trusting in Arturo completely as he lowers us closer and closer, the blades going thunk-thunk as they kick up sand and dust.

  By the time we’ve landed, I can’t even see anything. So much dust and sand dances around us. It blinds us, blocking off the rest of the world.

  I whimper when Arturo’s lips are suddenly against mine, warm, fused to me in passionate gasping moments. I reach up and grab the smooth firmness of his face, and then his shoulders, so hard they almost snap my fingernails.

  I sink into the wet hotness of the kiss, squirming in the harness, my body aching.

  “Fuck, that was hard,” Arturo growls, breaking off the kiss for a moment. “You looked so damn good with the helicopter making that body dance for me, all those ripples and shimmers. But there’s no damn way I’m putting you or the baby at risk.”

  “Arturo …”

  I trail off, nodding to the helicopter window. The dust and sand has cleared now, and I see that we’re at the edge of the canyon. A table and chairs sit in the dust, silver lids covering silver platters.

  A red carpet leads from my side of the helicopter to the table and chairs.

  I look down at my body, clad in the dress he recommended earlier today, tight fitting and silver sparkling.

  “So this is for us?” I say.

  “Who else?” Arturo jokes.

  He unstraps himself and hops deftly from the pilot’s seat, walking around the now-still helicopter and opening my door. He reaches up and grabs me by the hips, lowering me down as though I weigh nothing.

  As he handles me like this, I feel so freaking sexy, my self-esteem doing somersaults I never could’ve imagined before I met Arturo.

  He takes my hand and walks us toward the table.

  My heart thumps so heavily, climbing up my throat, loud in my ears.

  We stop at the end of the table and Arturo turns to me, taking my hands in his.

  “Aida, I love you,” he says.

  I gasp, staring through tear blurry eyes.

  “I. Love. You.” He growls each word. “I should’ve told you the moment I saw you, the same way I told you that you belong to me. But I’m telling you now. I love you more than I ever dreamed a man like me could.”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper. “So much. I’m so glad you feel the same.”

  “Of course I do,” he growls. He lets go of one of my hands and nods down to the first silver platter. “Lift it.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Just do what I say, Aida,” he growls, firm with an undertone of love.

  I lift the lid slowly, hand trembling, and then almost drop it when I see the ring box.

  Arturo snatches it quickly and kneels down, all in one fluid fighter’s movement.

  He stares up at me with passion flaring in his eyes.

  “Aida Capullo, will you make me the happiest man alive and be my wife? Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” I scream before he’s even opened the ring box.

  He chuckles as the diamond winks in the afternoon sun up at me. It’s big and yet elegant, framed in a bed of smaller curving diamonds, shining and yet not pretentious.

  It’s perfect.

  He slides it onto my shaking hand, and then leaps to his feet, grabbing me and pulling me close. We lose ourselves in a kiss, warm with my joyful tears and hot with the need of our bodies.

  “What’s under the other lid?” I ask, nodding at the remaining platter.

  He smiles. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t grin like a beast.

  My man smiles for me.

  “Your dream come true,” he says. “Go on. Don’t be shy.”

  I lift the platter.

  A microphone stares back up at me, not attached to anything.

  “I don’t understand …”

  “It’s wireless. I’ve had speakers positioned all around the canyon. Sing, my queen, and the whole canyon will be filled with your angel’s voice.”

  “I couldn’t—I can’t.”

  “You can,” he growls. “And you will. As my fiancé. As the future mother of my children. As the woman I love. You’ll sing to mark this occasion, because you know, deep down, just how amazingly talented you are.”

  He grabs the microphone and flicks a switch.

  He brings it to his mouth with a smile.

  “My name is Arturo Amato,” he says, and his voice amplifies by a thousand, becoming like a God’s, filling the air around us. “And I love Aida more than a man like me should be able to love. I love her. And she’s going to sing for me.”

  “Okay, okay,” I giggle through a sob.

  I take the microphone and turn to the canyon, heart hammering.

  But then I feel Arturo’s hand on my shoulder. I turn to find his eyes staring firmly at me, swollen with confidence.

  It’s time you got some self-esteem, he told me.

  And I think he’s right.

  I start singing, soft notes that echo through the canyon, that tell the world about this love, this impossible love, and the man I’m going to share the rest of my life with.

  EPILOGUE

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  Arturo

  Pride whelms in my chest as I look through the glass of the recording studio at Aida. She’s draped in a baggy sweater and jeans, but I can see through the material to that curvy heaven-sent body beneath.

  She sings as though we’re making love, her voice rising and falling.

  Her breasts do the same as she inhales and exhales, those mounds that soon – very soon, I hope, I pray – will be squirting milk for our offspring.

  But I won’t be able to stop myself as I pounce on her, tearing at those perk swollen nipples and taking one greedily in my mouth. I’ll suck until she’s red and aching, and then she’ll start to tremble as I make her squirt milk and come at the same time.

  Fuck, I’m hard for her.

  I’m glad I’m sitting, my elbows resting on the surface in front of me. The sound engineer nods and adjusts a dial, the backing band play their tune, but I can only gaze at my woman, my queen.

  I remember last night, how she perched on my lap at the end of the bed, her back facing me, that juicy ass sliding up and down as she set the tempo. I love the way she moans when she takes control, finding her own spot of pleasure, angling herself down on my come-slick cock.

  She always finds the best damn spots.

  Now her singing gets louder, reaching the crescendo, tugging on strings in my heart I never even knew were there.

  She finishes on a high, and then breaks off, her face red, her chest rising and fall frantically. I look at the audio engineer, at all the band and the back singers, searching their faces for any sign that they are looking at my woman with anything other than respect.

  I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop protecting her, keeping her all to myself like the selfish bastard I am.

&nb
sp; I don’t care.

  I can’t be sorry, not when it’s my own family.

  I leave the room and meet her in the hallway. She explodes from the door, all breathless, hair spiraling with sweat around her head.

  I reach forward and smooth her hair behind her ear. I savor the way she smiles at me.

  “Was I good?” she whispers.

  We’re alone in the hallway, the cornfield-golden walls covered with framed records, the floor carpeted in deep red.

  I move forward, grab her hips, and shove her up against the wall. She gasps and I lean down, bringing my smiling lips to hers, tasting her briefly before whispering close to her ear.

  “You were amazing,” I tell her gruffly. “I’m so proud of you. I’ll always be proud of you.”

  “I was so nervous,” she gasps, grinding those hot needy nipples against me. I can tell how horny she’s getting like she always does, my personal nympho, mine and mine alone.

  “You did it,” I tell her. “You can do anything.”

  “Maybe I can tell you now, then,” she says.

  I pause, leaning back. “Tell me what?”

  She meets my eye, tears dancing hazily. She bites her lip, and it’s sexy and beautiful all at the same time.

  “I’m pregnant,” she says. “I wanted to tell you right away. But I was so nervous about this recording session … I just wanted to get it over with. I’m so sorry—”

  “Wait,” I growl. “You’re pregnant? You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I’ve done five tests. I wanted to be certain.”

  I grab her and lift her off her feet, feeling her happiness flurry through her as she relaxes in my arms.

  I hug her close, wishing I could melt her into me and our souls could truly fuse.

  For the rest of the world, I’ll be as hard as nails.

  But for her, I want to shed a goddamn tear.

  I won’t. I never will. But I want to.

  “I love you,” I gasp, squeezing her against me. “I can’t wait to raise a family with you.”

  “You’re not mad?” she says, twisting in my arms as I softly nibble her neck.

  “No,” I tell her. “I’m just happy I get to have you all to myself, always, that you’re mine—just fucking mine. Say it, Aida.”

  “I love you,” she gasps. “And I’m yours, just yours.”

  “Forever.”

  “Forever and ever, Arturo.”

  EXTENDED EPILOGUE

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Aida

  I walk up and down in front of the crib, tapping a pencil against my teeth and humming. I clutch a notebook in my other hand, a mess of pencil drawn scribbles, and hastily crossed out lines.

  I’m trying to find a chorus for this song. But it won’t materialize.

  “What do you think, Artie?” I say.

  She’s legally named Arthurine Lyndsey Amato – after Arturo’s grandmother – which I’ll admit is a bit of a mouthful. But I love her name. I love rolling it around my mouth and saying it, the full blossoming majesty of it as it rises in the air.

  It’s my daughter’s name.

  I want to sing it from the rooftops and down the radio.

  We call her Artie, just like Dad and Elmo used to call Arturo when they were kids. I love the sound of that name, too.

  “I can’t see your eyes, your love is my surprise,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Okay, I know. That was bad. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’ve still got pregnancy head, you know, Artie? I know—you’re going to grow up thinking I’m really crazy, this crazy singer lady who never stops talking. But do you know what, little lady? I don’t care. Because I’m never going to stop talking to you. I’m never going to stop loving you.”

  I pause, standing over her. She looks back up at me with Arturo’s dark eyes, but brightened, obsidian in sunlight. Her mouth is quirked into a sleepy grin, and her hands paw at the air. I reach down and take her, feeling the warmth of her against my chest.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, rocking her softly, glad that she’s cried herself out… for the time being.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned about being a new mother, it’s to always stay alert.

  “I know Mommy’s lyrics are terrible today. You don’t have to pretend to like them.”

  “Babba, babba, ga, ga,” she babbles, which she only started doing a week ago, these sweet I’m-here-Mommy sounds. “Gaga goo.”

  “I know,” I murmur, tears rising in my eyes, hot soothing tears of pure happiness that flourish joyfully through my whole body, making every part of me swell with all the love a person can take.

  And then the man who makes me swell with even more love walks in behind me, his massive strong body causing the floorboards to creak. I turn, and my husband is standing in the doorframe, filling it so he has to duck his head as he enters, wearing a sleek dark blue suit with a silver watch glinting at his wrist.

  He strolls into the bedroom, ducking his head to avoid the mobile, and then swoops down to me with a smile.

  He kisses me briefly, because I’m holding Artie, but I can feel the savage hunger beneath his lips.

  Every chance he gets, he has his hands on me.

  He doesn’t care if I’ve shaved or showered or anything. My man just wants me.

  And I always give him what he wants, letting him greedily drink my breast milk, growling as he suckles, and then bending me over and taking me like the beast he still is.

  But in front of Artie, he always holds back, like he can’t hug or kiss me too much because he might lose control and want to take me right there.

  Sometimes I have to drag him from a party or a restaurant and give him a quick blowjob, looking up at him with my eyes wide how he likes it, sucking his throbbing hot length and working the base just how he likes it, and then swallowing every last drop.

  He always stares at me as though he’s powerless in those moments, everything inside of him lost to the pleasure I’m giving him.

  Now he rocks back, hands in his pockets.

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Politics are politics,” he says.

  “You’ve got the support,” I tell him. “Hasn’t Daddy got the support, Artie? Hmm? Isn’t Daddy going to do amazing?”

  I rock Artie up and down, making her smile and baby-talk at me, breaking and fusing my heart in the same instant.

  “What about you?” he asks. “Still working on that chorus?”

  “If you can call it working.”

  My husband smiles. “You always say that, and then you stress and worry for a month, and then, somewhere along the way, you write lyrics that get stuck in that head so deep you hear them in your dreams. You’re talented, wife. Now stop your complaining and get your husband a drink.”

  I pout at him. “Bossy.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he chuckles.

  I place my hand on his chest, feeling the heat of him, his hard muscles. “I love you so much. You know that, don’t you?”

  He wraps me in his big arms, holding me and Artie close to him. His kisses are warm petals landing on my forehead, moving down my cheek, finding my lips.

  I meet his lips, kissing him back.

  “Why so emotional?” he asks huskily.

  “I’m just so happy—happy and I miss being pregnant, as crazy as that sounds.

  He slides his hand over my belly, gripping my flesh, never letting me feel self-conscious about pregnancy weight or any kind of weight, for that matter. My husband smooths his hand over my belly.

  “Soon,” he whispers. “Very soon. We’ll give you a brother, Artie.”

  “Or a sister,” I say

  “As long as they’re happy and healthy—”

  “That’s all that matters.”

  “I love you,” he whispers, squeezing me.

  I cuddle closer. “I love you, too.”

  EXTENDED EPILOGUE

  TEN YEARS LATER

&n
bsp; Arturo

  My office wall shows it all, this life we’ve built together, Aida and I.

  It shows photographs of me shaking hands with important people in the city, charity leaders, unionists, any damn group big enough to meet with me …

  And then I bring peace to whatever mayhem they’re causing.

  I won’t let corruption rule this town anymore.

  I won’t let them sell drugs to kids or traffic in evil anymore.

  At first, I thought I wanted to become a politician.

  But that road led me down dead ends.

  It’s better to be the man in the shadows, directing the charities, the investigators, the man with the legend of the Pits and his expansive empire. Now I use the Family as a weapon for good while maintaining ties with enough important people to keep our business legitimate.

  We’re evolving into something else, law abiding, but doing what’s necessary when it comes to the bite of the bullet.

  My eyes move down to photographs of Aida on stage in packed arenas, the lights dancing down her glittery red coat. We’ve agreed that she’s never to dress provocatively on stage, and she’s always agreed.

  She’s mine, even if the world gets to have a little slice of her from time to time.

  Our family photo shows me in the middle, seated, with Aida standing behind me, her hand on my shoulder. Then there’s Artie with her black hair swept across her face, and Ethan and Chase, the gap-toothed twins, grinning on one side. Henrietta I hold in my arms, our newest bundle of life and joy. And on the other side, Jackal sits next to Artie, taller than the twins with his proud eyes glinting in the light. He’s a good friend, and he protects our family. He’s taken to all our children like they’re his own.

  “Daddy,” Ethan says from the door.

  Everyone says that the twins sound the same, but I can always tell the difference, subtle changes in their pitch and speech.

  It’s just … they’re my sons. I know them like my own heartbeat.

  I turn and grin. “Busted, huh?”

  “You’re supposed to be hiding,” he laughs, hopping into the room. “Why are you looking at that picture? Why are you crying?”