His To Claim: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  I stare hard at him when he opens his mouth as if he’s about to interrupt me. He recoils and shakes his head, offering a silent apology. Then he closes his mouth and looks at me like a little kid ready to take his instruction.

  “You’re going to write down the name of every man who agreed to go on this little road trip with you. They need to learn who gives the orders in this Family. Do it now, Elmo. I’m going to send some of my men to put you in a cell. You’ll be fed well. You won’t be harmed. But I’m not having a junkie as my second-in-command. And Elmo, this is your last fucking chance.”

  I wait as he grabs a paper and a pen from my desk and starts scrawling.

  Jackal rises and stretches, making a deep rumbling yawn noise. He pads over to me and sits down, looking up at me. I reach out my hand and he grins and offers his head for a stroke.

  I wish everything was as simple as Jackal.

  When Elmo’s finished the list, I snap, “I don’t need to tell you what happens if this isn’t complete, do I?

  He turns to me, shaking his head, looking like someones burst his bubble and sucked all the air out of him.

  “Boss, what’re you going to do with the girl?”

  I sigh darkly.

  The last thing I need is the daughter of my onetime friend and now rival to deal with. Problems invariably spawn more problems, and this is exactly the kind of conundrum I don’t need.

  But I don’t have a choice now.

  “Where is she?”

  “Underground,” Elmo tells me.

  “Have you hurt her?” I snap.

  “No,” Elmo says. “She’s tired and scared, but physically she’s alright.”

  “Good, that’s good,” I say.

  If he’d hurt her, this would become even more complicated.

  “I might be able to broker a deal with Franco,” I murmur. “Maybe I can explain the misunderstanding. But fucking hell, Elmo, this puts us in a hell of a bind. How can I give her back without making the Family look weak?”

  He opens his mouth again.

  “You don’t need to answer,” I sigh. “I’m just thinking out loud. Wait here for the men to take you to your detox cell. Don’t run, Elmo. Please don’t do that. I don’t want to have to but a bullet in your head.”

  Jackal trails after me as I walk down the stairs to the wine cellar, the automatic lights switching on with each step, revealing a large, long room lined on all sides with vintages wine bottles.

  I’m not much of a drinker, but all these bottles make for useful hiding places.

  Guns, weapons, cash, all conveniently located if I ever need to act fast.

  I spot two of my men standing guard in one corner of the room.

  Their bodies are obscuring the woman, but I can tell that she’s sitting down, her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She’s rocking back and forth slightly, but not in a manic, unhinged way. It’s more like she’s trying to keep herself warm.

  “Leave us,” I tell my men.

  They must be able to sense my mood because they immediately desert the prisoner and walk toward the stairs, their heads bowed as though they’re doing their best not to incite any of my anger.

  I turn my gaze onto the woman sitting on the floor.

  I stare.

  I stare so hard I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my head.

  My world shatters and rebuilds itself and then shatters again, a thousand times in a few breaths, my eyes roaming over my onetime best friend’s daughter, my enemy’s daughter.

  My manhood throbs in a way it hasn’t in …

  Well, ever.

  It throbs as my gaze flits down from her feet to her head and back again.

  Even sitting with her knees to her chest and wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, she can’t hide the shapeliness of her body. She’s curvaceous in the extreme, every inch of her full and juicy, the sort of body made to be explored at her lover’s, at my, leisure. Her breasts are large, perfect for palming and teasing and for giving life to my children, children I didn’t even know I wanted until my eyes consume her. Her hair is shoulder length, wavy, and dark, lying casually upon her shoulders.

  When she looks up at me, I see that she’s not wearing any makeup, but that just makes her even more beautiful. A crimson blush infuses her cheeks and her eyes are sharp and blue, the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen, the sort of eyes that’d widen beautifully as I fucked her pretty little mouth … and that could console our children when school and life didn’t go their way.

  “Do you know who I am?” I growl, masking the sudden lightning smashing into me over and over with gruffness.

  “Should I?” she says, a note of sass in her voice.

  Her gaze flits to Jackal.

  Instead of sitting by my side like the dog normally does – he’s a loyal companion, my best friend – he stands up and trots over to the woman. He leans down, stretching, offering his chin up to be scratched in a way I’ve never seen him do before, with anybody.

  I stare, amazed, as the woman lovingly brings her hand to Jackal’s chin and scratches softly.

  She’s downright maternal, the way she does it.

  It’s easy to imagine her tending to our children with the same love and affection.

  “Jackal,” I mutter after a moment. “Heel, boy.”

  Jackal turns and walks over to me with a huff as if he resents me for interrupting his moment.

  “He’s a lovely dog,” the woman says. “I’m Aida, by the way.”

  “I know who you are,” I smirk. “Do you think my men found you by accident?”

  She stares at me, head tilted, sassiness dripping from her features.

  “Well?” she says after a pause.

  “Well, what?”

  She folds her arms, causing her breasts to squash under the pressure of her forearms, big mouth-watering breasts that make me want to spend hours exploring them, discovering all the different ways to make her nipples hard and make her moan.

  I want to suck her nipples – fuck, I hope they’re big – until she’s red-raw with her pleasure, and then make her squirt and shiver just from that alone.

  My manhood pulses and grows rock solid.

  “It’s polite to tell somebody your name once they’ve given you theirs,” she snaps.

  Fears flits across her eyes, but she’s hiding it well.

  I respect the hell out of that.

  “I’m Arturo Amato,” I snap, watching for her reaction.

  But she just keeps staring.

  “Okay? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  I almost chuckle, but bite down and catch it at the last moment. So her father never mentioned me. She must’ve led a cloistered life to have no idea who her father’s oldest friend and nemesis is.

  I turn away, stroking Jackal’s head so he knows to follow.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” she calls after me.

  I don’t reply, just keep walking, clenching, and unclenching my fists as a way to relieve some of the tension moving through me.

  Confusion whirs around me, a feeling I’m not used to at all.

  I know one thing, though.

  I’m not giving her back.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aida

  I wake the next morning expecting one of my father’s men to be knocking on the door, telling me my parents want me to join them for another one of our awkward, forced breakfasts. I almost groan that I want a few more minutes to live in my dreams when the full weight of yesterday comes hammering into me.

  Stolen, captured by a man named Arturo Amato.

  I close my eyes and remember the way he looked standing over me, screaming at my body – at my hot sex, my tingly nipples, the treacherous lustful beating of my heart – that I should in no way be attracted to this man.

  And yet when he loomed over me, I felt things waking up inside of me, feelings I’ve never experienced before.

  He was huge, at least seve
n foot, wearing a suit the same color as his hair—pure iron. His face was clean shaven and his eyes were a dark, near black brown that seemed to look into me, through me. His body was a hulking giant’s form, his muscles almost erupting out of his suit jacket, and yet the aloofness of his smirk made him seem commanding and shrewd and not like some big stupid muscleman at all.

  For a crazy few seconds, as he stared at me, I thought he was going to grab me and shove me up against the wall, smash his lips against mine, and kiss me hard.

  Stupid, stupid.

  I sit up and look around the bedroom, still stunned that this is where the men brought me yesterday after Arturo left me in the basement. When the men marched in and nodded at me to stand, I could barely do it with the fear trying to pull me down.

  I was sure they were going to drag me outside and put one of those guns to the back of my head.

  Instead, I was led to a bedroom with a four poster bed, the sheets silk and so comfortable I couldn’t help but fall asleep last night. A balcony overlooks the large estate, but we’re on the third floor and the bedroom juts out from the rest of the house, making climbing down from it impossible. There’s a seating area in the corner, with a couch and two armchairs, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.

  Fur rugs, a corner bar stocked with soda and juice, and any other non-alcoholic beverage I could want.

  An ensuite with a walk-in sauna and a large hot tub and waterfall shower.

  The place is just generally, absurdly amazing.

  As I sit up and stretch out, I forcibly tell myself that just because I had some confusing feelings about this man, and just because he’s keeping me in a room fit for royalty, it doesn’t excuse anything he’s done.

  He still ordered me taken hostage.

  He’s still keeping me against my will.

  I stand up, the dread in my gut twisting harshly.

  I can’t stop thinking about Mom fretting over me, sitting at the window with her Kindle in her lap like it always is – she adores escaping to other worlds – but not reading like she usually does. Just staring, and waiting for Dad to bring news about me.

  She might think I’m dead.

  Obviously, Snaps and the other men have made a full report to Dad by now, but they don’t know that the men decided to keep me alive. For all they know, I was shot the second I was out of sight and hearing range.

  I try to push down all the whirring anxiety as I walk into the ensuite and strip.

  I didn’t shower yesterday, but I sweat a lot last night since I wore my hoodie and sweatpants to bed, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

  I step into the shower and let out a gasp when the waterfall starts automatically. It falls heavily over my naked body, but thankfully it’s already warm.

  I settle into the flow and just stand there for a few moments, letting it slide down my body, clinging to my already hot nipples and making them hotter.

  The sensuality of the shower isn’t doing anything to help the thoughts of Arturo which keep rising unbidden in my mind.

  He. Is. My. Captor.

  I roar the words in my mind, but they ring out without the conviction I’d need to take them to heart.

  I turn, looking for the soap or body wash.

  I want to make this quick so the heat of the shower doesn’t lead me to silly places, like imagining Arturo’s hands moving up and down my body instead of the water. I bet he’d do it hard, possessively, claiming my breasts in his powerful hands and then shoving me roughly up against the wall.

  “You’re going to take this dick,” he’d growl, stroking it between my naked thighs. “I’m going to lead the way. Just do what the fuck I say. Okay, my little captive?”

  It’s all a crazy, stupid fantasy.

  I’m not a little anything, and if that happened in real life I’d probably be a stuttering mess.

  Oh, and there’s the pesky matter of him being the last person I should be thinking about like that, too.

  I don’t see any body wash on the small shelf, so I open the shower door and lean out, searching the marble sink countertop.

  Then I spot him.

  Arturo casually leans against the counter, his hands in his pockets, his intense eyes fixated on my breasts as they bounce in shock and water goes spraying everywhere.

  For long moments – as I stand, stunned, as though pinned by his gaze – he just stares at me.

  He smirks slowly.

  I gasp as the reality of what’s happening breaks my paralysis.

  I slam the shower door shut and stare at the steamed-up glass, wondering if he can still see any parts of my nakedness.

  I can’t see him anymore, but maybe he can somehow see me?

  My breathing comes too frenetically to make logical thinking possible.

  “Something wrong?” he says casually.

  I replay his smirk in my mind, trying to judge the quality of it if it was mocking or mean or … or excited, as though he was happy with what he was seeing.

  I violently shut that notion down, both because it’s not true and even if it was, I shouldn’t be flattered by a stranger, my captor, staring at my naked body.

  But I can’t deny the way my lips swell and tickle, grinding together hotly.

  I can’t ignore my nipples beading so hard despite the blaring heat of the shower.

  I can’t deny the dozens of steamy vignettes flitting scintillatingly through my mind.

  “Wrong?” I snap. “Yeah, funnily enough. What the heck are you doing?”

  “Getting a look at what’s mine,” he says, still in that couldn’t-give-a-shit tone.

  “What’s yours?” I yell. “Just because you—Wait, no, I’m not having this conversation. Could you please get out so I can shower in peace, please?”

  “You’re going to banish me from my own bathroom?” he laughs grimly.

  “When I’m in it, yes,” I snap.

  “Weren’t you looking for something? I’ve got some body wash over here if you need it.”

  “You can leave it on the counter,” I murmur, something deep inside of me screaming to get out there and take it now, naked or not.

  I ignore the insane urge even as a thousand sensations swell and contract inside of me, as though my body is preparing for something.

  And then my mind leaps to even more surreal places and I imagine years ahead in the future, this man I should hate not smirking but smiling, all our children gathered around us.

  What the heck? I scream silently, battling down the absolutely deranged images. You don’t know this man. You should hate this man.

  “I’m not doing that,” Arturo growls.

  His heavy footsteps pound across the bathroom floor, his shoes making the noise even louder. I stare at the shower door as he pulls it open, standing there with his eyes fixated on me, his smirk twitching into something like an animal grimace.

  In his hand, he casually holds a plastic bottle of body wash, but the way he clutches it, it’s as though it’s a weapon, as though any second he’s going to attack me with it. There’s something feral and unhinged in his expression, some kind of monster trying to burst out of his skin.

  “Get out,” he says sternly. “I don’t want to get my suit wet.”

  My heart is pounding and quivers riot through me.

  I don’t know what this man wants with me, but surely it can’t be that he’s attracted to me. I feel the largeness of my body as I always do, a cold fact about myself that I hardly even acknowledge, either aloud or to myself.

  I should run.

  I should scream.

  I want to tell him no, but only because I don’t want him to humiliate me. I don’t want him to drag me nakedly across the house and have all his men point at me, laugh at me, make belittling comments about how big I am.

  “Now,” he snarls. “I won’t ask you again.”

  His words send shivering tension through me, my nipples pricking again. My sex swarms with heat and starlight, my lips feeling engorged and ho
t like any second they could explode in a sudden release.

  There must be something wrong with me because when he snarls like that it feels so freaking right.

  “What if I don’t?” I say, trying to make my voice sassy, but it comes out shaky and scared. “Are you going to shoot me? Are you going to hurt me?”

  He smirks savagely and stares, and just keeps staring, like any second he’s going to snap. Or maybe that’s just an excuse I give myself as I step out of the shower, water sliding down my naked body, a fierce blush blaring in my cheeks as one half of me prays for clothes and the other prays for this man’s desire.

  It’s no use reminding myself that I should hate him.

  My body keeps betraying me.

  My clit burns.

  “Good girl,” Arturo says. He steps back and places the body wash on the floor and steps away. “Now get it.”

  I look at the body wash and then at him, wondering if this is some sort of trick. I keep waiting for the punchline to drop, for his men to come rushing in here, laughing, mocking.

  But the bathroom door is closed.

  It’s just us and the steam and the unreality of this moment.

  I make to pick it up, but he shakes his head, the movement subtle and understated like a man used to being obeyed.

  “Fucking bend over when you pick it up.”

  I feel like I’m walking into a dream as I do as he says, my skin tingling when I turn my back to him. I sense him staring at me, into me, but I’m still not sure about the way he’s staring, about what he’s getting out of this.

  The idea that he could want me seems absurd.

  He must be at least forty with that iron hair, a seven foot giant, a handsome stern face and a way of speaking that could command women ten times more attractive than me to do anything he wanted.

  He’s probably ten times more experienced than me—twenty, a hundred.

  “Bend. Over.”

  I do it slowly, flinching almost every moment, fully expecting the door to burst open, or for Arturo to laugh at me, or something terrible to happen.

  I feel my ass cheeks pushing outward and my sticky hole spread apart.

  Arturo lets out a shivering growl when I’m fully bent over, my hand reaching for the body wash.