Claiming His Forever: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  “Abstract, mostly,” Jackie says, looking down at the table, picking at the edge with her thumb. “I trained at art school for a while, when I was a kid. I learned how to paint properly, whatever that means. Portraits, things like that. But I like abstract. I like the freedom it gives me.”

  “She’s amazing,” Kimberly says, reaching over and squeezing her sister’s hand. “But you’re a little shy about your art, aren’t you, sis?”

  “Just a bit,” she says self-deprecatingly. “Thank God I’ve got Kimmy to push me. She’s been great.”

  My mother turns to me significantly, as if to say, You’ve done well here, my son.

  “Well, I absolutely adore the both of you,” Mother says. “You must let me see some of your art, Jackie. In your own time, of course.”

  “Sure,” Jackie says, smiling at my mother. “I’d like that.”

  She pauses, glancing at the life vests that sit in the corner of the enclosure.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says, turning to me.

  “Of course,” I tell her.

  “Why did you send us life vests for a yacht? And, if you feel like we needed them, why aren’t we wearing them?”

  I grin, wolfishly, captivated by the way Kimberly’s lips mirror mine. It’s like our expressions are reflections of the other.

  “The vests aren’t for The Wanderer,” I tell her. “They’re for the jet skis.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kimberly

  “I can stay if you want,” I murmur.

  Jackie and I stand just beyond the enclosure where Kristian waits with his mother. My heart floods with warmth as I glance over at them speaking together, at the way Kristian grins at his mother, at the love flowing between them.

  My heart flares even brighter when I think about how quickly Carmela has seemed to accept me—us, Jackie and me, and even Tinkerbell.

  Jackie said she doesn’t want to go out on the jet skis and then excused herself and went to use the bathroom. Maybe it makes me a bit crazy that I followed her. But I have to know that she’s okay with all of this.

  “Kimmy,” Jackie says, placing her hand on my shoulder. She leans in close, smiling. “I like him. I like his mother. Tinkerbell loves his mother. I don’t want to go out on the jet skis because I like him. I want you two to have an adventure together.”

  “But you’re more than welcome,” I say, part of me struggling to believe that she’s really okay with all this.

  But then, I struggled to believe I was beautiful back in the restaurant, and Kris got me to say it, to mean it.

  Maybe I should get him to spank me every time I doubt my sister?

  “I know,” she laughs, shaking her head. “But I want to hang here with Carmela. She whispered something to me about getting champagne while you two are off jet-skiing together. Have you seen the way he’s been watching at you this whole time? I thought you were smitten, Kimmy, but it’s him that’s smitten.”

  My belly goes tight, a thousand impulses surging.

  “You think so?” I murmur.

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “Now go. Have fun. And don’t for a second worry about me. Carmela and Tinkerbell and I are going to have the time of our lives.”

  What the heck am I supposed to say to that?

  The truth is I want to be alone with my man.

  I just needed to make sure that my big sister was okay with it first.

  And she is, she really is.

  I feel like punching the air in pure joy. My womb does a happy dance inside of me, probably knowing that this is leading somewhere lust-filled and hotter than fire.

  I stare at myself in the changing room mirror, my eyes skirting over the way the wetsuit clings to my body. I feel so big with the tight-fitting fabric.

  Self-consciousness flurries through me, twisting in my belly, making me want to scream.

  I try to remember how Kris forced me to call myself beautiful. I try to claw onto some of that conviction and cherish it as my own.

  But the more I stare, the more certain I become that there’s no way I can go out there and present myself to Kris looking this way. Surely he’ll laugh at me and tell me to get changed.

  “Kimberly,” his rumbling voice comes from the other side of the door, so loud and assertive I could swear it causes the room to tremble.

  “Yes?” I murmur and then realize I’ve spoken barely above a whisper.

  “Yes?” I say, louder.

  “You better not be doing what I suspect you’re doing in there,” he snarls.

  I almost blurt out a lie, but then I remember our mantra.

  Honesty, always.

  “Maybe,” I sigh. “It’s just so …”

  “I’m coming in,” he growls.

  He pushes the door open.

  I gasp when my eyes drink in the sight of his bare torso. He’s got the wetsuit half unzipped, showing his massive chest muscles, swollen, throbbing. His abs are well-defined, thick ridges of muscle up and down his belly. He has a freaking eight pack. His shoulders are boulders and his neck is thick and powerful.

  My eyes flit down, and I gasp again.

  I can see him, all of him, in the wetsuit.

  His manhood is a clear outline.

  It’s huge.

  “Fucking hell,” he snarls, closing the door behind him. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t think this through. Look how tight that is on you. It shows your figure perfectly. We might have to rethink jet-skiing. I don’t know if I can have another man see you like this. I might end up drowning him.”

  Starlight shimmers across me, and yet my self-sabotaging instincts rise inside of me, poisoning the moment.

  “You don’t think I look f—”

  He doesn’t let me complete the word fat.

  He surges across the room like a beast, all primal energy, and he grabs my shoulders and pushes me up against the wall.

  “Don’t you fucking dare denigrate yourself, Kimberly,” he snaps. “You look so goddamn sexy in that wetsuit, it hurts. Goddamn, these tits.”

  He slides his hands up my body, squeezing me harder each moment, compressing my flesh as he makes growling noises of lust. He comes to my breasts and massages them through the wetsuit, staring firmly into my eyes.

  I moan and twitch against him.

  The wetsuit is so tight, so close to my body, that it’s like he’s massaging my bare breasts.

  My nipples get hard and tingly.

  “Fuck, look how excitable you are,” he snarls. “You really are my personal nympho in the making, Kimberly. I love how perky your nipples get.”

  “I can’t help it,” I sigh, as he targets my nipples specifically, moving his forefingers and thumbs around them with fast frantic movements.

  “I don’t want you to help it,” he snarls.

  He tilts his head at me when I reach up and claw at his chest. I need to feel the hard muscle, the heat of him. There’s no give at all in his flesh. It’s like he’s carved out of marble.

  “Holy fuck,” he groans. “You’re going to come for me just from doing this, aren’t you? You horny, insatiable thing.”

  He grabs my breasts harder, squeezing them together, and then holds them like that as he strokes his thumbs up and down both of my nipples.

  Sensations erupt inside of me, fire and light dancing through my body.

  My nipples become like the heated tips of fire, ecstasy moving through me, swirling in my belly.

  I move forward on impulse, grinding my thighs against him, feeling my wet suit push against my pussy.

  “Nah ah,” he smirks, pushing me back softly with his thigh. “I want to see you come just from this. Then maybe after – if you cream like a good girl – I’ll give that pussy a really good work out. What do you think, Kimberly? Want to lose your virginity on a yacht?”

  Anxiety tries to pound through me.

  But then he flicks his thumbs harder against the hard nubs of my nipples.

  Needy, hungry pleasure flurries through me in fr
esh waves.

  My womb screams at me to nod, to be the good girl he brands me, to take everything this man has to give.

  “I want to,” I cry.

  He’s squeezing my breasts with even more possessive force now.

  The pleasure is new and exciting and all I can do is ride it out, focusing on the ever-increasing heat of my breasts.

  “But I’m nervous,” I admit, shivering. “What if I disappoint you?”

  “Just be naked, be curvy, be you, Kimberly—and there’s no way you can disappoint me. Say it. Tell me you want to be fucked like a horny personal slut after I’ve made your cream like this.”

  “I want to,” I gasp, shifting against him, grinding my breasts against his hands in the same rhythm that he massages me. “Oh, God. I want it so bad.”

  “Good,” he growls, leaning in closer. Lust-filled breath dances hotly over me. “Now come, Kimberly. Fucking come.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for him to rub my breasts even faster, but somehow he manages it.

  It’s like spitting flames hissing against the neediness of them.

  Freaking hell, it’s like my nipples have become clits.

  My womb adds to the mounting euphoria, singing and celebrating.

  Soon, soon, she cries inside of me, desperate for his seed, for a life with this man.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” I cry, on the edge now, ready to tip over and collapse into a land of trembling release. “I’m—so—close.”

  “Fucking cream.”

  Suddenly, there’s a pounding at the door, a heavy thump-thump-thump that causes me to leap back in shock.

  Kristian’s face twists in fury and then he spins away from me. The broad muscles of his back are tight with his outrage, huge bands of muscle stretching from shoulder to shoulder.

  “I said no interruptions,” he roars swinging the door open.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a man’s voice mutters, pitched low. I recognize him as the butler who served our drinks earlier. “Your consigliere said it was absolutely necessary.”

  Kris clenches and unclenches his fists, his pulse shimmering in his neck. My pussy is sore and tight with the anti-climax, so close to an orgasm part of me wants to jam my hand against it and rub, and shiver, and scream.

  But I can’t, not with that man out there.

  And it wouldn’t be the same doing it to myself.

  I step forward, placing my hand on the solid mass of my man’s arm.

  “It’s okay, Kris,” I tell him.

  “It’s not,” he sighs. “But if Artie says it’s important, it normally is.”

  He sighs again, glancing at me, his eyes flaring.

  I read the message clearly. We’re picking this up right where we left off when I get back. And then I’m taking your virginity.

  Part of me is glad for the reprieve, a chance to ready myself for what comes next.

  Another part wants to scream at this man for interrupting us.

  “What is it?” Kris says after a pause.

  “I—uh—”

  “Anything you can say in front of me,” Kris snarls, “you can say in front of my lady.”

  “It’s Maury,” the man says. “He’s escaped.”

  “Fuck,” Kris sighs, running a hand through his iron hair. “I have to go, Kimberly. I’m sorry. I can’t ignore this. I have to handle this myself.”

  “Who’s Maury?” I ask, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

  I have to fight the urge not to dig my fingernails in.

  My nipples are still hard and tingling.

  “The man who hid the drugs at the new builds—an old friend, an old enemy. I put him under guard so he could detox. He’s a drug addict. If he’s loose, there’s no telling what harm he could do. To himself, to others.”

  “Go, then,” I urge him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  He turns to me fully, his smirk twitching.

  “What happened to honestly, always, eh?” he says, looping his arms around my waist.

  I let out a shimmering breath of pleasure.

  “Okay, I do mind,” I admit. “But I understand. You have your business. And it sounds like you care about this man.”

  “Yeah,” Kris sighs. He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, a warm shivering imprint of affection. “Maybe I did, once. But he’s starting to push his goddamn luck. It’s one thing to inject yourself up to your eyeballs. It’s another matter entirely to interrupt my time with my lady.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kristian

  “Are you fucking shitting me?” Artie, my consigliere, says.

  He’s standing at Maury’s bedroom window. The window’s thrown open, letting in the late-afternoon cacophony of the city.

  Artie turns to me, his black hair shiny and slicked back. He’s a short man at around five-five, but he’s stocky and strong. He wears a loose-fitting suit, slightly wrinkled, and glasses perch on the end of his nose.

  Looking at him, you’d never guess he could dismantle most men in a fistfight.

  I glance around the bedroom, disgusted with the mess of it. The mattress is grimy and the wall is stained with cigarette smoke.

  An ashtray overflows on a stained and dirty bedside table.

  I turn back to Artie.

  “So they weren’t lying?” I ask.

  On the way over here – after leaving the yacht and Kimberly, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do – I got word that Maury had made himself a makeshift rope out of sheets and clothes and climbed out of the window.

  The lengths junkies will go for their next fix will never cease to amaze me.

  “Yeah, he tied it to the damn air conditioning unit,” Artie says, shaking his head. “Jesus. That thing could’ve broken away from the wall like that.” He snaps his fingers. “What’s wrong with him?”

  I sigh, my pulse shimmering in my neck.

  “Fucking Maury,” I growl. “At least it’s just his addiction that made him run and none of our boys were hurt. When I got the call, I thought maybe some rival family had broken him out. Or maybe one of his street contacts.”

  “Nah,” Artie says. “Maury’s an idiot, but he’s not a traitor.”

  I nod, glad that I didn’t tell Artie about the drug caches.

  Honesty, always.

  But that mantra only applies to my woman.

  “What’s the plan?” Artie asks.

  I put my hands behind my back, looking down at the younger, shorter man. A good leader knows that deferring to his trusted subordinates is one of the most important skills for success.

  That’s why so many Families – so many businesses, for that matter – fail.

  A leader needs intelligence, strategy, as much as he needs iron resolve.

  “What do you think we should do?” I ask him.

  Artie fiddles with his glasses. “We hunt down his street contacts. We make them tell us where he likes to hang out when he’s going off the rails. Shouldn’t be too hard. Why would they hide it? We send out some of the lower-level boys to comb every location.”

  “Do it,” I tell him. “And send some boys out to the new builds, too, to keep an eye out. I’ve got a hunch he might show his face out there.”

  Maybe I missed some of his drugs after all. It’s a slim chance, but it’s worth exploring.

  Artie looks at me for a moment and then nods.

  Just like I know when to seek his advice when things get tough, he knows not to ask too many questions.

  He takes out his cellphone and paces from the bedroom, snapping orders down the phone.

  I wander over to the window and look down at the bedsheets looped into the metal bracket of the air conditioning unit. I can see the wall crusting and flaking away from where the pressure almost became too much.

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  Artie was right.

  He could’ve fallen five floors to his death.

  The makeshift rope doesn’t even reach all the way to the sidewalk. It hangs ju
st above the first floor, meaning he had to drop the rest of the way.

  I should’ve posted more guards outside the apartment, but I didn’t expect him to pull a damn action movie move on me.

  I follow Artie into the living room. It’s just as grimy as the bedroom, with two overflowing ashtrays.

  The kitchen – separated by a room divider – is a mess of grimy dishes and reeking waste. We pay Maury enough cash that he could live in a penthouse if he desired.

  I don’t have to guess what he’s been spending his cash on instead.

  Artie hangs up the phone after barking some more orders, nodding to me.

  “Now what, boss?” he asks.

  “We go out there, too,” I tell him. “We search. We can’t just leave it to the troops.”

  It pains me to say this, a near-physical tightening on my heart. I feel my seed writhe and rage in protest inside of me, demanding to know just what the hell I’m thinking.

  Go back to your woman, some deep primal part of me roars. Claim her. Own her. Fuck her virgin brains out.

  I have to bite down to fight away the urge. There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than return to my woman.

  But at the same time, I have to think about what sort of man I want to be, now more than ever.

  I’m going to be a father soon.

  I’m certain we’re going to conceive our first child when Kimberly gives me her virginity.

  Do I want my sons and daughters to be raised by a man who would allow a junkie to roam the streets, a junkie I’m responsible for?

  I owe them better than that. I owe Kimberly better than that.

  I owe the city.

  Artie nods.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”

  But it’s fruitless work.

  We spend the day searching our portion of Maury’s known hangouts, questioning the crack fiends and the junkies. I hate seeing how degraded certain parts of the city have become, how willing people are to sink into their depravity.

  Artie and I return to my office at Mystique just as it’s opening up for the night, music pumping from above us, so loud it vibrates the walls a little.