Page 45 of His To Claim

“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.

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