His To Claim

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.