The Lover

by Forrester, Nia

  Ryann looked at him and smiled. “Well,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “she is young.”

  Donovan seemed to be trying to decide whether she was taunting him, but finally he smiled as well. “Yes,” he said. “But what about you? What’s your story?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “We all have a story, Ryann.”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  His eyes were the color of dark chocolate, and his well-trimmed moustache was almost mesmerizing in its precision. His lips were dark, like those of a reformed smoker. But that didn’t detract from his appearance, and instead, gave him a little more character, a little tarnish to his too-polished looks.

  “Want me to tell you mine?” Donovan leaned in even closer and Ryann realized in an instant that he was flirting.

  “Your what?” And now she was flirting back. Out of habit. Out of boredom.

  Donovan ran a finger around the rim of his wineglass, narrowing his eyes.

  “You’re playing with me,” he said, his tone chiding. He smiled and the tip of his tongue peeked between his white teeth, making him look vaguely predatory.

  “I think you like to be played with,” she said, gazing at him levelly.

  It had been a long time since she felt this, the surge of feminine power that used to be her preferred high. There hadn’t been too many opportunities to exercise it since she’d been with Spencer. She hadn’t wanted to exercise it on anyone but him.

  “And I think you’re right,” Donovan Simmons said, his voice transforming to a low rumble.

  “Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

  A hand around her waist, and the press of familiar lips against her temple made Ryann jump. Spencer was dressed in the charcoal suit he had worn for that long-ago meeting with Tone; he looked handsome, and a little harried as though he’d rushed to get there.

  “I’m Donovan Simmons.”

  Without releasing his hold on her waist, Spencer reached across to shake his hand.

  “Spencer Hall.”

  “Spencer. Nice to meet you.” Donovan’s eyes were narrowed once again. “So, you’re Ryann’s … plus one?”

  Spencer gave a short humorless laugh, and when Ryann shifted, to move out of his embrace, he tightened his hold.

  “Plus one,” he repeated. “That’s cute. I guess you could call me that. Her ‘plus one’, her baby daddy … whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “Baby da…” Donovan’s attention shifted to Ryann once again. “I didn’t realize you had kids, Ryann. I have three myself.”

  “We don’t,” Spencer said, responding before she had a chance to speak. “Not yet. It’s a few months out. But we’re very excited.”

  Straightening up and nodding thoughtfully, Donovan pursed his lips for a moment. “Well. Congratulations,” he said, looking a little flustered.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, during which Ryann could think of nothing to say. Spencer spoke for them.

  “Thank you,” he said, almost jovially.

  “And, ahm, enjoy the party. I think I’d better go see what Chrissy is up to.”

  After Donovan was out of earshot, Ryann turned and looked at Spencer, prying herself loose.

  “Thanks for announcing that,” she said, dryly.

  He took the glass from her hands and sipped, assessing the taste for a moment, and then emptying it entirely. “You’re welcome. Hopefully, he’ll spread the news.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

  “I said I wasn’t sure I could come,” Spencer corrected her. “You definitely looked like you weren’t expecting me.”

  Ryann narrowed her eyes. It sounded like he was itching for a fight and she wasn’t in the mood.

  The cocktail party was one of several mandatory social engagements she had this week, but also the most important one. Donovan Simmons’ wife Chrissy had proven a lot more difficult to catch up with than either Donovan or Ryann anticipated. She had missed two meetings thus far, and rescheduled a lunch that he set up when both he and his wife were supposed to be available.

  And though Ryann had been frank with Donovan that she believed his wife had no interest in becoming the charity queen he envisioned her as, he insisted on giving it one last shot. That’s what this cocktail party was: the “last shot.” Donovan decided that the best way for Ryann and Chrissy to meet was for her to come to an already-planned social event at his home, and basically corner the woman who refused to be cornered.

  Ryann mentioned it to Spencer only in passing and he said he would try to make it, though she couldn’t recall issuing an actual invitation. Glancing over at him, she watched him surveying the room, taking in the scene. He had been acting so strangely lately—some days sweetly attentive which Ryann couldn’t stand because it made her weak; and on other days, overbearing and bossy, which she secretly preferred because it made her annoyed enough to ignore all the other things he was making her feel lately.

  “Want a refill on this?” he asked.

  Ryann stared at him for a moment before replying.

  “Sure,” she said.

  At least she wasn’t drinking alcohol.

  It was bad enough he had walked into the room to find her practically snuggling with Donovan Simmons in a corner, both of them acting like she was unattached. Probably because she believed herself to be unattached. But how could he trip, when the reason she believed that was that Spencer had been too chicken-shit to tell her otherwise?

  Making his way over to the bar, he leaned against it and ordered a ginger ale for Ryann, and something harder for himself. Just as the bartender slid his drinks in front of him, he felt the slight weight of a hand on his shoulder.

  Turning, he considered the dark doe-eyes of a very pretty, young woman, wearing dramatic makeup, like a stage-actress. She had a massive, curly, hairdo, dark-brown streaked in blonde, that added easily four inches to her height, which was considerable. Smiling at Spencer with burgundy lips, she extended a slim hand, which he took.

  “Well, hello,” she said. She had a surprisingly throaty voice. “I’m Chrissy Simmons. And you are?”

  “Spencer Hall. Nice to meet you.”

  Chrissy Simmons held his hand for a few moments more. “Friend of Donovan’s?” she inquired. “Business associate?”

  “Neither,” Spencer said.

  Chrissy waited, then finally lifted her eyebrows. “Well, are you going to tell me, or should I guess? When a handsome man shows up at my house, and I don’t know him, I tend to want to know where he came from.”

  “Ryann Walker,” Spencer supplied.

  He didn’t think he was imagining the fleeting look of annoyance that crossed Chrissy Simmons’ features, but she recovered quickly, and smiled again.

  “Oh. Yes. My husband’s latest … consultant.”

  Noting the pause between the last two words, Spencer narrowed his eyes momentarily then turned to retrieve the drinks he’d ordered.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thank you for having us.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Chrissy said. Then, with nothing further, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Spencer found Ryann waiting just where he’d left her, but she had been joined by two other people, an older man and his much younger female companion. That seemed to be the norm at this gathering, he’d noticed—men just past their prime with women who had not yet reached theirs. Spencer was introduced, and smiled and shook hands, forgetting the names immediately after they were spoken. Handing Ryann her drink, he leaned in and spoke directly into her ear when the other two were preoccupied.

  “We should leave.”

  She looked at him, and reading his expression, decided that this was not a time to argue. She nodded. “Give me a few minutes to say my ‘goodbyes’.”

  Spencer kept the May-December couple company while Ryann made her way over to each of the Simmonses, to thank them for inviting her, and make whatever excuses she saw fit. Even from across the room, Spencer c
ould see that Chrissy Simmons was barely managing to be civil.

  Within fifteen minutes, both he and Ryann were in their cars, and without talking about it, without planning it, arrived at almost the exact same time at her house.

  Spencer watched—fully-clothed and reclining—from the bed as Ryann shed the red dress. It was snug, with long sleeves and a low-scooped neck and back. She’d looked sexy in it, the way she looked sexy in just about anything. But once the dress was off he saw that underneath, she was wearing something new, a binding garment that extended from the top of her rib-cage to mid-thigh.

  “Spanx,” she explained, seeing through the dresser mirror that he was watching her.

  “Is that why you didn’t look pregnant?”

  She sighed long-sufferingly. “Is it important to you that I look pregnant?”

  “Yeah,” he said, getting up from the bed. “It is.”

  Walking up behind her, he stood so they were both surveying each other, and themselves in the mirror. He put his hand at her sides and began slowly peeling the garment down. It was very tight, and left deep grooves, pink pressure-marks in her fair skin that made him grimace. He pulled it down, over her hips and crouched a little to shove it even lower, until it fell to the floor at Ryann’s feet.

  She wore thongs beneath it, leaving her ass exposed. He ran his hands over both cheeks, and around to the front, cupping her briefly before letting his hands rise to cover the small, but hardening mound of her stomach.

  He felt Ryann briefly tense under his touch, and then gradually relax into it. Lowering his head, he kissed her shoulder and neck.

  “I want you to look pregnant. I want people to know you’re pregnant. And that this …” His hands on her stomach moved. “Is all me.”

  Ryann gave a soft, scoffing laugh. “So … who have you told?”

  “Greg. My sister. One of them anyway. But I want you to meet my mother, my other sister. I want us to …”

  Ryann moved away and out of his reach, turning to face him. “Is that why you showed up slinging your dick around tonight? Because you’re ready to—what was it you said earlier— spread the word?”

  “Did I ever say I planned to keep this a secret? Why’re you making it sound like that?”

  “Because I don’t know what you want, Spencer.” Ryann backed away from him until she collided with the bed. She sat. “It’s like you’re flipping the script on me in some way, and I’m not even sure how. And why did you want us to leave the party all of a sudden?” She shook her head as though exasperated.

  “You know why,” Spencer said. He leaned against the dresser, facing her.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You’re not that naïve. You know.”

  Something flickered in Ryann’s eyes. “So, Donovan Simmons wants to fuck me,” she said resignedly. “So what?”

  “Yeah. He might have hired you because of your good reputation, but you’re not getting any work out of him. His wife isn’t going to let that happen. Not as long as he keeps lookin’ at you the way he does.”

  “I’ve barely even exchanged two words with that heffa …”

  “But she’s not blind.”

  “Blind to what?”

  “C’mon now.”

  “What does she think she sees?” Ryann asked again.

  “The way her husband looks at you. Couples like that,” Spencer continued. “They stay in relationships that are like a never-ending war. And once in a while, they use other people. Just to fire the next shot. As ammunition.”

  Her eyelids fluttered and then she nodded. “Okay. You’re right,” she said finally, sounding resigned. Then she shrugged. “He’s trying to make her something that she can’t, or won’t be. So, she’s rebelling like a little kid. And he’s looking for ways to punish her. I guess that’s what he was going to try to make me into. Her punishment. But I never would have had anything to do with him. I don’t sleep with married men, Spencer. Whether you believe it or not, that is something I just do not do.”

  “I do believe it,” he said. “And for the record, I don’t give a shit about what happened before you met me. But I just want us to get some things straight.”

  “What would you like to get straight?” She asked the question quietly.

  “That it’s you and me, doin’ this thing. Having this baby, and …” He paused. “A relationship.”

  “If you think you have to …”

  “I don’t think I have to do anything, Ryann.”

  Her hands were on her knees. Pressed into them. Spencer could see that her knuckles had gone almost white. Kneeling in front of her, he leaned his head to one side to make sure they had eye contact.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She looked, but had difficulty steadying her gaze on his.

  “I want to do this with you,” he said, placing his hands over hers.

  She was trembling, Spencer realized. Just a little, but there were tiny tremors in her hands that he felt beneath his. Lowering his voice, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers.

  “You want to?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do this with me?”

  “It’s …”

  “Scary as fuck. I know,” he said.

  Ryann smiled a little, the movement of her lips tremulous.

  “We can go as slow as you want. Take our time. But I just need to know if you want this, too.”

  At her neck, Spencer saw a tiny pulse racing, and her chest rose and fell a little faster.

  “Don’t fight it,” he said, his lips against hers once again. “If you want me, tell me. And know that I’m here, and we’ll do this together. I’m goin’ nowhere.”

  He heard her breaths now. She was darn near hyperventilating.

  “Ryann,” he pressed. “Tell me. You want this?”

  She opened her mouth, but for a moment, no sound came out. She swallowed. Once. Twice.

  “Y… yes,” she finally managed in a croak. “I want this.”

  ~22~

  “Leave it!”

  Ryann’s voice was desperate. She batted Spencer’s hand away from the ringing phone, her face set in grim concentration. Her thighs were locked tightly about his torso, and she strained against him, making grunts of frustration, rather than pleasure. Reaching for his hands again, she moved them from the swell of her stomach, and up to her breasts. She’d told him they were tender, and that the rough calluses on his palms made her nipples feel like they were on fire, but she pressed them against her nevertheless.

  “It’s not happening, baby. Stop.” Spencer pulled his hands free and gripped her hips to still her.

  With a final shriek of exasperation, Ryann rolled off him and reached for the phone. By the way she grabbed the sheets to cover herself once she’d answered it, Spencer knew it was likely her brother.

  Rick was serving time at Red Onion State Prison for what Ryann had called “an armed robbery gone bad.” It was a common phrase, which Spencer always thought strange. When people mentioned a crime with the appendage “gone bad” it meant that a life had been lost. But as Spencer knew from experience, if you were in the middle of committing a crime, any crime, then things had “gone bad” a long time ago. He didn’t say that to Ryann though, because she was solidly invested in the idea that Rick would never, never-ever have done anything that he knew might have resulted in the death of an innocent man.

  Taking the phone with her, and tugging the sheet from the bed, Ryann left the room. Spencer headed for the shower, mildly resentful of Rick, because of the way Ryann retreated whenever she was speaking to him, seeking out a spot in the house where she would be neither seen nor heard.

  He turned the water on very hot in the shower, liking the sting against his skin. He had an early meeting this morning, with Tone, whose documentary was turning out to be much more of pain-in-the-ass than anticipated. He said all he needed was B roll, footage of Spencer and Greg walking into the Coalition offices, sitting at their desks, interacting with the guys
who came in, and with staff, crap like that. Spencer hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

  One of the houses he was rehabbing was a week behind schedule and he had a feeling he knew why, but instead of going to take care of that first thing, he had to go take care of the filmmaker. Still, as Ryann kept reminding him, the man-child had donated more than a half-million dollars to the Coalition, and if keeping him happy was just an occasional inconvenience, they should just suck it up.

  After showering and dressing, he found Ryann already downstairs, making coffee and eggs. Now several weeks into him sleeping over almost every night, she had stopped reminding him that making breakfast was something she never did. (“I hope you know what it means that I’m cooking for your ass, Spencer!”) Now she just did it, without announcing its significance, and so he had stopped telling her that frying an egg and slapping it between two pieces of dry toast hardly amounted to “cooking.”

  Though she had taken back the key to his place—demanded it, actually—Ryann hadn’t offered up one to hers, and Spencer didn’t ask. If she had to have space, and needed to feel like she was choosing her own pace, he was willing to let her have that. Because no matter the pace, he knew precisely where they were headed, whether Ryann was ready to accept it or not.

  From behind, she looked the way she always had, but when she turned to the side upon hearing him enter, Spencer smiled involuntarily. At twenty weeks, she was now undeniably pregnant, and sexier than she had ever been. The summer had given way to fall, and it was the month of Thanksgiving, but the only changes he cared about were those happening in Ryann’s body.

  Greg, who he had recently let in on the news that his boys had made their way home, had warned him that after five months it was “all downhill” as far as mood, temperament, and sex. But Spencer didn’t believe it. Ryann, who had never been exactly a sunny personality was much more pliable lately. Pliable enough for her to have agreed to come with him to May’s on Saturday for his weekly visit with her, his nieces, and his mother. Spencer figured she would try to wriggle out of the obligation sometime around Friday evening, but he was not about to let that happen. It was past time for her to meet his family, and for him to meet hers.