Chapter Nine

I dream of Ryan.

Holding me. Soothing me. Stroking my hair.

His lips brushing my cheek. The feel of his breath on my ear as he whispers that he loves me. That he's sorry.

Love you, too.

I'm not sure if I've said the words aloud, but I am sure of the touch of his hands on my skin. Then the pressure of his lips at my neck. "Jamie," he murmurs as his fingers slide between my legs, then stroke me with such a feather-light touch, that I'm quite certain I'll go completely mad from pleasure.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and this time I know it's not a dream. I keep my eyes closed, though I do smile. Just a little. I want to see how far this apology will go.

I'm wearing nothing but an extra-large FBI t-shirt that Ollie lent me, and he stops teasing my clit just long enough to pull it up, revealing my bra. His eyes meet mine—and I see the realization of why I've started wearing a bra to bed dawn in his eyes.

Slowly, he unfastens the hooks, then lets it fall open, revealing my breasts. He meets my eyes one more time, and the desire—and love—I see on his face just about melts me. Especially when he closes his mouth over my breast and gently teases my nipple with his tongue.

At the same time, his magic fingers start playing with my clit again, teasing me to arousal, then thrusting inside so that I arch up, a line of heat seeming to run between my breast and my core.

Slowly, he starts kissing his way down, nipping and licking and teasing my skin, until his tongue replaces his fingers and I rock my hips, more turned on than I can ever remember being, my mind in such a muddle of need and lust that I can barely even say a silent thank you to the pregnancy hormones that are zinging and sizzling inside me.

"Hunter—Hunter, please." I'm long past want. This is need. This is survival. Because I swear if he's not inside me soon, I will wither and die.

He lifts his head, and in that moment, his expression entirely fits that nickname.

"Now," I beg. "Oh, god, please now."

He doesn't hesitate, and I cry out as he thrusts deep into me. Claiming me. Filling me. I hook my legs around him and cup my hands on his ass, urging him deeper, every thrust bringing me closer and closer until I feel his body tense and let go, coming with him as the power of our shared orgasm shatters me. He collapses beside me, breathing hard, then pulls me to him.

And then, as the ocean-swell of the orgasm drains out of me, I start to cry, the tears flowing hot and heavy as Ryan holds me in the safety of his arms.

I cling to him until I'm bone-dry inside. Then I sniffle and pull away. There's a box of tissue on the side table, and he passes me one. I take it, dab my eyes, then blow my nose.

"I'm sorry," I say, once my throat is no longer clogged with tears. "I'm a huge mass of hormones. A total mess." I shrug. "But when aren't I a mess?"

"You're not a mess. You're you. And I love you. You know that, right?"

I nod. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I really thought—" I draw a breath and sit up against the headboard. "No, that's not true. I didn't think. Not about you. I just wanted answers. To have a doctor tell me I was really pregnant. How far along I was. All that stuff."

I bite my lip as I reach for his hand. "I didn't think of you until after. But I swear—I swear—I would never in a million years do anything about it without telling you first."

He lifts my hand and kisses my palm. "I know that. I do. And I'm sorry about before."

I roll on my side and hook my leg over his. "You were freaked out. Believe me, I get it."

"That about sums it up." The tinge of humor in his eyes fades, and I know what he's going to say even before the words are out of his mouth.

"Do you want the baby?"

I open my mouth to say that yes, of course I do. But then I close it again. I know that's what he wants me to say, but the truth is that I don't know. "I want the movie," I tell him. "The baby doesn't seem real. Not yet." I blink, fighting tears. "I guess that makes me a horrible person."

His expression is as tender as I've ever seen it. "No," he whispers, stroking my hair. "It makes you honest. And right now, with your career taking off…"

I think about Ryan with little David. About all those years when he was essentially Moira's dad. About how many times I've watched him playing on the beach with Nikki and Damien's kids.

Ryan was born to be a dad. And that means that even though I'm entirely clueless—or I was before I became Aunt Jamie to Nikki's tribe—I can do this. Because Ryan will be there to have my back.

"It doesn't matter about my career. I—"

"What the fuck, Jamie? I know how hard you've worked. How long. Do you think I want you to sacrifice that?"

"If it's a choice between a baby or a movie?" I shrug. "Yeah, Ryan. I think maybe you would want me to."

He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again. "Jamie," he says, and I hear real pain in his voice. But I know that I'm right.

Thankfully, that doesn't matter.

Slowly, I grin, then grin even wider when I see the way his eyes narrow in confusion. "The good news is that we can have both." I move his hand from my waist to the already-showing baby bump. "They can't fire me for being pregnant. Ollie said so. And what with him being a lawyer and all…"

Ryan says nothing, and for a moment I'm afraid that I've fried his brain. "Ryan?"

I see his throat move. "A baby?"

I nod, then laugh happily.

And for the first time, I'm not freaked out at all.