Wicked Burn

Niall didn’t think that she’d moved or made a sound, but suddenly his chin shifted and his eyes pinned her. A feeling overcame her that took her a moment to recognize.

Shyness? She laughed at herself for that. Why would that feeling overwhelm her at this moment and not when he’d tied her to his bed and had his way with her as he had earlier?

“I’m sorry, I saw the light. I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said in a hushed voice that paid tribute to the early morning hour.

“Come here,” Vic said after a moment of silence.

Niall came around to sit on the sofa. She’d just seen something in his usually impassive expression that amazed her.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you? About the opening of your play next week?” she asked as she sat and folded her legs beneath her.

He yanked off his glasses and pressed his fingers into his clenched eyelids. Niall could almost feel the burn he must be experiencing. Had he slept at all?

“I always get nervous, but this fucking monster is gonna flop hard enough to give me whiplash. Forget about the damage it might do to the unsuspecting public,” he muttered after a few seconds.

He glanced up sharply when Niall chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” he asked sourly.

Niall refused to be cowed by his scowl. She’d been around artists since her undergraduate days, which meant she had plenty of exposure to the artistic temperament. “I just had this image of you madly flipping switches at a control panel behind the eyes of some kind of raging Godzilla monster. I have a feeling the citizens of Chicago will survive, Vic.”

He stared coldly at her a few seconds before he exhaled, the taut muscles of his abdomen relaxing slightly. “Not so sure I will, though.”

“You always have before.”

“That’s debatable,” he replied sullenly. His expression shifted as if he’d heard himself and hadn’t cared for the sound. He wore a small, sheepish grin by the time his gaze met hers. She returned the smile.

“What’s your play called?” she asked softly.

His eyes flickered over her bare legs. He reached for the knitted throw folded across the back of the couch. “Lie back,” he directed. When she did, he picked up the manuscript in his lap, replacing it with her feet. “Alias X,” he finally replied. “Do you want to see it? We’re having a run-through tomorrow night,” he said while he tucked the blanket around her.

“Are you worried I’ll get trampled by the fleeing crowd on opening night?” she murmured.

He palmed one of her thighs through the blanket. “You’ve got good legs. You’ll likely get out alive.” He smiled at her muffled snort of laughter. “You’re better off seeing it tomorrow night. No one likes to be around me on opening night. No one. Not even my mother.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed contentedly from inside her warm knit cocoon. “Godzilla’s night to rampage, huh?”

He gave her a glance of dark amusement before he briskly picked up the manuscript. Niall sensed he was finished chatting, but it didn’t feel like a dismissal. She found herself getting sleepy at the sound of his scratching pencil and the lulling sensations of his movements vibrating down into her feet.

“It’s gonna be great,” she muttered sleepily, more to herself than to him.

This time she slept without dreams.

SIX

Vic put two extra scoopfuls of coffee into the filter before he switched on the pot the next morning and headed toward the bathroom. He needed the extra caffeine. Niall’s sleeping form on the couch drew his gaze. His pace slowed and then stalled for a few seconds as he examined her. Her hair spread across a pillow and partially covered her face. The morning sunlight shimmered in the golden strands, almost making them seem alive. She looked so small huddled beneath the knit blanket. He could easily imagine how good it would feel having her soft, warm body mold against his as she slowly awakened to his touch. The fantasy was potent enough to make his cock lurch almost painfully against his sweatpants.

He forced himself to move away from her. He smiled as he turned on the shower in the bathroom. Niall hadn’t moved a millimeter since she’d fallen asleep last night. She must have been exhausted. Not too surprising after the great sex they’d had, Vic thought with a trace of smugness. He’d slept solidly himself for three and a half hours afterward—a small miracle, given Vic’s typical incessant restlessness in the weeks before an opening.

By the time he exited the bathroom door in a billow of steam ten minutes later, he felt fantastic—strong and full of purpose. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he glanced up distractedly at the sound of someone pounding loudly on a door out in the hallway.

“Niall? Honey? Wake up!” a woman called.

Vic catiously set his cup on the counter and moved out into the hall of his apartment, ear cocked to catch the voices.

“Why didn’t she ever give us a key in case of an emergency?” the woman asked impatiently.

“She was supposed to have lived here for only two months. There wasn’t any need,” a man responded in a clipped voice. Another round of loud knocking ensued. Vic stepped back into the living room and gently brushed aside the hair from Niall’s face.

“Niall. Wake up, baby,” he ordered.

His mouth pressed into a hard line when she moved restlessly and then settled back into deep sleep. The people in the hall conversed in a tense tone before they started another round of door hammering that made his jaw clench in irritation.

“She’s not in there.”