Wicked Burn(9)

“I hope this doesn’t change your mind about your decision,” Anne said cautiously.

Niall’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “No. I’ve made up my mind. Nothing has changed since we spoke a month ago,” she finally said in a low voice.

Anne reached out and covered Niall’s hand with her own. “You’re doing the right thing, Niall. You’ll get through this, whether you have your parents’ blessing or not.” Anne couldn’t help but give an irritated frown at this juncture. How Niall’s parents thought they were being supportive of their daughter with their actions was beyond Anne’s comprehension. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, honey. It’s just not possible for someone to exist the way you have for these last few years.”

Niall laughed softly. “Exist? Trust me, Anne, millions of people on this earth exist, and even thrive under conditions exponentially worse than you or I could ever imagine. I’m existing just fine, thank you.”

“You’re right,” Anne said with her professorial stern look. “I shouldn’t have said exist. I should have said live. You can’t call what you’ve been doing since Michael’s death and what Stephen pulled afterwards living.”

Niall took a slow inhale of air to calm the effects of the unexpected blow of hearing her son’s name spoken out loud. She really needed to get better at this. She wanted so much to be able to hear Michael’s name, to speak it and be able to remember the wonderful things—the sweet baby smell of his neck that still hadn’t completely dissipated at age four, the serious and thoughtful expression on his face as he drew with a crayon in one hand and held a purple popsicle to his mouth with the other, the sound of his laughter . . .

How fair was it to her little boy that her most significant memory of him was his utterly meaningless, shockingly abrupt death?

But beyond that, Anne’s words hit a little too close to what she’d been thinking recently, ever since she’d blazed to vibrant life beneath the touch of a complete stranger twelve days ago, ever since she’d remembered what it meant to be alive. It was a little difficult to go back to the routine of a robot once you’d been awakened to the wonders of the flesh.

You’ve got a hot little *, but you’re teasing me with it, aren’t you, Niall?

Niall squeezed her eyes shut briefly to chase away the memory. A shiver ran down her spine. Even the recollection of his raspy whisper had a potent effect on her. She kept thinking it would fade, but no . . .

It seemed, in fact, that the memory of that wild, carnal tryst only grew stronger as the days passed.

Vic.

She hadn’t seen him since that night. He’d told her that he left for his farm in downstate Illinois on Fridays, and it had been Thursday night when he’d . . . done what he’d done to her. She wasn’t quite sure how to describe what that was, exactly. Fucked her, consumed her, burned her to life? Niall thought desperately.

She had left for Tokyo for a planned weeklong business trip last Sunday night and just returned yesterday. Had he tried to contact her? And if he had, exactly what would she have done?

She wasn’t any closer to knowing the answer to that than she was to comprehending precisely what had happened to her that night in Vic’s apartment.

Surely it was a moot point, anyway. He was the one who had practically thrown her out of his place while she’d been lying spread-eagled in his hallway.

You should go.

That was it. Nothing else. Not a touch, not a word. Not even a glance, despite the fact that his mouth and nose had glistened wetly with the juices from her *.

“Honey, are you okay?” Anne asked anxiously, alarmed by the two spots of brilliant color that suddenly bloomed in Niall’s otherwise pale cheeks.

“I’m fine . . . really,” Niall replied. She smiled at her friend reassuringly as she tried to gain a semblance of control. For a second, she’d been lost in the incredibly erotic memories—shadows of images and sensations that she’d tried to bring to life again and again with her silver bullet vibrator. The little gizmo had gotten more of a workout in the last week and a half than in the first two years that she’d owned it.

Anne must have misunderstood the dazed expression on Niall’s face. “I’m sorry. I know I just stress you out more by bringing up the subject, but I worry about you.”

Niall laughed abruptly.

“What?” Anne asked, surprised by the sound of Niall’s laughter.

“Do you know what I would give sometimes to have it so that people didn’t feel like they needed to say that to me?” She smiled and reassuringly grabbed Anne’s hand when she saw her crestfallen expression. “I know you’re concerned about me because you care. I love you for that. But I’m fine. Really.” She thumped the older woman’s hand teasingly on the tablecloth until she saw her smile.

“Why don’t you tell me about that new dormitory the Institute is planning on Randolph Street? That’s going to cost a bundle, the way the Theater District has built up in Chicago, isn’t it?” Niall asked engagingly as she stabbed her salad with her fork.

Anne sighed. By this time she was very familiar with her friend’s sidesteps in conversation. But she let herself be sidetracked, knowing how much Niall needed a relaxing evening.

By the time Niall had finished a cup of decaf cappuccino and Anne had polished off a creamy slice of tiramisu, both of them were much less uptight and discussing in a semiserious manner where they should take a vacation together the following year. They agreed on Italy, but Anne thought Rome and Florence would be ideal, while Niall was more in the mood for a sunny, sleepy getaway in Tuscany.