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If it’s possible, Dominique looks even more radiant now with her afterglow. I slip a hand around her waist and pull her to me again. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” I whisper before I kiss her, gently this time now that the darkness in me has been satisfied. And before the conversation I do not want to have.
“Okay,” she replies quietly as her lips brush against mine.
Releasing her reluctantly, I grab a pair of shorts from the dresser and head for the door. I stop at the bathroom in the hallway to clean up and pull on the shorts. Downstairs, I get the bag we’d left by the front door then go to the kitchen. I get a couple of plates from the cupboard and two sodas from the refrigerator, then remove the food from the bag. Hattie sent some jambalaya. Good woman. I place napkins and silverware by the plates, probably for looks, because I know I’m not eating with this conversation. If Dominique can, she’s got a stomach made of iron.
I hear her coming down the stairs. A minute later she’s at the door, dressed, but still wearing that freshly fucked look. She looks real good in it.
I pull out a chair for her. “What would you like to talk about?” Might as well get this shit out of the way.
“Are you getting dressed?”
I look down at myself. “I am dressed.”
She rolls her eyes with a grin and takes a seat, then I join her. After she opens the soda and takes a sip, she begins. “What do you think about the murders?”
“Other than they were fucking horrible?” I arch a brow at her. Are you serious? Apparently she is because she’s waiting for my reply. “I don’t think they were what someone wanted them to look like,” I continue. “I think someone was trying to cover something up. Burn it.”
“I agree. But if that’s the case, why do you think they went through all the pomp and circumstance with the Voodoo staging?”
I consider her question. “I think it could be a couple of reasons. First, I believe they like the show and attention. Second, they’re most likely trying to throw you guys off what it’s really about.”
She nods in agreement. “They seemed to know what they were doing with the fires though.”
“I have to agree. They were contained to the immediate area where the victims were located.” The sick fucks. “The time frame between the last two were closer together. Do the police have any clues? There’s obviously a pattern.”
Her features are tense. She is not the same woman who was coming apart in my hands five minutes ago. Her eyes meet mine. “There is. Would you care to give me your opinion on what that is, other than the obvious?”
I don’t want to do this; I really don’t want to do this. “Really? You want my opinion?”
“I do.”
I let out a heavy breath. “Honestly, to me it appeared to be the beginning of the Seven Deadly Sins. I believe what we found was lust, gluttony, and greed.” I cut my eyes to hers. She’s watching me intently taking in my every word.
“I have to agree. With Ash Wednesday coming up, it makes perfect sense,” she replies thoughtfully.
I shrug. “If that’s the case, we’ve got four more coming up, and I for one really hope you catch this sick fuck before that happens.”
This time it’s her turn to breathe deeply. We sit silently for a moment, neither one of us having touched any food. Who could eat with the memory of the gruesome murders hovering over our heads, and the very real possibility of more to come?
“I hate to, um, not eat and run, but I’ve got to get to work.” Dominique smiles, it appears at least some of her discomfort is gone.
“Honestly, I wish I could say the same,” I grumble, because it’s the downtime that makes it all play over and over again like a movie on repeat.
We stand and I follow her to the front door. Once there, she turns to face me. “Thanks for letting me come in.”
I laugh as I slide my hands around her waist and palm the cheeks of her ass, her body pressed perfectly against mine. “Thanks for letting me ravage you.”
She lays her hands on my chest, and the feeling is both grounding and soothing. “If I’d known that was the greeting I’d get, I might have come sooner.”
I cock a brow at her, my dick waking up once more. “You can always come later.”
She smiles slyly at me. “Maybe I will.”
I lower my face to hers once more and kiss her long and slow, enjoying it and taking my time, needing it to last the long hours ahead of me that I’m sure are going to be filled with the memories of hell. “I’ll walk you to your car and get your number,” I tell her with my forehead resting against hers, not wanting to let her leave.
“Okay, Mr. Beauchamp. I must say your manners are impeccable.”
“I am a southern gentleman, Miss Chavelle. We ravage, but we ravage properly.”
The sound of her lyrical laughter when she opens the front door fills the hallway of my big empty house. But stops abruptly once we step outside.
Painted on the hood of her car is a pentagram. In bright red.
