Dark Taste of Rapture by Gena Showalter Page B

what she looked like and actually preferred not to know. He looked at her arms. No track marks. He looked at the pulse at the base of her neck. Good, strong, and steady.
    She wore a loose white blouse and a well-fitted black skirt, as if she were headed to the office rather than the bedroom.
    His gaze moved beyond her. Bright sunlight glinted off the dark, nondescript sedan she’d parked in his driveway. He scanned the houses across the street from his. Tall but narrow, each was built with a different color of brick—from brown to gold and even purple—and packed closely together. None of his neighbors were outside. Even though they’d never be able to tell what the girl did for a living by her car or appearance, he was glad.
    To his left was a dentist, and to his right a family of four. They’d be disgusted if they knew what went on behind his door. He was.
    Hector moved aside and motioned the woman inside.
    She soared past him without a word. So. She knew his MO. Either she’d been here before, or the girls who’d been here had talked and told her what he “liked.” Zero communication, a straight shot to his guest room, a blow job, then a straight shot out.
    “Close,” he said and once again the door obeyed. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t follow the woman as she clicked and clacked down his hallway. He just stood there, looking around as if his home was new to him.
    He had no holophotos, not of himself and certainly not of his family. He would have liked a few of Dean, if any had ever been taken or if Dean had still lived. They hadn’t. He didn’t.
    There was no clutter. No vases, no colorful but useless bowls or other shit women seemed to like. Just the basics. A couch, a loves eat, and a coffee table. An entertainment bureau, and a few plaques for “heroic” behavior on the job.
    The fabric on the furniture was synthetic and worn, the table cheap stone rather than real wood, and the TV as basic as electronics came. He didn’t live here so much as exist here, flittering through between cases.
    What would Noelle think of his stuff?
    The answer didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. Why are you stalling? You’re a menace. This is necessary .
    Necessary. How he hated that word. Hated how it took away his freedom of choice.
    Why couldn’t he be like every other man? Able to touch a woman, hell, even touch himself, without causing all kinds of devastation. Instead, he was a killer with undetachable weapons strapped to his body.
    Rage at his own helplessness suddenly exploded through him, and he punched a hole in the living room wall. There was a spray of little rocks, some springing across the room, some just tumbling to the floor. His knuckles barely registered the sting.
    Calm down, idiot . Anger had the same effect on his arms as sexual frustration. Combined, the two created a toxic mix of oh shit . He had to do this. He would do this.
    Grinding his molars, he traced the lingering scent of that perfume to his guest room. He never let anyone into the master, never let anyone do anything to him in the living room or the kitchen, either. He didn’t want to ever walk inside those rooms and think about this part of his life. Therefore, all sexual activity happened here.
    The woman was already on her knees.
    Per his specifications, she was still fully clothed and hadn’t even bothered unbuttoning her collar.
    He’d never had sex with a working girl, had never dared risk that kind of physical contact with one. Hell, he’d never had sex period. Not even with Kira, his one and only girlfriend. He’d killed her before they actually sealed—
    Stop that shit. Now .
    Hector threw a dark curtain over his thoughts. Out of habit, he checked the condition of his “nothing can burn through these, I swear!” gloves. A dark curse left him. Damn salesman. Hector should have known better. Even though he’d tattooed himself last night, several spots were already burned and ringed, the edges of those rings caked in soot.