Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  It was freezing in here, too, musty with a week’s worth of disuse, and she was shivering again.

  “Thermostat,” he muttered.

  She went across to it, shoved the lever to the right. “We’ll have to keep our coats on,” she teased, coming back to him where he still stood by the door. “Have a hot drink.”

  “Hell we will.” He was pulling her up on her toes, kissing her some more, his lips trailing over her cheek, around to her neck. “Little girls who tease men when they’re trying to drive,” he murmured into her ear, his lips sending shivers down her spine, “get in trouble.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she managed to say. “What happens to them?”

  “They get their clothes taken off.” He was unzipping his coat, tossing it onto the easy chair, and then getting to work on hers, adding it to his own, looking at her where she stood in the red dress he’d bought her.

  “This,” he told her. “Got to touch this.” He slid a slow hand right inside the neckline of her dress, held her there. “Oh, yeah,” he sighed, “that’s good.”

  It was. His hand was moving, his thumb was tracing, and she had her hands on him, too, was tugging his shirt up. She stepped a little closer, kissed him right under his collarbone, spread her palms flat on his broad chest, and nudged the shirt over his shoulders. Then pulled it over his head, and was finally able to toss it.

  He stood in front of her, bare-chested and powerful, and she drank in the sight of him. Shoulders, chest, arms, all of it narrowing so perfectly down to his waist and hips. She traced her fingernails over his pectorals, down the ridged lines of his abdomen, bent and licked a flat brown nipple. The air hissed between his teeth, and he jumped.

  “Here I thought I was going to be in trouble,” she told him as she straightened, “and the only one getting naked is you.”

  “You want a take-charge guy, do you?” His hands were stroking from her shoulders down her bare arms, every nerve ending they encountered on their journey sending a message straight to the part of her that was waiting for him, that was so ready for him.

  She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Maybe not.” She did her best to make it sound sassy, even though all she wanted to do was lie down for him. “Not if that’s too much of a challenge for you.”

  He laughed, low and soft. “Here I thought this was going to be my lucky night,” he said. “Turns out I didn’t have a clue.”

  He got the hem of the dress in both hands, pulled it up over her head, dropped it to the floor. “Now, that’s what I call pretty,” he said with satisfaction.

  “I told you I could pick out my own underwear,” she managed to say. She’d worn the blue lace ones again. Her favorites.

  “Oh, yeah.” His hand traced the edge of the bralette. No wires, nothing but lace. “You did a real good job. Not much at all between you and me right here. I like that. Let’s see what we can do with this.”

  He had a hand under her thighs, the other one around her shoulders, and before she knew what was happening, he was striding across the living room with her in his arms, kicking open the bedroom door with a booted foot, dropping her onto the bed, and coming down over her.

  “Heater,” she said.

  He looked around for it, got up again and switched it on, then came back and stood over the bed, looking down at her. “Still giving me instructions, huh?” he asked her. “Thought I was taking charge here.”

  “Well,” she said, trying to shrug again, “only if it’s necessary.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be necessary anymore.” His eyes were on her body. “Blue lace and cowboy boots,” he said. “One hell of a combination. I’d call that downright inspirational.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots and socks, and she sat up to reach for her own.

  His hand was on her shoulder, giving her a gentle shove that put her on her back again. “Oh, no,” he told her. “No undressing. That’s my job.”

  “My boots?” she asked, trying to laugh, but it wasn’t easy, not when he stood up and began to unbuckle his belt. Her eyes were glued there as he pulled the tongue of leather free, began to work on his button fly.

  “Seems to me,” she told him, “that a take-charge guy would want a woman doing that.”

  “Well, you know,” he said, a slow smile growing, “I think you’re right. I think you’d better get on over here and do it.”

  She sat up, walked across the bed to him on her knees, got a hand under his waistband, and looked into his eyes. And then she started to unbutton. Her mouth was dry, her breath was coming hard, and she could see his chest rising and falling, because his was, too.

  She finished, carefully not touching what lay beneath, because she could tease, too, and shoved the jeans over his hips, down his thighs.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Condom.” He grabbed a couple out of his pocket, tossed them onto the bed, dropped the jeans down the rest of the way and kicked them off, stood there before her in navy-blue briefs.

  “Got another job to do, haven’t you, darlin’?” he asked. “Better get to work on that.”

  She didn’t need telling. She was pulling them down, and then the briefs were gone, too, and he was standing there, all six foot three of hard-muscled man. Every single part of him looking more than ready to take her on, and win.

  She swallowed. “Is that all for me?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he told her. “You did real good, sweetheart. Now lie on down there, because we’re going to see just how much I can do to you before we even get that pretty underwear off.”

  She did what he said, because she needed to.

  He got her boots and socks off first, dumped them on the floor. “Not that I don’t love the idea of doing you with just these boots on,” he told her. “It’s just that I’m saving that one up for when I’ve got you over the tailgate of my truck.”

  The jolt of arousal went straight through her, and he saw it and smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “That works real good, doesn’t it? It’ll work even better when you’ve had a while to think about it first.”

  “I . . .”

  He wasn’t listening to whatever she would have said. He was sliding over her, covering her with his big body, kissing her again at last, and she was hanging on to him, kissing him back, stroking her way over his back, his shoulders, his arms. Smooth skin over hard, bunched muscle, and she couldn’t get enough.

  He didn’t stay there very long. He was pulling her hair back to get to her, biting his way down her throat, around to the side of her neck. He mouth closed on the sensitive spot under her ear, and she moaned.

  “So good,” he said. “Let’s do some more.” His hand drifted down her throat, over her shoulder, and headed for her breasts at last, because they needed him, and he knew it.

  She expected him to take the bra off. But he didn’t. His fingers trailed over the edge of the lace, and his thumb flicked lazily over the hardening nipple, over and over, teasing mercilessly until her hips were moving in invitation and she had her hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, making urgent little noises.

  He still didn’t take it off. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her, bit her, sucked at her through the lace. And when the friction was almost unbearable, he transferred his attention to the other breast, until, when she was actually squirming underneath him, he finally pulled the bra up, freeing her.

  “Goes over your head, huh?” he said. “I love this.” He hauled it up over her arms, then stopped.

  “Now, that’s a real nice look,” he said. He’d only gotten it halfway, and her arms were stretched overhead. “How about we pause this a minute and you stay exactly like that? Seems to me I could spend some more time here. Because this is real, real good.”

  Another thrill, sharp and electric, as his mouth closed on her breast. She began to pull her arms down to hold him, and his hand shot up,
grabbed her wrists, and held her there.

  He looked up. “Okay?”

  “Uh . . .” It felt so good. So good. “Okay,” she gasped, “but thanks for . . . asking.”

  He smiled, but didn’t answer. Just got busy again, his other hand working on one breast while his mouth made love to the other one, and she was moving hard against him, because he was going so slowly. Taking so long, and her legs were parting as if they had a mind of their own.

  “Cal,” she managed to get out, “touch me.”

  He looked up at that, his hand still imprisoning both of hers, and smiled, slow and lazy. “You need me?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Then I’d better give you some more, hadn’t I?” He was finally pulling the bra the rest of the way off her, releasing her hands, sliding down her body some more, yanking the blue bikini panties down her legs and dropping them to the floor to join the bra. And then his hands were on her thighs, spreading them wide as her hips rose beneath him, trying to make it happen faster.

  “Oh, honey,” he said with a sigh, “on second thought, let’s take our time.”

  “No,” she insisted. “No. Now.”

  All he did was slow down. He nibbled his way down, licked into her belly button, then, finally, when she thought he never would, moved a tantalizing little bit lower. His hand took a maddening detour over her hip, the top of her inner thigh, and it felt good, but it didn’t feel good enough.

  “Cal,” she moaned. “Please.”

  “What?” he asked against her skin. His hand was stroking up her thigh, and when he finally took it higher, one finger flicking delicately over her, a feather touch against the sensitized nub, she jumped.

  “Now,” he said.

  When his mouth finally found its target, she actually screamed a little. He gave her a long, slow lick, and she nearly climbed off the bed. He laughed against her, his hands gripped her inner thighs more tightly, and he got serious. And if it had felt good before . . . now, there was nothing but this. Nothing but those strong hands, that talented, willing mouth.

  It didn’t take long at all, because he had wound her up so tightly already, and he was so good. So hard, and so sure. He knew how, he knew where, and he hit it, and she was there, singing out with the dark, hot pleasure of it, her upper body jerking off the bed, the waves slamming through her, wild and relentless.

  He worked her through the whole delicious process until she was limp and shuddering, then lifted himself off her, got the condom on, grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and slid it under her hips. And then another one. Finally, he pulled out the pillow from behind her head so she was upended.

  “Ah,” he breathed, sinking into her, and she was opening, stretching to receive him. “What did I say? So sweet. So tight. Damn, baby. This is my place.”

  Not that he went fast even now. Slow and smooth, long and sweet, until slow and smooth weren’t enough and he was rocking her harder, her arms twining around him, the position he’d put her into pulling him so deeply into her, and she couldn’t do anything but hang on and feel it, until that wasn’t enough, either.

  “I need . . .” she begged. “I need . . .”

  He groaned, pulled back a little, got a hand between their bodies. The strain of holding back bunched the muscles of his shoulders and arms, the sweat stood out on his forehead, the dark shadow of his upper lip, but he did it anyway.

  “Come on, darlin’,” he urged her, stroking fast. “Come on and let me have it.” He was driving her, her body arching beneath him, because he was thrusting again in time with his hand.

  “Come on,” he said again. “Give it to me. I’m dying here. I need you so bad.”

  His panting breath was loud in her ears, and he was inside her, on her, over her. She was there, and she was his.

  And this time, when she was flying again, so long and so hard, he went right along with her.

  It took a few minutes to come back to earth. For both of them, because he wasn’t talking now. He was just holding her like that was exactly what he wanted to do. One big hand stroked down her back, leaving a warm trail of pleasure in its wake.

  “Wow,” she sighed, rolling to lie on top of him. “Way to break a drought.”

  She felt the rumble of his laughter, propped her chin on his chest to smile up at him.

  “So that take-charge thing worked out for you, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “I might ask you to do some more of that. What do you think?”

  “Oh, princess,” he told her, “we live to serve.”

  FLOWERS

  Two nights later, she wasn’t enjoying herself nearly so much.

  She and Cal were sitting around the kitchen table after dinner at his parents’ house, and once again, Jim Lawson was sitting with them. Only this time, he was the one handing out the police reports.

  “Two cases,” Jim said. “Two different towns, two different states. Spokane and Coeur d’Alene, Washington and Idaho. And now here in Paradise. So, three. Which isn’t many at all, not for this kind of guy, and the different jurisdictions—that’s why it hasn’t been picked up on. And by the way, this visit is unofficial,” he warned as they started reading. “I’m showing you this so you both know what you’re up against, and if Cal weren’t my cousin, I wouldn’t even be doing that.”

  Zoe had one of the reports, and Cal was scanning the other. She didn’t linger over hers, because the details made the elk steak she’d just eaten threaten to rise in her throat. Cal flipped through his just as fast, then traded with her.

  “The same,” she said when she’d finished.

  “Yep,” Jim said. “Amy was right. Stalking them first. Zip ties, ski mask, and he likes to come in through the sliding-glass door. Organized, got a pattern. Power-control rapist.”

  “I’d think that would be all of them,” Zoe said with as much composure as she could manage, her mind doing its best despite all her efforts to take the bald facts she’d just read and turn them into a horror movie. Doing its best to send her back to that ditch, with him out there waiting. Wanting to do all the things she’d just read about. To her. And how close Amy had come . . . The girl was doing better these days, seemed so much steadier. Surely it would only be good for her to know that the police were on her attacker’s track at last, and that she still needed to take care, but Zoe wouldn’t be sharing everything. She wouldn’t be sharing all this. Because that wouldn’t do Amy any good at all.

  “It’s all relative,” Jim said. “You don’t want to know. The sadistic ones . . . no. But this guy . . .” He flicked the reports Zoe had handed back, because she couldn’t stand to touch them. “He uses force to subdue them, binds them, does it multiple ways, multiple times. Maximum humiliation, that’s the point.”

  He saw Zoe shudder, and stopped. “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t have to do this. You wanted to know.”

  “Yes,” she said, “we do. I have a right to know what I’m up against. Go ahead.”

  Cal took her hand, laced his fingers through hers, set it on his thigh, and she felt stronger for the support. “Go on,” she said again.

  “Like I said,” Jim said. “Control. He doesn’t get pleasure from the hurting so much. It’s about the power. And then there’s his organization. He’s got a pattern. He’s got a victim type.” He looked at Zoe again. “Short. Dark. Good figure. Except . . .”

  “Young,” Cal said. “They were both students. Well, all students. Amy, too.”

  “At college campuses, yeah,” Jim said. “He could be affiliated with a college, but probably not, not with it happening at three different schools. Probably just got a thing for college girls.”

  “But then why me?” Zoe asked.

  Jim rubbed a broad thumb over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Well. Remember that power-control thing? I’d say you were a threat, and a challenge to
his power. A danger both ways. To his safety, and to his sense of himself. You got involved. You got Amy moved, you got the campus force moving, you told the paper about it. He lost Amy, and I don’t think he’s lost before, because we didn’t find any attempteds that matched these.”

  “And now he’s lost again,” Cal said. “Ran Zoe off the road, wasn’t able to . . . follow through, and hasn’t gotten to her since.”

  “Can’t get at Amy, can’t get at Zoe,” Jim agreed. “Because you’ve got her with you, right?”

  “Yeah,” Cal said, a muscle working in his cheek, his hand tightening around hers.

  “Well, take my advice,” Jim said. “Keep her with you until we figure this thing out. We’re getting there, even though it’s likely to take a while. And here’s another thing I didn’t tell you. When I was checking around, talking to a buddy of mine, deputy up in Kootenai County? He was over in Iraq, and he said it reminded him of a perp they knew about over there, back when he was an MP. There were at least a couple victims that they knew about, but probably a lot more, he said, because they didn’t talk. It’s major shame over there for women, being raped. They won’t report it, don’t want their families to know. But the MPs heard anyway. Word got back.”

  “Wait. What?” Cal asked. “The same guy?”

  “Could be. Serial rapist,” Jim said. “The investigation never got far, because like I said, the victims wouldn’t talk. But what they heard, the word on the street, they thought he was American, even though he was masked. Just like our mutt. Zip ties. Gloves. And he dropped a flower by them when he was done. Like a date, my buddy said. Some kind of sick insult. Like a thank-you. Salt in the wound. And that’s another part of the pattern we found. Flowers.”

  “Flowers?” Zoe asked.

  “Yeah. These two . . .” He indicated the reports. “It was part of that organization, his rituals. We checked with Amy, and she got flowers, too. They all thought they were from somebody else—boyfriend, admirer—didn’t connect it until later. But they all got them beforehand, which shows you he chose them, planned it.”