Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  “I’m . . . sweaty,” she said weakly.

  He didn’t even listen to that. He was kissing her again, his mouth taking hers like it was the only thing possible, his hand on her breast, teasing, playing, pinching, and she was moaning.

  “Got to . . .” he said. “Got to do this.” He was wrestling her capri pants down her legs, then dropping to his knees, still fully dressed, was yanking off her shoes and socks, then pulling her pants and underwear down the rest of the way, and off.

  “Oh, man,” she moaned. “Oh, man. Jim.”

  That was when they heard it. The swish of a closing door. The footsteps. Jim looked up at her, and she stared back at him, frozen.

  He stood and pulled the white shower curtain closed without making an effort at quiet, then put a finger to his lips. They stood still and heard the clang of a locker door, some rustling.

  One second, two, then Jim reached around her and yanked the faucet on. When the cold water hit, she jumped and started to yelp, but Jim had a hand over her mouth. He’d moved so fast, she hadn’t seen it happen, and she sucked in a breath again beneath his hard palm, her eyes widening with shock.

  The water got warmer. It was soaking her pile of clothes, there on the floor. Jim dropped his palm from her mouth, and she pulled his head down and said in his ear, “You’re getting wet.”

  He didn’t answer, but his eyes were burning her up, and there was nothing nice about him now. He shoved her shoulders back against the tile with one hand, ran the other one down her body like it was his, went to the right spot, and did some hard exploring. She stiffened and squirmed in shock, and something more, too, and his lips were brushing her ear when he murmured, “So are you.”

  “We . . .” She started to say. There was a noise from outside again, like the person had left, maybe, but the thought was vague. It couldn’t make it through the noise of the running water. Or the roaring in her head.

  Jim was fully under the spray, and not even seeming to notice. He still had all his clothes on, and she tried to get his T-shirt off, but he was already dropping to his knees again, out of her reach. In another two seconds, she lost the power of thought, because his hands and mouth and tongue were on her, just like that. Demanding, and taking. Her toes were curling against the hard tile, and she had her own hand over her mouth now, just in case somebody was out there. Somebody who could hear what Jim was doing to her, and the response she couldn’t hold back.

  She’d never been somebody who could relax and let loose easily. Not with a man, for sure. She always started out self-conscious, worried about what he was thinking, how she looked to him, how long she was taking, whether she was doing it right.

  She wasn’t self-conscious now. She was standing up, leaning against the wall of a shower with her legs spread and a man on his knees in front of her, working her over fast and hard. One of her hands was frantically trying to curl into his short hair, while her other fist was stuffed into her mouth.

  And still he kept on. No letup. No choice. No mercy.

  She was making some noise now, trying to muffle it, hoping there wasn’t anybody out there, or hoping the water would drown it out, and then forgetting to worry about that, too. Her legs were stiffening, and everything in her was tightening, drawing in, driving her higher. When he thrust two fingers inside her, she stiffened more. He started to move them, increased the tempo, was doing it all harder, just at the edge of rough, and she was yelling into her hand. Shaking, spasming, her head hitting the tile, again and again. Going over. Going fast. Going hard.

  Down in flames.

  FLINGING

  Jim was soaking wet. He was aching hard. He was burning hot.

  Hallie’s body was convulsing around him, over him. He could hear the cries she was trying to suppress, and the sound was so sweet. The pounding water was trying to drown him, and so was she.

  He stayed with her until she was all the way done and headed down the other side, until the spasms had turned to quivers, and then he got to his feet, put a hand against her shoulder, and bent to say in her ear, “How you doing?”

  She was limp, shaking, her palms pressed against the shower wall. Her curvy, pale body stretched against the white tile, her red-gold hair in wilder ringlets than ever. It hadn’t gotten wet, not the way his had. But then, she hadn’t been the one kneeling under the spray.

  Maybe next time. A thought that did him no good at all.

  She didn’t answer, just put a trembling hand on the back of his neck, pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him, long and deep. And he was falling again. Or still.

  He pulled away from her with the last ounce of willpower he possessed and whispered, “Gotta go.”

  He didn’t have a condom. He didn’t have time. They didn’t have privacy. It was a killer.

  It took her a second, but she nodded, and he reached out and shoved the faucet closed. They both stood still, the silence echoing around them, and Jim listened hard. Heard nothing.

  He shoved the shower curtain back with a rattle of rings, then listened again. Hallie whispered, “Wait,” and stepped out of the shower and into the empty room.

  She still looked shaky to him. She still looked great. He was looking at her from behind, and it was a view he liked just fine. Her skin was rosy from the warm water, from her orgasm, from the pressure of the tile against her back. And against her ass, which was round, pink, and terrific. And he wanted it.

  She walked to the edge of the locker room, out of sight from where he waited inside the cubicle, dripping in his sweatshirt, shorts, and running shoes. Finally, she said quietly, “Nobody here.”

  He stepped over the sodden mass of her clothes and joined her. She turned to look at him, and he grinned. He couldn’t help it. He was frustrated beyond belief. He was aching with need. And he was damn happy.

  “Baby,” he said, pulling her close, “you sure know how to show a man a good time.”

  “Shh,” she said, and then spoiled it by giggling.

  Yep. He had Hallie Cavanaugh in the girls’ locker room, stark naked, hauled up tight against his body and giggling, all pink and relaxed and glowing from the rocking orgasm he’d just given her.

  Were high school fantasies great or what?

  Of course, the rest of it wasn’t as much fun. He was wet, and it was cold out, but he’d been wet and cold before. He did a few more chin-ups on his way out, just to work off some of the . . . adrenaline. Then he ran home, warming up some more, and tried not to think about Hallie. He walked through the back door, and Mac looked up at him from the kitchen table and said, “You’re super late. And why are you wet?”

  “Ah . . .” he said, feeling as guilty as if he’d been caught . . . well, there was really no equivalent. “Ran through a sprinkler.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head and said, “I don’t know. Silly, huh,” then bent over and kissed her on top of the head where she sat, her hair a mess, eating her cereal.

  She gave him a shove on the shoulder. “Dad. Ew. You’re soaked.”

  “I’m going to hop in the shower,” he said. “Then I’ll do your hair. We’ll keep it simple today.”

  Back to normal. Or not.

  Once he had Mac out the door and himself on the road, he looked at the clock on the dash. Just after eight. Class wouldn’t have started yet.

  No texting. Texting left a trail.

  A little late to be thinking about that, Lawson.

  He voice dialed her, and as he drove and listened to the phone ringing, he was smiling. And he was nervous.

  Basically, he was a mess.

  She didn’t even say hello. She just said, “I thought you weren’t that guy anymore. That you’d changed.”

  “Turns out not so much. Anyway, it worked, didn’t it? I got you.”

  “You did.” He heard the sigh in her voice, and now, there was no question about it, he was smiling like a loon.

  “You know,” he told her, “the second I start talking to you, it’s like somebody f
lips a switch.”

  “And what?”

  “And I’m turned on.”

  “Oh.” It was another sigh. “You didn’t quite . . . get me, though.”

  “I noticed. I had some . . .” He had to stop and breathe. “Some ideas about that.”

  “We can’t.” She was back to that brisk voice. Her teacher voice. “That was incredibly reckless. I told you—there are cameras in the gym. And kissing like that? Outside? I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Nobody was there,” he pointed out. “Besides, Virgil Owens is the security officer out there, and ol’ Virge never does a single thing he doesn’t have to. Long as nobody tells him he has a chance of seeing a half-naked woman on that footage, he’s not going to check. Couple days, and it’s recorded over anyway.”

  “I wasn’t half naked,” she said. “I was dressed.”

  And getting kissed hard and felt up good against the wall, which Virgil would’ve watched without any objection at all. She was right. It had been reckless.

  Too bad it had felt so good.

  “What if somebody had come into the shower room, though?” she went on, sounding troubled. “I’d have lost my job. Not to mention . . .”

  “Yeah. This is the problem with not actually being in high school anymore. Consequences.”

  “We can’t do this.”

  “Man,” he sighed, “I was afraid you’d say that.” He wasn’t smiling now. Damn it.

  “It’s not worth it,” she said. “Not for a fling.”

  “And that’s what it would be?”

  “Wouldn’t it? I know you want that fling, and so do I. It almost seems good, doesn’t it, because it would have to be discreet, and it would have to be short, and that’s perfect for you, I’m sure.” He was going to answer that, but she was still talking. “But it’s not worth it, not if anybody finds out. Not even thinking about the money—what about your mother? Your brother? Who’s my brother. And, all right, the money. I’m pretty sure this would count as a sexual relationship, even what we’ve . . . done already.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what Anthea said.”

  “You told her?” No teacher voice now. She sounded pure-redhead furious. “How could you do that?”

  “Whoa, now, Red. I asked her, that’s all.”

  “When?” Still fired up.

  “That first day. After the bear.”

  “You asked her what?”

  “What a . . .” He cleared his throat. “What would be the definition of a sexual relationship. And she said oral sex counted. Ah, specifically, I think she said oral and . . . manual.”

  She moaned. “I cannot believe you had this conversation with my best friend.”

  “Well,” he tried to point out, “she’s my twin, you know? And it’s not like she didn’t know. Or like she’s going to tell anybody but Ben.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” She was back to brisk. “We can’t do it. No way. This has to stop. That fling? It’s not worth it. Not for either of us.”

  “Henry’s money,” he said. “Yeah, well, guess I can’t compete with that.”

  “Jim—” she said. “Shoot. I have to go.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. See you around.”

  He hung up and thought, That went well.

  It almost seems good, she’d said, because it would have to be short.

  A few months long, to be exact.

  COMMIES BURN

  When Jim stopped by the office to drop off some paperwork on Thursday afternoon, DeMarco looked up from his desk.

  “Hey,” he said. “I thought you knew that Cavanaugh girl. Daughter of that guy who drowned on the ice cube, the one who’s back in town now? Didn’t you have her dad’s guns, or something? And somebody tried to rip them off?”

  “Hallie?” Jim’s antennae went up fast. “Why?”

  “I heard there was something in his will, too,” DeMarco said. “A whole lot in there, in fact. Not to poke into your family business. But I guess you two are keeping your distance now, since the guns and all. Selling the guns for her wasn’t what you’d call discreet. I suppose that’s why she didn’t call you this time.”

  Jim was cold, but he was burning, too. “Call me about what? What happened?”

  DeMarco shrugged. “She got some anonymous letters, that’s all. Maybe just stuff to do with school, she thought. She called in this morning, and I took it. Didn’t seem like much of a deal, but Franks is headed out to talk to her.”

  “No,” Jim said. “I am.”

  “Franks is already on it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m calling him right now and telling him to forget it, because I’m on it.”

  DeMarco leaned back in his chair and studied him. “You know,” he said slowly, “when Carrie tried to set you up with her friend that time, when you came to dinner at our house, and you didn’t follow it up? She said maybe it was just as well, because you’d probably be too hot for that Rebecca to handle. And I said, ‘Lawson? Dudley Do-Right? Mr. Mom? Mr. By the Book?’ And she said—”

  “I don’t care what she said. I’m going to check it out.”

  “She said she’d be at—”

  “At school. I know. I’m already gone.”

  “If you’re not supposed to be getting involved,” DeMarco called after him, “looks to me like you’re doing lousy. Just saying.”

  Jim entered the school the right way this time. Through the front door, and then down the hall to room 115. He rapped a couple times with his knuckles on the half-open door, then poked his head around. “Hallie?”

  She’d been typing furiously on her laptop, but she jerked her head up with a start, then sat back and said, “Oh. Jim. You startled me.”

  Her eyes slid away from his, though. Right, he thought. Off-limits.

  “You called in about some letters,” he said.

  “Oh.” A crease appeared between her eyes. “I talked to somebody else, though.”

  “Yep. But turns out you’ve got me. Which is good, because if you’re getting threatening letters, I want to see them. Being familiar with the situation and all. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She gave a little laugh, shoved her hair back, and pushed back from the desk in her rolling chair. “I am. I mean, I reported it. And you’re right, we’re both adults. We can move on. Come on. I’ll show you.”

  He crossed the room, pulled a chair over from a nearby table, and said, “Show me.”

  She seemed a little distracted. She was looking at his body or something.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just so different to see you in uniform, with all the gear. Is it heavy?”

  “Nah.” All right, not his body. Unfortunately. “Not compared to Ranger gear. That could be thirty pounds.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “I guess that’s why you’d have to be so strong.”

  “That would be it. Are we talking . . . Hallie.” He went for stern, just in case. “Are you saying you think men in uniform are hot?”

  “Ah . . .” She was definitely getting pink, and then she caught that lip in her teeth, and he reminded himself that he was in uniform. And on duty. And that there was such a thing as ‘conduct unbecoming an officer.’”

  “Tell me it’s the handcuffs,” he said, losing the battle, “and you’ll make my day.”

  “I didn’t say it was the . . .” She swallowed. “Handcuffs.” The word was a whisper.

  Oh, yeah. It was the handcuffs.

  Focus, Lawson. Conduct unbecoming. “Not that I’m hating talking about this,” he said, “and I’d like to get back to it real soon, but I do want to know about those letters.”

  “Oh. Sure. Right.” She swiveled around and bent to unlock her desk drawer, coming out with a stack of white envelopes. She started to hand them to him, but he said, “Hang on,” reached into a pocket for some disposable gloves, then took the envelopes, handling them by the edges. “Probably won’t get anything off these,” he told her, “but you never know.”

 
“I didn’t even think of that.”

  “Well, you’ll have a mail handler, then a mail carrier,” he said absently, “and even an idiot has heard of prints. But just in case.”

  He’d pulled the first letter out, now—first by the postmark, anyway. It didn’t take long to read.

  Go home libtard. We dont need more of your kind in Paradise.

  Hallie had come around to sit beside him, reading over his shoulder. “I thought that one was about the open house,” she said, and he tried to ignore her breath, soft and warm against his neck. And her scent. Somehow, she still smelled like flowers. “It came on Saturday, postmarked Friday, that next day. But then I got this one on Monday.”

  She pointed to the second envelope, and he pulled that letter out. Short again.

  Commies burn in hell. Sometimes before they get there. Your father died in you’re house. You could too.

  “That’s a very weird thing to write,” Hallie said. “Don’t you think? Maybe it still has to do with school, the ‘commie’ part, but . . .”

  “Mm,” Jim agreed, noting the tingle at the back of his neck. That tingle was information, and it had nothing to do with how he felt about Hallie. The lurch in his gut, on the other hand, was something more primitive—and more personal. He opened the third letter. “When did this one come?”

  “Yesterday. This is why I called. This seemed to really get into . . . threat territory.”

  You don’t listen, do you? Could be well have to find another way to get thru to you. Don’t worry. Well find it.

  “I know they’re just letters,” she said. “And a couple of my students are hostile. Their parents could be, too. But what do you think?”

  “You know what’s weird about these?” he said.

  “Yes, that they’re being sent at all. I didn’t work in what anybody would call a ‘good’ school in Seattle, but I’ve never had anything like this.”

  “There’s that,” he conceded. “But mainly . . . it’s that somebody’s trying to make you think that they’re some Idaho redneck, when they’re not.”