Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

hers.
    “Holes,” she said raggedly. “There are holes in your jacket. From the bullets.”
    He saw the stark memories in her eyes, felt fear turning her pliant flesh to stone. With a few swift movements he peeled off his jacket and tossed it aside. He was more careful removing the gun and holster, but no less quick. When he reached for his dark flannel shirt, her hands were already there, tearing away cloth that also carried neat, horrifying holes. Her strength surprised him. Her need stopped his breath.
    The Kevlar defeated her. It had no buttons, no zippers, no surface to tear.
    “Like this.” Archer took her hand, showed her, watched her rip Velcro fastenings apart until he wore nothing but briefs.
    Then he wore nothing at all.
    The humming sound of approval she made as she cupped him stripped away his control as certainly as she had stripped away his clothing. He no longer tried to control the adrenaline, the need, the desperation for her. With swift, casual power he knelt and peeled her jeans down to her ankles. That was when he discovered that he had been right. She hadn’t taken time to put on underwear.
    He pulled her hard against his mouth, then made a deep sound in his throat. She tasted as hot and reckless as he felt. The twisting motions she made trying to kick out of her jeans opened her to him even more. He took it all, demanded more. Heedless, helpless, she gave it to him, too shocked by the searing demands of his mouth to do more than wonder that she had lived so long and never known this way to love.
    Before her feet were free of her jeans, he drove her ruthlessly to the first climax. When her knees buckled he didn’t release her. He followed her down to the floor, opening her even more while cries rippled and she writhed and he took, he gave, he demanded, he worshiped; and she came until she couldn’t even draw breath to scream.
    It wasn’t enough.
    Fighting to breathe, she reached for him, trying to draw him up her body, needing what he hadn’t yet given to her.
    He pinned her where she was, on her back, her legs over his shoulders. Her eyes opened wild and blind as he fitted himself to her and went in deep, hard. With quick, powerful motions he measured himself and her until his name came from her lips with each ragged breath and she convulsed around him, a slick satin fist demanding that he give everything he had to her. Body rigid, shaking, he bared his teeth and gave himself to the endless, pulsing violence of his own release.
    Archer’s sudden, slack weight on Hannah sent another shimmering wave of pleasure through her. With a hunger that she didn’t understand, she stroked his back and shoulders and hips, memorizing the feel of him in her arms. When his breathing finally settled into a normal rhythm, he started to shift his weight off her. She wrapped herself around him and hung on.
    “More?” he asked.
    She shook her head and didn’t loosen her grip at all.
    “Not ready to be alone yet?” he guessed.
    She nodded.
    “I promised myself a nice long shower,” he said. “Best thing for bruises. How about you?”
    “Now that you mention it . . .” She winced. “I landed under you in that ruddy café.”
    “I put you there.” He rolled over slowly, taking her with him. “It was the only way I could protect you.”
    Her breath stopped, then resumed with a husky sound. He was still buried deeply in her, filling her. “I don’t want you to do that anymore.”
    “This?” he asked, deliberately stroking himself deep.
    “No. Putting yourself in danger to protect me.”
    “Does that mean you’re going to stop protecting me?” Archer asked.
    “It’s not the same thing.”
    “Wrong answer.”
    “It’s the only one you’re going to get.”
    “Same here.”
    “What does that mean?” she asked. Then she shivered when he lifted his hips against her with a slow, rolling motion. “You’re trying to distract me.”
    “Is it working?”
    She bit her lip against admitting it, but the kick of her heart against his mouth gave her away. He smiled, then groaned when she slipped through his arms and stood up.
    “Let me take care of you, Archer,” she said, holding out her hand. “Just this once. Let me.”
    Without a word he followed her into the shower. When the water was beating down hot enough to cook, he sighed and relaxed, letting the water take the worst of the aches from his body. Then her hands flowed over him, bringing a different kind of ache; not pain but