Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

had her naked, had licked every bit of her, and still he was rocked back by the sexy sway of her breasts beneath the tight top and the hot curves of her long, long legs.
    “Why do they put zippers in skirts this tight?” she muttered. “Why not just spray the ruddy thing on and be done with it?”
    “Let me try it.”
    The husky timbre of Archer’s voice brought Hannah’s head up. The blunt male appreciation in his eyes made her feel sleek, sexy, and primitive as a cat in heat. “I wish you didn’t have to shave your beard.”
    “Why?” he asked, walking around behind her.
    “I liked the feel of it . . . everywhere.”
    He gritted his teeth and tried to think of all the reasons he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. What she wanted him to do. The blood hammering through his body made it almost impossible to think. Carefully he pulled up the zipper.
    She cleared her throat. “Thanks. My fingers kept slipping off the tab. What’s this stuff made of?” she asked, running her fingers up and down the skirt, from waist to midthigh hem. “It feels like silk, looks like silk, but doesn’t wrinkle.”
    Archer looked away from the narrow, long fingers that were running up and down Hannah’s hips. “I don’t know what it is. Have you ever worn contacts?”
    “Nope.”
    He held out a tiny box to her, explained the procedure, and demonstrated by opening a similar box and putting his own contacts in. She looked critically at the result. His gray-green-blue eyes were transformed into a muddy shade of blue.
    “I like the original better.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said dryly. “Give me the wig while you put in your contacts.”
    Trying not to think about the appalling condition of the sink, she leaned toward the dingy mirror and went to work. She had one contact in and was blinking furiously when someone hammered on the door.
    “Hey, mate,” called a voice. “I gotta piss.”
    Archer growled some words that made Hannah wince. She put in the other contact and looked at herself. A pair of brown eyes looked back at her.
    It was unnerving.
    “Put this on,” he said, holding out the wig.
    She looked from the neat French braid Archer had made in the wig to his blue eyes. “You keep surprising me.”
    “Wait until you see what I can do with cosmetics.”
    “You’re joking.”
    He reached into the duffel and came up with a handful of makeup. “Tell me that in a few minutes.”
    A few breathless minutes later—Archer stood very close while he put makeup on her—Hannah looked at herself in the mirror again, made a startled sound, and leaned in closer over the sink. Like the clothes, her makeup sent a message of expensive sex. Very expensive. Very sexy. “You weren’t joking.”
    Archer looked at the skirt flirting with revealing her tempting cheeks as she bent over the sink. Before he knew he was going to do it, he slid one hand up between her thighs. The skirt was like her, so tight that there was barely room for him inside.
    She made a startled, husky sound as he eased aside the slim thong of her underwear and stroked soft flesh until she shivered. Her eyes met his in the mirror while liquid silk licked over his fingertips.
    “I don’t have much won’t power where you’re concerned,” he said, his voice gritty.
    “Won’t power?” she asked huskily.
    “As in I won’t bend you over my arm and make you scream with pleasure.”
    She hesitated, then sighed. “Are you sure?”
    “No,” he admitted.
    The hammering came on the door again.
    With a curse, Archer forced himself to stop teasing both of them. “Put this on.”
    Hannah took the pink jacket that dangled from his big hand. It fit her perfectly. The hem of the jacket skimmed the hem of the skirt. Now she looked like ultra-high-class sin, the kind only kings or mafia princes could afford.
    Archer whistled softly. April Joy had outdone herself. It almost made him forgive her for the black loafers that were gnawing on his toes.
    “The pearls have to go,” he said after a moment. “Someone who looks like you wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than the best.”
    Hannah made a face at him, but removed the pearls and watched them vanish into the duffel. He pulled out a tiny, sleek, black leather purse with a long braided strap and solid gold designer initials on the side.
    “Your passport is inside,” he said.
    She froze. “Passport?”
    Rather than answering, he opened the bathroom door and ushered her out. The man pacing