He was everything and more, not holding back in the slightest. It was how she’d wanted him from the first time she’d seen him all uptight in that nice suit. But now, oh now. She wanted it all. Not just him physically, but the rest of him. He’d love as intensely and completely as he did everything else.

But it was too late. She’d lied to him, and he was all about control and loyalty.

His tongue thrust into her mouth, tasting of mint and Raider. He dominated in that simple touch, curling her toes and escalating her need to unbelievable heights. She lifted her hands and immersed them in his thick hair, curling her fingers and digging deep.

He growled into her mouth, and she quivered, pressing her body against his harder one. The power there, the danger, she’d seen it firsthand. Every time somebody had challenged him, had threatened her, he’d taken them down with moves as graceful as they were deadly.

His hands clamped on her hips, and he twisted her, spinning her to face the wall.

She gasped, her hands pressed against the faded wallpaper. Turning her head, she rested her heated cheek against the coolness.

He tilted her head even more to the side, elongating her neck. His breath blew over her ear, and she shivered as his talented mouth slid down. A lick of his tongue to the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder spiked more arousal in her.

With one smooth and oddly gentle movement, he pulled her shirt over her head. Then his hands, those calloused, strong, big hands, cupped her breasts over her cotton bra. Her nipples hardened, and her knees weakened, forcing her to lean back against him. He pinched her through the material, the bite just enough to shoot shockwaves to her clit. She gasped, her eyes closing. “Shouldn’t we go to the bedroom?”

His mouth was suddenly at her ear again, while he ground his erection against her backside. “Bad girls who lie don’t get the bedroom.”

Oh man, she might orgasm right now from the dark tenor of that Southern timbre. “What do they get?” she asked breathlessly.

“Bent over.” He snagged her around the waist, pivoted, and bent her over the sofa.

She jerked her head to the side to avoid suffocating in the cushion. “This is a furnished rental.”

“So?” He planted one hand over the small of her back to hold her in place and loudly unbuckled his belt.

What was her point? That hand was so damn warm. “Um, mice often live in rentals. They love couches.” She couldn’t grasp a complete thought.

He paused. “You don’t have mice.”

“You don’t know that,” she groaned, only pure will keeping her from burying her face in the cushions. “The hantavirus is a killer.”