She’d promised herself she wouldn’t criticize, so she sank her teeth into the hard muscle of his shoulder instead.

He made a low, hoarse sound that might have been pain or pleasure, and the next thing she knew she was on her back and he was hovering over her, those green eyes wicked.

“So the bunny lady wants to play rough?”

With two hundred pounds of muscle? Oh, I don’t think so.

She started to tell him she’d only been trying to distract him so he wouldn’t be so quick on the trigger, but he shackled her wrists and made a dive for her breast.

Ahhhhh … It was torture. Agony. Worse than agony. How could one mouth cause so much havoc? And she didn’t ever want it to stop.

He brushed his lips over the slope of her breast. He grazed the nipple, moved to the other breast, where he did the same. Then, without warning, he began to suckle …

She writhed against him, but he didn’t release the wrists he’d imprisoned in one hand. Leaving the other free to roam.

It meandered from breast to belly, then lower, brushing through the curls. But that proved to be a tease because he quickly moved on to her inner thighs.

They fell open.

He stayed where he was.

She twisted, trying to force those tantalizing fingers away from her thighs to the part of her that throbbed so much she thought she would die.

He didn’t take the hint. He was too busy tormenting her, too busy playing at her breasts. She’d heard that women could have orgasms just from this, but she hadn’t believed it.

She’d been wrong.

The shock wave caught her by surprise, thundered through her, and pitched her into the sky. She didn’t remember crying out, but she heard the echo and knew she had.

He slowed. She shuddered against his chest, breathed him in, tried to understand what had happened to her.

He stroked her shoulder. He kissed her earlobe. His whispered breath tickled her hair. “A little quick on the trigger, aren’t you?”

She was mortified. Sort of. Except it had felt so good. And been so unexpected. “An accident,” she managed. “And it’s your turn.”

“Oh, I’m not in any hurry …” He picked up a lock of her hair, drew it to his nose. “Unlike some people.”

The sheen of perspiration on his skin, the way he pressed against her thigh, told her he was in more of a hurry than he wanted to admit. A very big hurry. Funny … she hadn’t remembered that about him. Not exactly. She remembered that it had hurt. And now that she thought about it, there’d been a moment when she’d thought she might be too small.

No time like the present to find out if that was true.

She scooted on top of him.