n the eye," he says, tilting his head to murmur in my ear. I gasp as he suckers angry markings beneath my ear and runs h

f luxury is new to me. The driver opens the door for us. "You're behind the wheel," adds Salvatore. I'm not surprised that Salvatore usually drives even when it's not necessary. He gives off the impression of a man who is constantly trying to exert control. But now, on top of everything else, he has to control me. Instead of taking the wheel, Salvatore sprawls me across his lap in the backseat. He can't seem to quit staring at me or touching me. His sudden obsession is making it impossible for me to not be impressed. He gives me the impression that he has never seen a woman before. I have had a lot of males look at me and say they want me. It's the most intense stare I've ever received. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that this isn't just a deranged guy with the ability to take blood revenge. He goes on, in a voice used to giving orders, "Don't hide from me." I realize that I still have my arm clamped over my breasts. He pries it away, refusing to let me cover myself. By using his thumb to stroke my exposed breast, he treats my body as though he already owned it, making it more hard and dark. I'm breathing heavily, filling the back of the car. "You don't get any care, do you?" He asks in a low voice as his hands grow weary. The fact that he can figure this out so fast is embarrassing. A wave of embarrassment sweeps down my neck and explodes in my face. He can't know that I'm inexperienced. The embarrassment will eat me from the inside out if he finds out. But after 23 years of being seen as untouchable, his softest, most fundamental touches betr