Marco's hand slid from her shoulder to her waist, found the curve where hip met ribcage, and pulled. She came over the console like she'd been waiting for him to take what she'd already offered — legs catching on leather, heel scraping the gearshift, her dress riding high as she settled against him in the backseat. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her weight pressing him deeper into the seat. The dome light died when the door swung shut.
He kissed her throat. Not soft — not hungry either, but certain. His mouth found the hollow below her ear, felt her pulse stutter against his lips. She tilted her head back, giving him more of her, and her fingers found his hair, holding him there. Her breath came uneven, warm against his temple.
His hand found the hem of her dress. Satin against his knuckles, then the heat of her thigh as he pushed the fabric higher. Her skin was soft, warmer than he'd expected, and she didn't stop him. Didn't tell him to slow down. Her hips shifted, opening, and his palm slid up the inside of her thigh, past the edge of lace, and she gasped — a sharp sound that cut through the dark.
"Marco."
Her voice broke his name. A question and an answer all at once.
He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, breathing her in — perfume and sweat and something saltier beneath. His thumb found the center of her, through the silk of her underwear, and she rocked against his hand. Not tentative. Not asking. Just moving like she'd already decided, already chosen, already stopped pretending she had any intention of pulling back.
She was wet. He felt it through the fabric, felt the heat of her, the way her body opened under the pressure of his palm. She rolled her hips again, slower this time, grinding against him, and her mouth found his jaw, his throat, her teeth grazing his skin.
"Don't stop," she whispered. Not a plea. A command.
He didn't. His fingers pressed harder, found the edge of the silk, and she gasped again, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. The windows had fogged — he could barely see the trees outside, just the amber smear of headlights cutting through condensation. Inside, there was only the sound of her breathing, the leather creaking under them, the soft wet sound of his hand moving against her.
She said his name again. Broken this time. His — not Salvatore's, not anyone else's. His.
The headlights still cut through the dark. Somewhere on that road, a car could pass, a patrol could slow down, Salvatore's men could find them. But none of it mattered. Not the test, not the consequences, not the man who owned them both. There was only this: her hips against his palm, her breath against his lips, her voice saying his name like she was already lost. Like she wanted to be.