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“Do you really sleep around as much as the internet would make it appear?”

“Yes.”

She wondered at the sudden drop in her gut.

“You look surprised.”

Damn it. She’d have to be more careful around Salvatore. For whatever reason, he seemed to possess the ability to read her like an open book.

“I suppose I thought it might be an exaggeration.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re photographed with alotof different women.”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying you sleep with all of them?”

“Not all.”

“But most?”

“I don’t keep a tally.”

She frowned. That sounded like alot.

“What’s the problem? You don’t approve?”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Her brow furrowed as she sought for a way to explain. “It’s just—a point of difference between us.”

“You’ve already told me that you don’t make a habit of this.”

She nodded.

“But you’ve had some experience,” he prompted.

She nodded again.

“How much?”

“You don’t keep a tally, what makes you think I do?”

“That’s a clever way of side-stepping the question.”

She had to admire him for that, too. Yet another way in which he seemed to innately understand her.

“I could torture it out of you, you know.”

“Torture?”

“Pleasure.” He reached out and brushed a hand over her exposed thigh so she gave a husky little uneven breath as her body—so tired and pleasured already—experienced the stirrings of need, all over again. Her eyes shifted to his and scannedhis face, almost as though it was committing his appearance to memory.

She blinked away, reaching for another french fry.

“I’ve dated. But I’m generally careful before I let it get physical.”

“Meaning?”