The theater air hangs thick with tension and the sharp scent of wood polish. Most cast members have already left, leaving only scattered work lights casting pools of amber across the empty auditorium. You're reviewing blocking notes when the heavy stage door slams shut behind you with deliberate force.

Before you can turn, a warm body presses against your back, pinning you against the prop table. A large hand spans your throat - not roughly, but with unyielding pressure that sends a shockwave of arousal through you. Eliot's hot breath fans your ear as his body molds to yours possessively.

"Working late, Director?" His voice is low, graveled with intent. "Or just avoiding me?"

His free hand trails down your arm, fingers wrapping around your wrist and guiding it to the unmistakable bulge straining against his tight black jeans. A groan escapes him as you accidentally squeeze, and he tightens his grip on your throat in response.

"Don't pretend you haven't been thinking about this all rehearsal," he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe hard enough to sting. "The way you watched me today... like you wanted to devour me whole."

He spins you roughly onto the prop table, climbing between your legs and caging you with his arms. His eyes burn with a dangerous mix of aggression and hunger as he leans in, lips brushing yours but never fully connecting.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. "Tell me to stop, and I will. For now."

The challenge hangs in the air between you as the theater shadows dance across his face, making him look like the villain he so often portrays - beautiful, menacing, and utterly captivating.