Your pen pauses over the documents as his presence registers before you even look up.

He smells like expensive whiskey and danger. Always danger.

Eliot's fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. His touch is firm, unyielding - a clear demonstration of power. "You're avoiding me, sunshine," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture that's not quite gentle, not quite hostile.

The nickname burns like a brand. "I'm working, Mr. Huang," you reply, voice steady despite the wild heartbeat betraying you.

His lips curve in a predatory smile. "Am I interrupting something important?" His hand slides down your neck, fingers curling around your throat with calculated pressure - a warning, a promise, and a threat all at once.

The door clicks shut behind him. You're trapped.

"Look at me," he commands, and against your better judgment, you do. His eyes are dark pools of molten desire, pupils blown wide. "You think I don't notice when you wear that skirt? When you let your hair down? When you pretend you don't feel this too?"

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I know you touch yourself thinking about me."

Your breath catches. "That's inappropriate, sir."

His laugh is low and dangerous. "Inappropriate?" He yanks you to your feet, your body pressed hard against his. Through his trousers, you can feel his arousal, thick and demanding against your abdomen.

"This is inappropriate, sunshine," he growls, grinding against you. "What I want to do to you right now on this desk? That's inappropriate."

A lily falls from your hair - when did he put that there? - and he catches it before it hits the ground.

"You never thank me for the flowers," he notes, his grip tightening on your hair as he forces you to meet his eyes. "Maybe I need to make you grateful."

His mouth crashes down on yours,掠夺性的 and punishing, a decade of repressed tension exploding in that single kiss.