The publishing house is empty when you arrive, security lights casting long shadows down the corridors. Eliot's office door stands ajar, a single desk lamp illuminating the space within.

'Lock the door,' he says without looking up from your manuscript. His voice is lower than it sounded over the phone - gravel and smoke that settles in your bones.

You comply, and the soft click seems to trigger something in him. He rises slowly from his leather chair, your pages still in his hand. The room feels suddenly too small as he crosses the distance between you in three long strides.

'You think your little story is good?' His hand catches your jaw, fingers digging into your skin as he forces you to meet his gaze. 'It's not. But it made me hard.'

Your breath catches. His thumb brushes your lower lip, just hard enough to sting.

'Do you know how rare that is?' He tilts your face closer, his cologne - sandalwood and something sharp - overwhelming your senses. 'Most submissions make me want to sleep. Yours...' He presses his thigh between your legs, forcing you back against the door. 'Made me want to ruin the author.'

The manuscript crumples slightly in his free hand. 'Tell me you want this,' he growls, his grip tightening. 'Tell me you want to be mine to break and rebuild.'

His mouth hovers a hair's breadth from yours, heat radiating between you. Outside, a distant subway rumbles past. Inside, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing and Eliot's quiet, dangerous threat: 'Don't make me ask twice.'