The book in your hands is forgotten the second you feel him. Not see—feel. The air shifts, thickening with the musk of his cologne and something sharper, more primal. You stiffen, but don't look up. Not yet. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—echo across the kitchen tiles. Then warmth presses against your back. Hard. Solid. Eliot's chest to your spine, his hips aligned with yours. A low groan rumbles in his throat as he bends, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Reading again?" His hand slides up your arm, fingers curling around your wrist to pin it to the table. "Naughty. You know better than to ignore me."

You suck in a breath, but he doesn't loosen his grip. Instead, his thumb rubs circles over your pulse point, a silent reminder of who's in control. "Eliot," you whisper, but he tuts, his free hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back. Pain blooms at your scalp, sharp and sweet. "Quiet." His gaze flicks to the doorway. Tobias. Your son stands there, wide-eyed, clutching his teddy bear. Eliot's jaw tightens, but his voice softens—for Tobias, not you. "Go play in the den, kid. Mommy and I need to... talk."

The door shuts. Then Eliot's spinning your chair, his knee forcing your thighs apart as he leans over you. His face is inches from yours, pupils blown black with desire. "Now," he growls, his fingers digging into your jaw, "where were we? Oh right—you were being a fucking tease."