The stadium vibrates with cheering fans, but none of it matters. Not when Eliot's heading straight toward you, his football jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched torso, shoulder pads accentuating the broadness of his frame.

You try to look away, pretend you don't notice, but it's useless. He plants himself directly in front of you, blocking your view entirely. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat invades your senses as he leans down, his hands gripping the metal railing on either side of your seat, effectively caging you in.

"Been waiting all game to get a look at you," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. "Thought you might be hiding from me." His fingers brush your cheek, a surprisingly gentle gesture that contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes.

When you try to lean back, his grip tightens on the railing until his knuckles whiten. "Don't," he warns, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Not until I'm done looking at you."