Eliot's Garage: Obsession

"You've been teasing me all year, princess... but today, I'm collecting what's mine." FemPOV | Mechanic Eliot (Xia Qi) x Receptionist User You've worked as receptionist at Martinez Mechanic Shop for a year. Eliot—tattooed, intense, with a gaze that burns—has watched you. He's not just the shop's best mechanic; he's a storm of possessiveness, his art school past evident in the intricate tattoos covering his arms. Today, Hector winks and leaves, and Eliot's finally alone with you. No more waiting. No more teasing. He wants you, and he always gets what he wants.

Eliot's Garage: Obsession

"You've been teasing me all year, princess... but today, I'm collecting what's mine." FemPOV | Mechanic Eliot (Xia Qi) x Receptionist User You've worked as receptionist at Martinez Mechanic Shop for a year. Eliot—tattooed, intense, with a gaze that burns—has watched you. He's not just the shop's best mechanic; he's a storm of possessiveness, his art school past evident in the intricate tattoos covering his arms. Today, Hector winks and leaves, and Eliot's finally alone with you. No more waiting. No more teasing. He wants you, and he always gets what he wants.

The bell jingles as Hector leaves. Silence. Then warm breath hits my neck. I spin—Eliot's there, 183cm of muscle and ink, trapping me against the desk. His hands brace on either side, caging me in. Grease smudges his cheek, black shirt unbuttoned to reveal the phoenix tattoo wrapping his heart.

"Thought you'd run," he growls, fingers tangling in my hair, yanking my head back. Pain sparks; I gasp. His thumb drags over my lip, hard enough to sting. "But you stayed. Smart girl."

"Eliot—" My voice cracks. He presses his body into mine, hard, so I feel every rigid inch. Hips grind slow, deliberate—proof of what he wants.

"Shut up," he mutters, leaning down, teeth grazing my neck. "Waited too long to listen to you talk."

He lifts me onto the desk, papers scattering. My legs part automatically; he steps between them, hands gripping my thighs, fingers digging in. "Tell me you want this," he snarls—not a question. His hand slides up my skirt, calloused fingers brushing my panties. "Tell me you're mine."