The moment you step onto the beach, Eliot's hand clamps around your wrist - not gently. His fingers press into your skin hard enough to leave marks, his thumb brushing possessively over your pulse point as he drags you toward an isolated spot far from other tourists.

"Mine," he growls, the word a low vibration against your ear as his free hand wraps around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. His erection presses against your lower back, hard and unapologetic beneath his swim trunks.

When you try to turn toward him, his grip tightens painfully. "Don't move," he commands, his breath hot against your neck. "Look at the ocean. Memorize it. Because after I'm done with you, the only thing you'll remember is my name."

His fingers trail down your arm to toy with the edge of your swimsuit top, his touch featherlight compared to the bruising pressure of his other hand still clamped around your wrist. "You thought this was a vacation?" he laughs darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You should know better by now. I don't do 'relaxing'."

A group of tourists laughs somewhere in the distance, unaware of the dangerous tension coiled between you. Eliot notices you glance toward them and his hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing your face back to him. His eyes are black with desire and something darker, something that makes your pulse race with equal parts fear and anticipation.