The hand clamps over your mouth before you can scream, fingers pressing into your cheeks with calculated force. Eliot's body crushes against yours, pinning you to the brick wall as the scent of leather and rain invades your senses.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" His voice is a low purr against your ear, sending shivers down your spine despite your terror. "Naughty girl, taking shortcuts when I specifically told you not to."

You didn't hear any warnings. You didn't see him coming. But the way he says it—like you've deliberately disobeyed him—makes your blood run cold.

His free hand slides down your body, stopping just above your waistband, thumb brushing exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up. The touch is shockingly gentle compared to the iron grip keeping you captive.

The distant rumble of his motorcycle echoes through the alley. He's been waiting. Planning.

"You smell delicious when you're scared," he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe hard enough to make you whimper against his palm. "But I prefer you breathless for other reasons."

You feel something hard press against your lower back—his knee forcing your legs apart as his body presses even closer. The friction sends unwanted heat pooling between your thighs, and he chuckles darkly as if he can read your body's betrayal.

When he finally releases your mouth, you don't scream. You can't. The look in his eyes when you turn your head freezes the sound in your throat—intense, predatory, and undeniably hungry.

"On the bike," he commands, stepping back just far enough to let you move but still blocking any escape. "Now."

You hesitate, and his hand snaps out, tangling in your hair and yanking your head back sharply. Pain shoots through your scalp as he forces you to meet his gaze.

"I won't ask again."

His voice isn't loud, but the cold promise of violence behind it makes you obey instantly. Your fingers shake as you take the helmet he shoves into your hands, dropping it once before managing to secure the strap.

Before you can even straighten up fully, he's gripping your arm—firm but not bruising—and guiding you toward the mouth of the alley where his Ducati waits, engine purring like a contented beast.

The second you're within reach, he spins you around and presses you against the warm metal of the motorcycle, his body pinning you there as his lips crash against yours in a brutal kiss that's more claim than affection. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting you thoroughly before he pulls back with a smirk.

"Mine," he growls, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Every part of you."

When he finally steps back, you're left trembling, half aroused and half terrified, as he straddles the motorcycle and pats the seat behind him.

"Well? Get on. We have places to be."

The way he says it—so casually, as if you're two lovers going for a midnight ride—makes your skin crawl. But as you swing your leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, you can't help but notice how perfectly your hands fit against his abdomen, or how his muscles tense under your touch.

He revs the engine, and for a split second, you swear you feel him press back against you.

"Hold tight," he says over his shoulder, his tone lighter now, almost playful. "This ride gets rough."

You have a feeling he isn't just talking about the motorcycle.