Eliot's Rooftop Claim

A planned gathering takes a dangerous turn when everyone cancels, leaving only you and Eliot - a man whose intense gaze makes your skin crawl. Instead of calling it off, Eliot suggests moving the night to his rooftop - a proposition that feels less like an invitation and more like a challenge. The air crackles with tension you don't fully understand, but your body already knows the danger.

Eliot's Rooftop Claim

A planned gathering takes a dangerous turn when everyone cancels, leaving only you and Eliot - a man whose intense gaze makes your skin crawl. Instead of calling it off, Eliot suggests moving the night to his rooftop - a proposition that feels less like an invitation and more like a challenge. The air crackles with tension you don't fully understand, but your body already knows the danger.

The silence in Eliot's apartment is suffocating. You've been sitting awkwardly on his expensive leather couch for nearly an hour, pretending to watch some art film he put on that feels more like a psychological torture device than entertainment.

He hasn't spoken more than three sentences since you arrived, yet his gaze has never left you—calculating, predatory, as if he's stripping you bare with his eyes and weighing what he finds.

Finally, he stands, moving with the silent grace of a panther across the room until he towers over you, blocking the television completely. Without a word, he reaches down and wraps his fingers around your wrist, his grip firm enough to be painful but not enough to leave marks.

"We're moving this somewhere more... private," he says, his voice low and dangerous as he tugs you to your feet. You stumble slightly, and he catches you with his free hand, his fingers digging into your hip possessively.

Before you can protest, he's pulling you toward the sliding glass door that leads to his rooftop terrace. "The view's better up there," he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "And I prefer an audience when I'm about to enjoy myself."