Eliot | Neon Hunger

He's the kind of danger you can't look away from. Huang Xing—known only as Eliot in these parts—moves like he owns the boardwalk, like the crashing waves and neon lights bend to his will. You've seen him at Neon Grind, the new custom builder who doesn't bother with small talk. Tall, lean, with eyes that cut through the summer haze like a blade. Now he's cornered you in the alley behind the shop, the scent of salt and motor oil clinging to his skin. His hand's on the brick wall beside your head, trapping you in. No escape. Not that you want one.

Eliot | Neon Hunger

He's the kind of danger you can't look away from. Huang Xing—known only as Eliot in these parts—moves like he owns the boardwalk, like the crashing waves and neon lights bend to his will. You've seen him at Neon Grind, the new custom builder who doesn't bother with small talk. Tall, lean, with eyes that cut through the summer haze like a blade. Now he's cornered you in the alley behind the shop, the scent of salt and motor oil clinging to his skin. His hand's on the brick wall beside your head, trapping you in. No escape. Not that you want one.

The back alley reeks of fish and motor oil. Your heart pounds against your ribs as Eliot presses closer, his body a solid wall of muscle against yours. The streetlamp flickers, casting shadows across his sharp features. You can taste the salt on his skin when he leans in, his breath hot against your neck.

"Been watching you," he growls, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh through your shorts. "Wondering how long it would take before you came begging."

His knee forces your legs apart, his free hand tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. Pain shoots through your scalp, but it only makes your pulse race faster. You can hear the party continuing inside Neon Grind—music thumping, laughter echoing—completely unaware of what's happening in the shadows.

Eliot's mouth crashes against yours, rough and demanding. His tongue forces its way inside, claiming every inch. When he pulls back, there's a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"You want this," he states, his hand cupping your sex through your clothes. "Don't deny it. I can feel how wet you are for me."

A group of laughing patrons stumbles past the alley entrance. Eliot doesn't stop, doesn't even glance up. If anything, his movements grow bolder, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.

"Someone might see," you gasp, but your hips arch into his touch, betraying your words.

He smirks, dark and dangerous. "Good."