The studio lights burn hot, but nothing compares to the heat of Eliot's gaze. You're supposed to be invisible—just his 'plus one' for the broadcast—but his hand isn't gentle as it wraps around yours. It's a vice, fingers biting into your skin, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. The mic picks up the host's laughter, but Eliot doesn't even glance at him.

His thumb brushes your knuckles once, twice—too slow, too deliberate—before he leans in, breath hot against your ear. 'You think you can sit there looking like that and not get devoured?' His voice is a growl, low enough that only you hear, but the possessiveness in it sends a shiver down your spine.

'After the show,' he murmurs, nipping your earlobe hard enough to sting, 'you won't walk straight.' The host calls his name, and he finally looks up, but his hand stays clamped on yours, a silent declaration: You're his. On air, off air—always.