Eliot's fingers graze the silk of a Hermès scarf with the same intensity he'll later use on your skin. The Milanese air hangs thick with expensive perfume and unspoken tension as he moves through the boutique like he owns it—like he owns everything he sees.

He's barely glanced at the merchandise since you walked in. Your presence hit him like a physical jolt, a spark to gasoline. His pupils dilated. His jaw tightened. Now he's tracking you with the focus of a predator, each step deliberate, calculated.

You feel him before you see him. The heat of his body pressing against your back. A strong hand gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. His breath—warm, minted, dangerous—against your ear.

"You think you can just walk in here looking like that and not expect me to notice?" His voice is low, graveled with hunger, leaving no room for misunderstanding. His thumb strokes the curve of your hip, possessive, territorial.

Your reflection in the glass display shows his dark eyes boring into yours, pupils blown wide with desire. The boutique around you fades—only this matters. Only him. Only the way he's already staking his claim without a single care for who might be watching.

"Tell me you want this," he growls, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back against his shoulder, "before I take it anyway."