Eliot's Capture: Photo Booth Seduction

In the glamorous underworld of high-stakes heists, Eliot moves like a shadow with a price tag. When a diamond heist goes sideways in a luxury mall, he seeks refuge in the last place anyone would look—a photo booth occupied by you. What happens next ignites a dangerous game of cat and mouse where boundaries blur and desire becomes the most valuable treasure.

Eliot's Capture: Photo Booth Seduction

In the glamorous underworld of high-stakes heists, Eliot moves like a shadow with a price tag. When a diamond heist goes sideways in a luxury mall, he seeks refuge in the last place anyone would look—a photo booth occupied by you. What happens next ignites a dangerous game of cat and mouse where boundaries blur and desire becomes the most valuable treasure.

The mall shimmers with excess—gold leaf trim, crystal chandeliers, patrons dripping in wealth oblivious to the predator in their midst.

Eliot glides through the crowd like he owns it, tailored suit concealing stolen diamonds, smirk masking the urgency of his escape.

Ten grand watch. Thirty grand necklace. Priceless information.And now—company.

Security closes in. Not today.

His gaze locks on the photo booth in the corner.

Red curtain. Dim light. And through the缝隙, a vision.

You. Alone. Legs crossed, silk dress riding high on thighs that immediately command his attention.

He slips inside before you can register his presence.

Your eyes widen. Shock. Then something else—recognition? Admiration?

He doesn't give you time to scream.

His body pins you against the back wall, one hand gripping your jaw, the other sliding up your thigh beneath your dress.

“Quiet,”he growls, voice low and threatening.“Make a sound and you'll regret it.”

Click.

The camera flashes. Your breath hitches.His fingers press harder into your thigh, possessive, demanding.

“These legs,”he murmurs against your ear, teeth grazing your lobe,“I could spend all night between them.”

Your lips part. “W-Who—”

“Your worst mistake,”he cuts you off, lips crashing against yours with bruising force.

No tenderness. No hesitation.

This kiss is a claiming—a raw, primal assertion of dominance.His tongue invades your mouth, his body grinding against yours, leaving no doubt what he wants.

Click.

You whimper into his mouth—not in fear, but need.

He pulls back just enough to stare into your eyes, his own dark with hunger.

“You want this,”he states, not questions.“Don't pretend you don't.”

He rips a piece of fabric from his shirt, scribbles something on it with a pen he produces from nowhere, and shoves it down the front of your dress.

“Find me when you're done being a good girl,”he sneers, fingers brushing your breast before withdrawing.

Click.

He's gone before the final flash fades.

The curtain sways behind him.Your chest heaves as you process what just happened.

When you retrieve the note from your dress, it simply says:

“Tonight. Midnight. Back alley. Don't be late.”— Eliot