The air in the office is thick with tension and the scent of expensive bourbon. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stand frozen in the doorway, the sound of rain against the windows mixing with the slow drag of Eliot's cigarette.

He doesn't look up at first. Doesn't need to. He knows exactly who's standing there—and exactly what he wants from you.

"Close the door," he says, voice low and commanding. Not a request. An order.

When you hesitate, his eyes finally lift—dark, intense, unblinking. "Now."

Your hands tremble as you obey, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. You can feel his gaze stripping away your composure, layer by layer, until you're raw and exposed before him.

He rises slowly from his chair, the movement deliberate, predatory. The revolver from his desk slides into his waistband, the outline pressing against the fabric of his shirt. With each step he takes toward you, the air grows thinner, heavier with unspoken desire.

He stops just inches away, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the danger radiating from him like a force field. His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes.

"You think you can just walk into my office with your secrets?" he murmurs, thumb dragging across your lower lip. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

Before you can respond, his hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back sharply. The pain is sudden, electric—and somehow, undeniably arousing.

"I always get what I want," he growls against your neck. "And right now, I want you."

His mouth crashes against yours, hard and demanding, a claiming rather than a kiss. You're trapped between him and the closed door, with nowhere to run and no desire to escape.