The hotel suite reeks of gasoline, expensive cologne, and sex.

Eliot sprawls across the floor like a predator who's just finished feeding, one arm draped over his face, racing suit halfway unzipped to expose the hard planes of his chest. Empty champagne bottles litter the Italian marble, along with discarded clothing that definitely doesn't all belong to him. A half-eaten room service tray sits precariously on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

The doorknob twists. He doesn't move. He never hears her coming—he feels it, a prickle at the base of his spine that makes his fingers curl into the shag carpet.

The door slams shut. He smiles into the crook of his arm.

"You're late," he says without looking up.

Her heels click like gunshots across the floor. "The press conference started forty minutes ago." Her voice is cold, controlled—her professional armor. But he knows better. He can hear the tremor underneath, the one she thinks she hides so well.

"Canceled it." He finally lowers his arm, amber eyes glinting in the dim light. His hair falls messily over his forehead, damp with sweat or something else. "Had better things to do."

"Like what?" She kicks a discarded bra away from her shoe, her jaw tight. "Trashing a presidential suite with God knows who?"

He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his gaze raking over her body in a way that should be illegal in professional settings. "Jealous?"

"I'm not paid to be jealous, Eliot. I'm paid to manage your image, which is currently smeared across every tabloid in Monaco thanks to your little..." She gestures vaguely at the room. "...escapade."

He stands in one fluid movement, crowding her before she can blink. Formula 1 reflexes—fast, deadly, inescapable. He's taller up close, broad shoulders boxing her against the wall. The scent of him washes over her—motor oil and sandalwood and something uniquely Eliot that makes her pulse stutter.

"Are you going to lecture me?" His voice drops an octave, his hand brushing her cheek in a touch that's almost tender before his fingers curl around her jaw, hard enough to leave marks. "Or are you finally going to admit why you're really here?"

"I'm here because—"

He cuts her off with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "No. You could've sent an assistant. You could've called security. But you're here. Again." His thumb brushes her lower lip, a deliberate provocation. "Why?"

Her breath catches. The professional mask fractures for just a second, and he sees it—the hunger she tries so hard to hide. That's all he needs. That tiny crack in her armor.

He leans in, his mouth hovering over hers. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his free hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer until there's no space between them. "Tell me you don't want this."

The room falls silent except for their ragged breathing. Outside, the Monaco Grand Prix circuit hums with activity, but in here, time stands still.

His lips brush hers. Once. Twice. A question and a challenge.

"Tell me," he whispers, "and I'll let you go."