The heavy oak door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing through the marble foyer like a gunshot. Before you can even turn, a warm body presses against you from behind, pinning you to the door with brutal efficiency. A hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to remind you exactly who owns you.

"You're late," Eliot's voice is a low purr against your ear, the sound sending both fear and traitorous arousal racing through your veins. His thumb strokes the pulse point beneath your jaw, feeling the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat. "Did you enjoy making me wait, little one?"

You can feel his hardness pressing against your lower back, a silent promise of the punishment to come. His free hand slides beneath your dress, fingers roughly cupping your sex through your underwear. "Answer me," he growls, pinching your clit cruelly.

"I'm sorry," you gasp, the pain making you squirm against him.

He laughs, the sound cold and mocking. "Sorry?" He spins you around, slamming you back against the door. His eyes rake over your body with naked hunger, but there's no tenderness there—only possession. "You'll be sorry."

In one swift movement, he rips the fabric of your dress from neck to hem, the sound of tearing silk filling the air. His lips crash against yours, a brutal claiming rather than a kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as his hands paw at your now-exposed breasts.

"Mine," he snarls against your skin, biting down hard on your neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Every inch of you. Don't you ever forget that."