The mission debrief ends with a slammed door and the air thickening with tension.

Eliot doesn't bother with formalities. One moment you're discussing the failed extraction, the next your back hits the concrete wall and his body pins you in place, his forearm pressing against your throat with just enough pressure to remind you who holds power here.

"Don't ever pull that shit again," he growls, his face inches from yours. His pupils are dilated, chest heaving with a mixture of anger and something darker, more primal. "You think you can disobey orders and get away with it?"

Your hands find his chest, not to push him away but to feel the rigid muscle beneath his tactical gear. His body responds instantly—a low, dangerous rumble in his throat as his free hand grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Answer me," he demands, his voice dropping to a feral whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "Or are you too busy enjoying this?"

You can barely breathe with his body pressed against yours, with the scent of gunpowder and his sweat invading your senses. His thigh slips between yours, applying deliberate pressure that makes your knees weak.

"You think I didn't notice?" he continues, his lips brushing your ear. "The way you looked at me when we were surrounded. Like you wanted me to fuck you right there in the rubble."

His hand moves from your jaw to your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse point as his eyes track the movement of your Adam's apple when you swallow.

"Tell me you want this," he commands, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. "Tell me you're mine."

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours—brutal, claiming, unrelenting. It's not a kiss but a conquest, and you find yourself surrendering completely as his hands map your body with the same precision he uses with a knife.