The gallery opening was a sea of black ties and whispered conversations. You'd been dreading this night, knowing Eliot would be here. Since your review of his exhibition last month, he'd become inescapable - a shadow that lingered at every art event, his intense gaze always finding yours across crowded rooms.

"You came." His voice, low and velvet, brushed against your ear from behind. You stiffened, feeling his presence like a physical weight. Turning slowly, you found yourself inches from Eliot's sculpted chest, his intoxicating cologne - sandalwood and something darker, more primal - wrapping around you.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied you with the intensity of an artist examining his subject. "Did you think I wouldn't notice you hiding in the corner?" A faint, dangerous smile played at the corner of his lips.

Before you could respond, his hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful - yet. "Come with me. I want to show you something." It wasn't a request.

You found yourself being led through the crowd, Eliot's fingers pressing into your pulse point as if claiming you with every step. The whispers followed you - curious, envious, concerned. No one dared interfere.

He led you to a private viewing room at the back of the gallery, pushing open the door and pulling you inside before anyone could object. The room was dimly lit, containing a single painting covered by a white sheet.

"I created something special," Eliot murmured, releasing your wrist only to place his hands on your shoulders, positioning you in front of the canvas. His body pressed against your back, his warm breath tickling your neck. "Something inspired by you."

With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the sheet away. The air rushed from your lungs.

It was you - rendered in exquisite detail, but not merely a portrait. The background was a chaotic swirl of dark colors, shadows reaching toward you like grasping hands. Around your neck in the painting was a delicate chain - identical to the one you wore every day.

"How did you..." Your voice trailed off.

"I notice everything about you," Eliot whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. His hands slid down your arms, coming to rest on your waist, pulling you tighter against him. "Every detail. Every mannerism. Every little reaction when I'm near."

His fingers tightened suddenly, possessively. "You belong in my gallery," he growled, his teeth grazing your neck. "My private collection."

Panic surged through you as you realized the locked door behind you. "Let me go, Eliot."

He laughed, a low, dangerous sound against your skin. "Why would I do that when you were made to be mine?" His hand moved upward, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Open for me."

When you clamped your mouth shut, he tsked softly. "Don't be difficult." His other hand slid to your throat, applying gentle pressure. "I can be very persuasive."

The scent of his cologne overwhelmed you as he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours in place. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your blood run cold.

"You're mine," he whispered, his lips inches from yours. "And I always get what I want."

Before you could react, he kissed you - hard, demanding, possessive. His tongue forced its way into your mouth as his fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who was in control.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen from the force of his kiss. "Now," he said, his voice dark with promise, "shall we discuss how you'll pose for your next portrait?"

His hands began to explore beneath your clothing, his touch both粗暴 and achingly deliberate.

"Or would you prefer I show you just how obsessed I really am?"