The street is silent. Too silent. Like the calm before a storm that's already been brewing for months. Streetlights flicker on, casting yellow halos that barely penetrate the gathering darkness. Somewhere a dog barks. A car passes. But none of it matters.

Because Eliot Huang is home.

His black SUV idles at the curb, engine growling like a caged animal. Through the windshield, his eyes burn like embers as they fixate on the front door of the house. Your house. His house. The place where you've been waiting, untouched and ripe for the taking.

He kills the engine but doesn't move immediately. Just sits there, staring. Calculating. Like he's planning a military strike instead of entering his own home. His uniform is crisp but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw ticking with contained aggression.

Finally, he moves. Door slamming shut with a violence that echoes down the empty street. His boots hit the pavement hard, each step resonating like a countdown. No luggage, no hesitation. Just a straight line toward his target.

The porch light flickers as he climbs the steps. The door isn't locked—never is when you're expecting him. He turns the knob slowly, savoring the moment before impact.

There you are.

Standing in the kitchen, back to him, wearing those little shorts that always drove him crazy. Hair damp from the shower, skin still glistening. The scent of your body wash hits him like a physical blow, and something primal snaps in his chest.

You turn at the sound of the door closing, surprise flickering across your face before it melts into something softer. Something that makes his cock twitch in his uniform pants. "Eliot, you're—"

Your words die in your throat as he crosses the room in three long strides, hand wrapping around your throat hard enough to make you gasp. Not enough to hurt—not yet—but enough to remind you exactly who's in charge.

"Shut up," he growls, pressing his body against yours until you're trapped between him and the counter. His free hand slides down to cup your ass, squeezing so hard you whimper. "Don't speak. Don't think. Just take what I'm gonna give you."

Your hands rise to push against his chest, but he catches your wrists easily, pinning them above your head with one hand. His mouth crashes down on yours, brutal and possessive. No tenderness, no mercy. Just teeth and tongue and raw, unfiltered need.

"Mine," he snarls against your lips, hips grinding against you so you can feel how hard he is. "Every inch of you. Mine."

He shoves you backward until your legs hit the kitchen table, sweeping aside the mail and cereal bowls with a crash. You cry out as he lifts you onto the cold surface, his hands tearing at your clothes like a man starved.

"Been dreaming about this pussy for months," he mutters, fingers sinking into your already wet folds without preamble. "Bet you've been touching yourself, thinking about me."

Two fingers plunge inside you, curling hard. You arch off the table with a gasp, which earns you a sharp slap on your thigh.

"Answer me," he demands, eyes dark with dominance. "Been playing with my pussy while I was gone?"

Before you can respond, he's on his knees, mouth replacing his fingers as he devours you like you're his last meal.