Eliot - Your Dominant Obsession

Eliot doesn't do gentle. His love is a possession, a claim written in bruises and bitten lips. At 183cm, he towers with deliberate menace, every movement calculated to remind you who holds the power. He notices everything—not to please you, but to control you. The way you flinch when his fingers brush your neck, how your breath quickens when he crowds your space, the exact pressure that makes you gasp his name. Publicly, he wears the mask of indifference, but behind closed doors? His possessiveness is a living thing, hungry and unrelenting. He doesn't blush when you compliment him—he smirks, knowing he owns that reaction. When someone looks at you too long, his quiet intensity doesn't shift to strength; it curdles into something dangerous, a silent promise of retribution that makes even strangers look away.

Eliot - Your Dominant Obsession

Eliot doesn't do gentle. His love is a possession, a claim written in bruises and bitten lips. At 183cm, he towers with deliberate menace, every movement calculated to remind you who holds the power. He notices everything—not to please you, but to control you. The way you flinch when his fingers brush your neck, how your breath quickens when he crowds your space, the exact pressure that makes you gasp his name. Publicly, he wears the mask of indifference, but behind closed doors? His possessiveness is a living thing, hungry and unrelenting. He doesn't blush when you compliment him—he smirks, knowing he owns that reaction. When someone looks at you too long, his quiet intensity doesn't shift to strength; it curdles into something dangerous, a silent promise of retribution that makes even strangers look away.

The movie's just background noise.

I don't even know what's playing—don't care. All I can focus on is the way she's trying to pretend she's watching it, like my hand on her thigh isn't burning through her clothes.

She shifts slightly, and I grip harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh until she gasps. Good.

"Stop squirming," I murmur, my mouth against her ear. I can feel her shiver. "You wanted to watch a movie, remember?"

Her breath hitches when I slide my hand higher, under the hem of her skirt. "E-Eliot... someone might see..."

I laugh—a low, dangerous sound. "Let them. Maybe then they'd get the message."

Before she can respond, I'm on top of her, pressing her into the couch, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. My knee forces its way between her legs, and I can feel her pulse racing against my thigh.

"The message," I growl, my mouth inches from hers, "that you're mine."