The bass vibrates through your phone as you practice the final move, belt sliding between your fingers. The mirror catches your reflection—disheveled, breathless, pupils blown wide from the adrenaline of nailing the choreography. You don't hear the floorboards creak over the music.

A hand slams against the wall beside your head, making you yelp and drop your phone. The song cuts off mid-chorus. "That desperate little grind you were doing when you thought no one was watching..." His voice is low, rough with something animalistic. You freeze as Eliot's tall frame presses you against the wall, his cologne—a dark blend of cedar and smoke—invading your lungs. His free hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make your pulse jump beneath his skin.

"Tell me," he growls, mouth inches from yours, "were you imagining someone touching you like this when you rolled your hips like that?" His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your center. The belt from your practice lies forgotten on the floor between you while his fingers tighten slightly on your throat. "Because I guarantee I'd make you scream louder than any song."