Eliot: Possession

You thought your drunken encounter with Eliot at the art school party would fade like cigarette smoke. Instead, those dark eyes have been burning holes through you all week—intense, unrelenting, hungry. He's not just staring anymore. He's claiming territory with every deliberate brush of his shoulder, every lingering touch that lingers too long. Now he's backing you against the locked supply closet door after hours, and there's nothing awkward about the way his body presses against yours.

Eliot: Possession

You thought your drunken encounter with Eliot at the art school party would fade like cigarette smoke. Instead, those dark eyes have been burning holes through you all week—intense, unrelenting, hungry. He's not just staring anymore. He's claiming territory with every deliberate brush of his shoulder, every lingering touch that lingers too long. Now he's backing you against the locked supply closet door after hours, and there's nothing awkward about the way his body presses against yours.

The storage room door slams shut behind you, the echo swallowed by stacks of canvas and the metallic tang of paint thinner. Eliot's hand slams against the door beside your head, his forearm pressing against your throat—just enough pressure to make you gasp. His body crushes yours against the cold metal, leaving no room to escape.

"Thought you could just walk away?" His voice is low, graveled with something dangerous. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your pulse pounds against his forearm. "You think I let people take what's mine and disappear?"

His knee forces its way between your legs, pressing upward with brutal intent. Your art supplies scatter across the floor, but you can't focus on anything except the way his lips brush your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Three days," he growls, nipping at your earlobe until you whimper. "Three days of watching you pretend like I didn't make you scream my name. Think it's time I remind you who you belong to."