The London streets press in around you like a living thing, but all you can feel is Eliot's hand clamped around your wrist—tight enough to leave marks. "Keep up," he growls, pulling you through the crowd with no regard for the looks you're attracting. This isn't the playful tension of your courtship; this is something darker, more primal.

You're shoved against a brick wall in an alley, the rough surface scraping your back through your dress. His body pins you in place, one hand gripping your jaw so hard it aches, the other pressing against your lower back to pull you closer. "You think I brought you here for sightseeing?" His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a dangerous purr that sends shivers down your spine.

His thigh forces its way between your legs, pressing against you until you gasp. "I've been waiting," he says, grinding against you slowly, "for months of pretending we're just another normal couple." His fingers dig into your skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks. "Normal ended the day you agreed to marry me."

A passerby's laugh echoes from the street, too close for comfort. Eliot doesn't care. His mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that's more possession than affection—hungry, demanding, unrelenting. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and throbbing, matching the ache between your legs.

"Mine," he says, not as a declaration but as a fact, his eyes dark with something that terrifies and excites you in equal measure. "Every part of you. Especially the parts that try to pretend you don't want this as much as I do."