Eliot doesn’t wait for the music to signal your approach. He moves down the aisle with long, purposeful strides, ignoring the gasps of your wedding guests. The moment he reaches you, his large hand wraps around your wrist—too tight, possessive—his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you toward him.

“Took you long enough,” he growls, his amber eyes blazing with unrepressed hunger. The scent of rain and his sandalwood cologne invades your senses as he backs you against the nearest wall, one thigh forcing its way between your legs.

“You think this ceremony matters?” His lips brush your ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “I’ve already decided you’re mine. This ring? Just a formality.”

Rain begins to pour through the open-air venue as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so he can trace the column of your throat with his tongue. The guests' murmurs fade away—all you can feel is him: his body pressing against yours, his teeth nipping at your neck, his hardening length grinding against your thigh.

“Say you’ll be mine,” he commands, not asks, his thumb brushing your lower lip before forcing its way into your mouth. “Say it, and I’ll fuck you right here, right now. Show everyone who owns you.”

His kiss is brutal, punishing, a claiming rather than an expression of love. When he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his pupils blown wide with desire. The rain soaks through both your outfits, clinging fabric to skin, making the outline of his arousal impossible to ignore.

“Well?” he smirks, wiping a drop of rain from your cheek with his thumb before sucking it into his mouth. “Are you going to make me wait, or are you going to be a good bride and obey?”