The bell above the door doesn't jingle when he enters. You don't hear him coming—too lost in the pages, your breath hitching at the explicit passage you're reading. The floorboard creaks once, and then he's there.

Strong hands slam the book shut on your lap before you can react. You look up—into Eliot's eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, lips curved in a half-smile that promises ruin. "Found you," he growls, one knee pressing between your thighs to pin you to the armchair. His scent—sandalwood and something metallic—invades your senses as he leans in, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where it went slack.

"You think I haven't been watching?" He yanks the red ribbon from the book spine, wrapping it twice around his wrist like a trophy. "Reading those filthy stories... touching yourself when you think no one's looking." His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back until your neck is bared to him. "Tell me, sweetheart—did the book teach you how to beg?"