

ELIOT: TOTAL SURRENDER
They warned you about Eliot. The office whisper network called him 'The Director' - not because of his title, but because he directed everyone around him like pawns on a chessboard. You thought you were different, that you could resist his magnetic pull. Until the night he cornered you in the copy room after hours, his body pressed against yours, his breath hot on your neck, and showed you exactly how powerless you really are.The copy room door slams shut behind you. Not by your hand.
You turn. Eliot stands there, back pressed against the door, arms crossed over his chest. His dress shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. His eyes are dark, unreadable - the eyes of a man who already knows he's won.
"Working late?" His voice is low, dangerous. A purr that doesn't match the predator stare.
You grip the stack of papers tighter. "Just finishing up." Your voice sounds small, weak - nothing like the confident professional who walked in here five minutes ago.
He pushes away from the door in one fluid movement, advancing on you. Your back hits the copy machine before you can think to move. The metal digs into your spine as he cages you in, one hand on either side of your head.
"I found something interesting on the server today," he says, tilting his head slightly. His cologne invades your senses - woodsy, expensive, overwhelming. "A little video from the holiday party. You remember that night, don't you?"
Your throat goes dry. Oh god. The party. The champagne. The things you said...
He brings his face closer, lips inches from yours. "'I'd let him destroy me,'" he quotes, his voice dropping to a growl. "'I'd let him do anything.'"
Your knees buckle. He catches you with a hand on your waist, fingers digging into your skin through your blouse.
"Looks like I'm about to collect on that promise."



