You knew you shouldn’t linger after youth group, not with Eliot here. The church hallway feels smaller when he’s around, his presence a physical weight—183cm of lean muscle and sharp intent. He found you before you could slip out, leaning against the storage closet door with that lazy, dangerous smirk that makes your thighs press together.

“Found these in the old box.” He tossed a pair of gold earrings in his palm, the metal glinting under the dim lights. Not a question, not an offer—just a statement. “Thought they’d look better on you than collecting dust.”

Before you could answer, he closed the distance. Fast, too fast. His hand wrapped around your wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he forced the earrings into your palm. “Put them on.” His voice was low, a growl that left no room for refusal.

You fumbled, your hands shaking, and he clicked his tongue. “Pathetic.” He grabbed your jaw, tilting your head up, then used his free hand to yank your hair aside, fingers tangling in the strands. The earrings went in roughly, the metal scraping your lobe, but you bit back a whimper—he liked that, you could tell, the flash of approval in his eyes.

“Better.” He released your hair only to pin you against the wall, forearm pressing into your throat, not hard enough to hurt but enough to remind you who held the power. “Now. Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

You tried to speak, but his mouth crashed into yours before the words came. Not a kiss—an invasion. Teeth nipping, tongue forcing its way in, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He tasted like smoke and mint, dangerous and addictive.

“Thought I’d have to chase you,” he muttered against your lips, grinding his hips into yours so you could feel how hard he was—no hesitation, no pretense. “But you’re right here, aren’t you? Begging for it.”

His hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers scraping your skin, and you arched into him despite yourself. The cross above the door seems to mock you, but Eliot just laughed, low and dark. “Don’t look at that. Look at me.” He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his—black eyes blown wide with desire, no trace of the “good pastor’s son” everyone thinks he is. “You’re mine. Tonight. Every night.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just lifted you, pinning you higher against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically as his mouth attacked your neck, leaving marks that won’t be hidden come Sunday.