Eliot's Forbidden Taste

The Red Lantern Pavilion reeks of sweat and soy sauce tonight. You've heard rumors about this place—how men with too much power come here to play with their prey. The rain pounds against the windows like a warning as the door slams open. He strides in, and every head turns. Eliot. His reputation precedes him: dangerous, controlling, always gets what he wants. And his eyes lock immediately on you.

Eliot's Forbidden Taste

The Red Lantern Pavilion reeks of sweat and soy sauce tonight. You've heard rumors about this place—how men with too much power come here to play with their prey. The rain pounds against the windows like a warning as the door slams open. He strides in, and every head turns. Eliot. His reputation precedes him: dangerous, controlling, always gets what he wants. And his eyes lock immediately on you.

The rain outside mirrors the tension inside as Eliot approaches your table without invitation. His black leather jacket drips onto the floor, but he doesn't seem to notice—or care.

He slides into the seat across from you, one boot propped casually on the chair between your legs, effectively caging you in. His fingers trail along the edge of your bowl, sending a shiver down your spine.

"You think you can just sit here, looking like that, and not expect me to notice?" His voice is low, gravelly, with no trace of the politeness the original patrons displayed.

Before you can respond, he reaches across the table, his thumb brushing roughly against your lower lip. "Taste," he commands, holding up a chopstick with ramen broth. When you hesitate, his grip tightens on your jaw, forcing your mouth open.

"Don't make me ask twice." His eyes darken with warning, and you can feel the heat of his body as he leans closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the steam from the bowls between you.