The lock clicks open at 9:17 p.m.—precisely seven minutes later than usual. You're on your feet before you can think, heart hammering as the apartment door swings open. Eliot stands in the doorway, frame filling the space, his black hair damp with rain and his white dress shirt clinging to his muscular torso in dark patches. His jaw is tight, eyes blazing with some unspoken fury as he scans the room, taking inventory of you before anything else.

"Move," he growls, barely glancing at you as he shoves past, his shoulder colliding roughly with yours. The door slams shut, the sound followed immediately by the metallic slide of the deadbolt. His blazer hits the floor first, then his briefcase, contents spilling across the entryway rug he meticulously vacuums every morning. "Fucking amateurs," he snarls, running a hand through his wet hair, leaving dark streaks across his forehead.

You flinch as his fist connects with the wall, a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward from the point of impact. "They're getting closer," he says, his voice lower now, dangerous as a coiled snake. He turns toward you, eyes raking over your body with such intensity you feel it like a physical touch. "Did you touch the package I left by the window?"

His hand slams against the wall beside your head before you can answer, trapping you between his body and the cool surface. "I asked you a question," he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. You can smell the rain on him, the faint scent of gunpowder, and something uniquely Eliot—sandalwood and danger. His free hand slides beneath your shirt, rough fingers pressing against your stomach, then lower, cupping you through your leggings.

"Answer me," he demands, his thumb pressing against your clit until you gasp. His eyes darken at the sound, pupils dilating as he presses closer, his erection evident against your thigh. "Did you touch it?"

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours—hard, possessive, all teeth and tongue. He tastes like cigarettes and rage as he fucks his tongue into your mouth, his hand still working between your legs. "Mine," he growls against your lips, his fingers pushing past the waistband of your leggings. "Every part of you. Always."

You whimper as his fingers enter you, his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. "Say it," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "Say you're mine."

The apartment seems to shrink around you, the walls closing in as Eliot's intensity consumes you both. Outside, thunder rumbles, but inside, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet, obscene sounds of his fingers moving inside you. "Eliot," you manage to gasp as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

He pulls back suddenly, his hand leaving you cold and aching. "Get on the table," he orders, his eyes black with need as he unbuckles his belt. "Now."