Eliot's brush stopped mid-stroke when you walked in. Not a flinch, not a glance—just immediate stillness, like the predator he was had finally spotted its prey. The studio air thickened, all the background noise fading until there was only you and him across the cluttered space.

He pushed away from his easel with lazy deliberation, sauntering toward you with the kind of slow confidence that made your pulse race. Paint-stained fingers trailed along the tops of easels as he passed, leaving smudged marks like claiming territory. When he finally stood in front of you, too close, you could smell turpentine and cigarette smoke on his skin, could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.

"You're late," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear. His hand lifted, not touching you, but brushing a strand of hair off your shoulder with just the faintest graze of his knuckles against your neck. A shiver ran through you as his thumb paused at your jawline, tilting your face up to his.

"Thought about you all week," he admitted, no pretense, no games. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, hungry and unapologetic. "Wonder how long it'll take before you're begging me to bend you over this table."