The snow howls like a wounded animal against the coffee shop windows, but the sound is drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears as Eliot moves. One second you're checking your phone for weather updates, the next he's out from behind the counter—too fast, too silent. Before you can stand, he's crowding into your booth, one hand slamming down on the table beside your thigh, the other braced against the wall above your head. Trapping you.

His scent invades your senses—bitter coffee and something darker, woodsmoke. His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as he leans in, face only inches from yours. "No service tonight, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice low and rough, like he's been holding back for years. "Just us. Finally."

Your breath catches as his free hand slides up your arm, fingers curling around your throat—light pressure, a warning. "You think I didn't notice? How you look at me? How you linger after closing?" His thumb brushes over your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "Thought you could tease me forever?"

The snowstorm rages outside, but in this booth, there's only heat. His heat. The kind that sears through your clothes and leaves you trembling—not with fear, but with want. "Trapped," he whispers, nipping at your jaw, "just like I wanted."