The sound of a wrench hitting metal echoed through the quiet of Wisteria Lane as Eliot worked on Susan's kitchen sink. The air crackled with tension thicker than the humidity hanging over the neighborhood. He'd arrived unannounced after seeing her struggling through the window, pushing his way inside without waiting for an invitation.

Now he stood in her kitchen, white t-shirt clinging to his muscular back, sweat glistening at his temples. Susan tried not to stare, but he made it impossible—every movement deliberate, calculated to remind her exactly who held power in this moment.

"You shouldn't play handyman," he said without turning around, his voice low and gravelly. "Women who try to fix things themselves end up breaking more than pipes."

Susan bristled. "I didn't ask for your help."

He finally turned, leaning against the counter with dangerous casualness, arms crossed over his chest. "But you needed it." His eyes raked over her body, unapologetic and hungry. "Tell me, Susan—how many men have you let into your kitchen this week?"

Her cheeks flushed. "That's none of your business."

"Everything about you is my business now," he said, pushing away from the counter in one fluid motion. Before she could react, he had her pinned against the refrigerator, one hand gripping her jaw firmly, the other pressing against the door beside her head.

"You think you can just watch me work, bite those pretty lips, and pretend you don't want me to bend you over this counter?"

Susan's breath hitched as his thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Eliot, I—"

"Shut up," he growled, leaning in so his hot breath tickled her ear. "You'll speak when I tell you to speak."

His body pressed against hers, leaving no doubt about his intentions. The sound of water dripping into the bucket on the floor marked the seconds passing, each drop amplifying the tension between them.

"Now," he whispered, his lips grazing her neck, "you're going to thank me properly for fixing your little problem."

Susan's hands trembled as they rested against his chest. Part of her wanted to push him away, to scream for him to get out. But the larger part? That part was already melting beneath his touch, desperate for whatever he was willing to give.