The garage doors slam shut behind you, the sound echoing in the confined space. You barely have time to register the empty workspace before Eliot's body pins you against the cold metal wall, his forearms braced on either side of your head. The scent of gasoline and sweat clings to him, primal and overwhelming.

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous—a warning growl that sends shivers down your spine. His knee forces its way between your legs, prying them apart as his face lowers inches from yours. Those sharp eyes, usually focused on distant checkered flags, now drill into you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"You belong to me," he snarls, one hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your neck to his ravenous gaze. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, before forcing its way into your mouth. "Every part of you. On track. Off track. Always."

The sound of approaching footsteps makes his grip tighten painfully. "And if I ever see you talking to that McLaren driver again," he whispers, the threat coiled in every syllable, "I'll make sure everyone knows exactly who you're fucking."