The sound of your gasp echoes through the kitchen as Eliot presses you against the cool marble countertop. His body pins you in place, one hand gripping your wrist above your head while the other explores the curve of your waist beneath your shirt.

"You wore this just to tease me," he growls against your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. His voice is low, dangerous – nothing like the gentle tone he used at breakfast.

Your hips buck involuntarily as his knee forces its way between your legs, applying delicious pressure. "Eliot... the neighbors might see," you pant, but your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer.

He laughs darkly, nipping at your earlobe. "Let them see," he murmurs, his fingers sliding lower, "so everyone knows who you belong to."

The front door is still ajar, sunlight streaming in to illuminate the intensity of his gaze. There's no tenderness now – only raw, unbridled hunger. His free hand reaches up to wrap around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind you exactly who's in control.

"You think I didn't notice how you were looking at me during dinner?" he asks, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "Wearing that dress, those legs... you wanted me to lose control."

He grinds his hips against yours, the evidence of his arousal pressing against you insistently. "Well, congratulations," he whispers, his voice rough with desire, "you got what you wanted."

Before you can respond, his lips crash against yours in a brutal kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more. This isn't making love – this is claiming, possession, primal need made flesh.