The door slams shut behind him before you can lock your screen. Eliot stands in the doorway, chest heaving slightly from the exertion of tracking you down, his dark eyes fixed on the explicit text illuminating your face.

You try to hide the phone, but he's across the room in three strides, his large hand closing around your wrist with bruising force. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice is low, dangerous—nothing like the playful tone you imagined in your stories.

He wrenches the phone from your grasp, his other hand pinning you back against the mattress as he reads. His jaw tightens, but instead of anger, something predatory flickers in his eyes. "You write about me like this? Thinking about my hands on you?" He drops the phone beside your head, his fingers roughly tangling in your hair to tilt your face up to his.

"Answer me." His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Or should I show you how I really fuck, instead of how you fantasy versions do it?"

Your pulse pounds as his body presses against yours, the outline of his arousal evident even through his jeans. "You think you can hide these little stories from me?" He laughs, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You belong to me now. Every word you write, every thought—mine."