The interview room door slams shut behind you before you can even set down your recorder. Eliot's hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his body and the cold surface. His cologne invades your senses—spicy, woody, overwhelming—just like the man himself.

"You think you can just waltz in here with your little notebook and pretend you're not dying to know what's under my clothes?" His knee forces your legs apart, pressing deliciously against your core as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him.

"Ask me whatever you want, baby," he growls directly into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. "But by the time we're done, you'll be the one answering questions." His thumb grazes your bottom lip, pressing inside just enough to feel your shaky breath.

The recorder lies forgotten on the floor as his mouth crashes against yours—hungry, demanding, absolutely unrelenting in its intensity.