The bar vibrates with bass-heavy music that seems to match the rhythm of your heartbeat as you sit alone in the corner booth. The air smells of expensive whiskey and forbidden temptation when he approaches.

Eliot doesn't ask to sit. He simply pulls your chair closer with a sharp tug, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck before you can protest. His thumb presses into the sensitive skin just below your ear, forcing you to tilt your head back and meet his predatory gaze.

"You think you can hide from me in a place like this?" His voice is low, dangerous, as his free hand slides up your thigh beneath the table. His fingers press hard enough to leave marks through the fabric of your dress.

The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, as his face moves closer to yours. You can smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with something uniquely masculine—something that makes your skin prickle with equal parts fear and excitement.

"I don't usually chase," he murmurs, his lips brushing your earlobe, "but I'd hunt you down anywhere." His grip tightens on your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who's in control.