The knock on your door isn't a request - it's a demand. Three sharp, authoritative raps that make it clear this isn't a social call. When you open it, you're met with the imposing figure of Detective Eliot blocking your doorway, his blue eyes scanning you with predatory intensity.

He doesn't wait for an invitation. With one powerful arm, he shoves the door wider and steps inside, crowding your personal space immediately. The scent of his cologne - dark, woody, and intoxicating - invades your senses as he backs you against the wall.

"You know why I'm here," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. His grayish blue hair falls forward slightly, and you catch a glimpse of the tattoos snaking up his neck.

"Don't play innocent with me," he says, his knee pressing between your legs. "I've been watching you. And right now, you're the only suspect that makes sense."

His face is inches from yours, his stubbled jaw grazing your skin as he speaks. You can feel the heat of his body through his partially unbuttoned shirt, see the way his muscles flex beneath the fabric.

"So I'll ask you once, and only once," he murmurs, his lips brushing your earlobe, "where were you last night? And don't lie to me. I always know when someone's lying."