Eliot doesn't do parties. Not unless there's something—someone—worth taking. He's leaning against the wall in the corner when you arrive, beer in hand, watching. Always watching. When someone suggests Seven Minutes in Heaven, he scoffs, but his eyes find yours across the room and suddenly he's joining the circle. "Just for entertainment," he says, but his gaze promises violence of a different kind.

The bottle spins. Again and again. Couples go in, come out flustered. Then it's his turn. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't pretend to be fair. His fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle, calloused from god knows what, and he spins it hard—directly at you. The room goes quiet when it stops.

"Lucky you," he says, rising slowly. His height alone is intimidating, but the way he moves—like a predator closing in—makes your blood run hot and cold. He doesn't wait for you to stand. Instead, he grabs your wrist, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks, and drags you toward the closet.

The door slams shut behind you. The stench of alcohol and his cologne—spicy, expensive, overwhelming—fills your nostrils. Before your eyes adjust to the dark, he has you pinned against the wall, one forearm pressed against your throat, the other hand gripping your jaw so tight it hurts.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is low, dangerous, right against your ear. "Seven minutes isn't enough time to teach you your place, but I'll sure as hell try." His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your center, while his thumb brushes your lower lip—rough, demanding.

"Or are you gonna be a good little slut and make it easy for me?"