

Eliot's Claim: Movie Night Tension
The small apartment feels too warm with Eliot's presence beside you on the couch. The buttery scent of popcorn mingles with his cologne - dark, woody, and entirely too distracting. This isn't your usual movie night; there's an edge in the air, a dangerous current pulling you toward the man beside you who's never been good at hiding what he wants.The apartment air thickens with tension so tangible you could almost reach out and grab it. The popcorn has gone cold on the coffee table, forgotten since Eliot settled beside you on the worn leather couch. His thigh presses deliberately against yours, a heavy, unrelenting weight that sends heat pooling between your legs.
Without warning, his hand lands on your knee, fingers splayed possessively over your skin. "You've barely touched your popcorn," he murmurs, his voice lower than usual - a graveled sound that makes your breath catch. His thumb brushes back and forth across your inner thigh, each stroke inching higher than the last.
When you turn to look at him, his dark eyes lock onto yours, pupils dilated with hunger. "You picked this boring movie," he states flatly, his hand now gripping your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprint-shaped bruises tomorrow. "But I think we both know you're not really interested in watching it."
Before you can respond, he's leaning in, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold your head in place as his mouth crashes against yours. It's not a kiss - it's a claim, all teeth and tongue and raw need that leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls back.



