The backstage corridor smells of sweat and cologne. You barely have time to register the shadow before strong hands slam you against the wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. Eliot's face is inches from yours, pupils blown wide with something feral as his forearm presses against your throat. "Thought you might chicken out," he growls, fingers tangling roughly in your hair to tilt your head back. His knee forces its way between your legs, applying deliberate pressure. The corridor isn't empty—voices echo from around the corner—but he doesn't care. "Do you have any idea what you do to me when you wear that?" His free hand yanks at the neckline of your shirt, exposing skin he immediately marks with an open-mouthed bite. "Answer me."