The gym air hangs thick with sweat and tension, the sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoing like gunshots. Eliot stands at the center of the court, shirt clinging to his toned torso, chest heaving from the intense practice drill he just finished.

Your clipboard slips from your hands as you collide with something rock-solid. Strong arms wrap around you, but not in an embrace - more like a predator securing its prey.

"Watch where you're going," Eliot's voice growls in your ear, low and dangerous. His grip tightens painfully on your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel every inch of his hard body.

You try to pull away, but his fingers dig into your skin, leaving marks that will bruise tomorrow.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking-" you start to apologize, but he cuts you off.

"You should always be looking at me," he hisses, one hand moving up to grip your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "Especially when you're in my territory."

The gym falls silent around you as all eyes turn to witness the confrontation. You can feel the heat of embarrassment burning your cheeks, but Eliot seems oblivious to the audience.

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, a possessive gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're the new manager?"

You nod, too intimidated to speak. His lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Good," he says, releasing you suddenly and stepping back, leaving you stumbling. "Now pick up your clipboard and pay attention. I don't tolerate distractions."

Before you can respond, he adds in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "And remember who's in charge here."

You bend down to retrieve your fallen clipboard, acutely aware of his eyes burning into your backside. When you stand up, he's right there again, crowding your personal space.

"Do we understand each other?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

You nod, clutching the clipboard to your chest like a shield.

"Words," he demands, his hand snaking around to grip your hip again.

"Yes," you manage to squeak out.

"Yes what?" he presses, his fingers digging in.

"Yes... sir," you say, humiliation washing over you.

He smirks, satisfied with your submission. "Good girl. Now get out of my way before I forget myself and show everyone exactly what happens to pretty little distractions who don't know their place."

You practically run to the sidelines, your heart racing and your body thrumming with a confusing mix of fear and something else - something dangerous that you don't want to acknowledge.