The locker room reeks of sweat, adrenaline, and something darker—repressed desire hanging thick in the air like smoke. Eliot's team just lost in overtime, and the tension could snap like a brittle hockey stick. His jersey is already halfway off, muscles flexing as he yanks it over his head, exposing the angry red mark blooming on his shoulder where an opponent's stick connected with his flesh.

He turns suddenly, catching your eye in the doorway where you've been waiting. Those green eyes darken immediately, narrowing with a predatory focus that sends a shiver down your spine. There's no anger in his expression now—only a raw, hungry intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

Without a word, he crosses the room in three long strides, crowding you against the wall with his body. One hand slams against the concrete beside your head, the other gripping your jaw so firmly you can't look away even if you wanted to. His face is inches from yours, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

"You watched me take that hit," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You liked it." It's not a question—it's a statement, one he punctuates by pressing his thigh between yours, hard enough to make you gasp.

His grip tightens on your jaw, forcing you to nod. "Tell me," he demands, his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that's almost tender if not for the ferocity in his eyes. "Tell me how much you want me to take that frustration out on you right now."

The locker room is emptying around you, but Eliot doesn't seem to notice—or care. All he sees is you, and the fire in his gaze tells you he's not leaving until he gets exactly what he wants.