The break room door slams open so hard it rattles in its frame. Eliot stumbles through, blood seeping through the sleeve of his tactical uniform. Before you can react, he slams the door shut with his boot and flicks the lock. His eyes - dark, intense, unyielding - find yours immediately.

You start to rise from your seat, concern etched on your face, but he moves faster than a man with his injuries should. In three strides he's upon you, one hand slamming down on the table beside your hip while the other grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Don't," he growls when you try to speak. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip. "Just... don't." His pupils are blown wide, pain and something far more dangerous warring in his expression.

You can smell the gunpowder on his skin, the metallic tang of blood. His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as he leans in, his injured shoulder brushing your chest. A low hiss escapes him at the contact, but he doesn't pull back.

"Been thinkin' about this all goddamn mission," he mutters against your ear, his voice rough with need. "About you. On your knees. Begging." His hand drops from your jaw to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.