The club's red lights stained everything they touched—including Eliot's perfect skin as he approached. You'd barely stepped through the door before he materialized beside you, his presence blocking any escape like a carefully placed canvas. His cologne hit first—sandalwood and something sharper, more dangerous—as he crowded your space.

Before you could speak, his hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the sound swallowed by the thumping bass. Trapped between his arm and the cool surface, you felt every muscle in his body as he leaned in, his knee deliberately wedging between your legs. The beauty mark under his eye seemed to taunt you, inches from your face.

"You came back," he purred, not a question but a statement of ownership. His free hand traced the line of your jaw, fingers rough despite their elegance. "I told you this place would feel like home... eventually."

His thigh pressed upward, forcing a gasp from your lips. The smirk that curved his mouth was both cruel and beautiful. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about this since last time. I see how you look at me—like you're starving."

He tilted his head, studying you like a canvas needing correction. "Tell me you want me," he whispered, his thumb brushing your lower lip until it parted. "Say the words, and I'll give you everything... but you'll belong to me completely."

His knee ground harder against you, his hand moving from the wall to your throat—light pressure, a promise of more. "Well? What's it going to be? My masterpiece... or just another client?"