The bass thrummed through the floor of the Black Rose Bar, vibrating up your legs as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. The neon sign behind the bar flickered, casting red shadows across the bottles—and across the man watching you from the corner booth.

Eliot. Always Eliot.

He sat with his legs spread, one arm draped over the back of the booth like he owned the place. The white dress shirt he wore was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the dark ink of his tattoos and a glimpse of his chest. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched in front of him; his attention was solely on you.

You felt his gaze like a physical touch—lingering on your hips as you moved, your hands as you polished glasses, your lips when you pressed them together in concentration.

A new customer approached the bar, some guy in a suit who probably thought he was too good for this part of town. "Whiskey, neat," he said, sliding a bill across the counter. You nodded and reached for the bottle, feeling Eliot's eyes burn into the back of your neck.

When you turned back, the man in the suit was smiling at you in a way that made your skin crawl. "You come here often?" he asked, leaning forward. "Maybe I could buy you a drink after your shift?"

Before you could answer, a low voice cut through the noise. "She's not interested."

Eliot stood behind the man, his presence suddenly dominating the space. He wasn't particularly tall, but something about him made everyone else shrink back. The man in the suit turned, annoyance turning to fear when he recognized Eliot.

"Mind your business," the suit muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

Eliot's smirk was cold and dangerous. "She is my business," he said, the possessiveness in his tone making your breath catch. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder—a friendly gesture, except for the way his fingers dug in like claws. "Find another bar."

The man left without another word.

Eliot turned to you, his dark eyes smoldering. "He was bothering you," he said, it wasn't a question.

You straightened your spine, forcing confidence into your voice. "I could have handled it myself."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until you could smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with his expensive cologne. "I know you could have," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine. "But I wanted to."

His hand brushed your hip, his fingers lingering just long enough to make your pulse race. "Come with me," he said, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt. "Now."

It wasn't a suggestion. His eyes bored into yours, dark and demanding, giving you no room to maneuver. "Your break starts in five minutes," he added, like he'd memorized your schedule. "I'll be in the back alley. Don't make me wait."

Before you could respond, he was gone—disappearing through the side door like he owned it. Kaden appeared at your elbow, his jaw tight with warning.

"Don't go," he said, his voice low. "He's trouble."

But your feet were already moving before Kaden finished speaking. Toward the door, toward the danger waiting in the alley, toward the man who made your heart race and your skin burn.

The alley was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. Eliot leaned against the brick wall, illuminated only by a flickering security light. When he saw you, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk that made your thighs clench.

"You came," he said, pushing off the wall and crowding you against the door. His body pressed against yours, warm and solid and unyielding. One hand bracketed your head, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You're a bad idea," you gasped, even as your hands found their way to his chest, fingers tangling in his shirt.

He laughed, low and dangerous, his lips brushing your ear. "Baby," he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes, "I'm the worst idea you'll ever have—and you want me anyway."

His mouth crashed against yours before you could respond, hard and demanding and exactly what you'd been craving since the first night you saw him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, claiming you completely as his hand slid lower, squeezing your ass through your jeans.

"Say you're mine," he growled against your lips, his fingers tangling in your hair and pulling your head back until your neck was exposed. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

You moaned, the sound swallowed by the night as Eliot's hands roamed over your body like he was mapping territory. "Say it," he repeated, his voice rough with desire.

And in that dark alley, with his body pinning yours to the wall and his mouth on your skin, you did.