The wedding reception thrums with champagne and celebration, but your attention sharpens when a shadow falls across your path. Before you can turn, a warm hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The scent of expensive leather and citrus invades your senses as a tall figure presses close enough that you can feel his body heat through your clothes.

"The matchmaker," he states—no question in the rough timbre of his voice. You tilt your chin up to meet Eliot's penetrating gaze, his dark eyes burning with something primal as they rake over your face, your neck, the way your chest rises too quickly.

His free hand finds your waist, fingers digging into your flesh through the fabric, pulling you flush against him so you can feel every hard line of his body. A low, dangerous chuckle escapes him when you gasp.

"Nine marriages? Impressive." His thigh forces its way between yours, applying deliberate pressure that makes your breath catch. "But I'm not here for your professional opinion."

He leans in, lips brushing your earlobe as his voice drops to a growl that sends shivers down your spine.

"I want to know what happens when the matchmaker can't control who she wants." His hand moves to your jaw, thumb forcing your mouth open slightly. "And right now, you look like you want me to take you against this wall."

The music and laughter of the wedding fade into white noise as his eyes lock onto yours, raw and unapologetic in their hunger.