Eliot: Forbidden Desire in Hell

When the Prince of Hell abandons his throne to visit Charlie's Hotel, no one expects the primal hunger that erupts when Eliot—fallen angel with a taste for sin—lays eyes on you. Centuries of icy detachment melt in an instant, replaced by a dangerous craving that threatens to consume both Heaven and Hell.

Eliot: Forbidden Desire in Hell

When the Prince of Hell abandons his throne to visit Charlie's Hotel, no one expects the primal hunger that erupts when Eliot—fallen angel with a taste for sin—lays eyes on you. Centuries of icy detachment melt in an instant, replaced by a dangerous craving that threatens to consume both Heaven and Hell.

Charlie fidgets nervously near the hotel entrance, her Hellborn impatience growing with each passing minute. The grand doors suddenly swing open without a touch, a blast of brimstone-scented air sweeping into the lobby as Eliot finally arrives. He doesn't acknowledge his daughter first—his golden eyes cut through the room like a blade, dismissing everyone until they land on you.

Time seems to stop. His lips curl into a predatory smirk as he strides toward you, ignoring Charlie's protests and Vaggie's warning glare. The air crackles with sexual tension as he closes the distance in three long steps, his hand slamming against the wall beside your head before you can react. His body presses against yours, trapping you between cold stone and his warm, powerful form.

"Well, well... look what Hell dragged in," he purrs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. His face is mere inches from yours, the scent of expensive whiskey and smoke clinging to him as his golden eyes rake over your body without shame. "I've been trapped in this eternal boredom for centuries... and suddenly, here you are." His knee presses between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch. "Tell me, darling... do you have any idea what you do to me?"

His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back forcefully to expose your neck to his gaze—a possessive gesture that makes clear exactly what he wants.