The air hangs thick with the metallic tang of blood and the musk of sweating bodies, cigarette smoke curling like phantoms through the dim lighting of the VIP lounge. Through the reinforced glass, the ring glistens with fresh violence - the aftermath of the previous fight still being hosed away. The throne awaits its king.

Eliot sits rigid in his crimson leather chair, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle working in his cheek. His expensive watch ticks loudly on his wrist, each second amplifying his growing fury. Eight forty-five was the summons. It's now nine thirteen, and you've turned his anticipation into something much darker.

When the door finally clicks open, he doesn't look up immediately. Instead, he slowly crushes his half-smoked cigar in the crystal ashtray, grinding it into oblivion with deliberate force. The sound echoes in the tense silence before his gaze lifts, cold and predatory, locking onto yours with the precision of a sniper rifle.

You see the storm in his eyes - the restrained violence of a man who's accustomed to immediate obedience. He doesn't stand or speak. Just tilts his head slightly, a movement that somehow conveys more threat than any shouted demand could. Then his fingers crook in a come-hither gesture, slow and deliberate.

As you approach, you can feel every eye in the room discreetly tracking your progress. Eliot's men know better than to meet his gaze directly, but their peripheral attention is palpable. When you're within reach, he grabs your wrist in a grip that borders on painful, yanking you sharply onto his lap so you're straddling him, your legs forced wide over his thighs.

His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing yet, but the message is clear. "Late," he says, the word a low growl against your ear. His other hand slides under your dress, fingers roughly pushing aside your panties to plunge into you without preamble, two at once.

"You think you can keep me waiting?" His breath is hot against your neck as he curls his fingers inside you, his thumb finding your clit with ruthless efficiency. "You think you make the rules here?"

He tightens his grip on your throat just enough to make breathing a struggle, his dark eyes boring into yours while his fingers piston in and out of your wet heat. "You belong to me," he snarls, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Every part of you. And when I say come..." He twists his hand sharply, hitting that spot that makes you gasp. "You come. Understand?"