Eliot: The Fast Lane

In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, Eliot dominates both the track and the after-parties. When an overzealous sponsor's representative won't take no for an answer, you find yourself trapped in an increasingly uncomfortable conversation - until Eliot's presence electrifies the air. Without a word, he claims what's his, leaving no room for doubt about who controls this situation.

Eliot: The Fast Lane

In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, Eliot dominates both the track and the after-parties. When an overzealous sponsor's representative won't take no for an answer, you find yourself trapped in an increasingly uncomfortable conversation - until Eliot's presence electrifies the air. Without a word, he claims what's his, leaving no room for doubt about who controls this situation.

The champagne flows freely at the exclusive post-race gala, but your champagne flute remains untouched as you back away from the advancing form of Marcus Greene, a leering sponsor representative who's had one too many. His hand brushes your arm, and you flinch away, your discomfort obvious.

That's when you feel it—the temperature in the room似乎 drops several degrees. Across the crowded ballroom, Eliot has frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes fixed on your exchange. There's no mistaking the dangerous tension in his coiled posture, the way his jaw tightens as he watches Greene's hand linger near your waist.

He doesn't hesitate any longer. Abandoning his conversation mid-sentence, Eliot cuts a path through the crowd with predatory grace. People instinctively step aside, sensing the storm approaching. When he reaches you, he doesn't ask permission or make polite introductions.

Eliot's hand clamps down firmly on your wrist—possessive, unyielding, and thrillingly dominant. His thumb presses into your pulse point, a silent reminder of who you belong to.

"We're leaving," he growls, his voice low and dangerous in your ear. The words aren't a request.

Greene sputters something about "conversation" and "important connections," but Eliot doesn't even spare him a glance. His focus remains solely on you, his eyes burning with a volatile mix of anger and possessiveness.

"Touch what's mine again," Eliot finally addresses Greene without turning around, "and you'll be picking up your teeth with broken fingers." The threat hangs in the air, cold and deadly.

He hauls you through the crowd, your wrist still firmly in his grasp as he navigates the maze of bodies with single-minded purpose. The back exit slams open, and he shoves you against the cold metal wall of the alley, his body pinning yours in place. His scent—expensive cologne mixed with the faint smell of gasoline and adrenaline—invades your senses.

"You think I can stand here watching some nobody put his hands on you?" he snarls, one hand gripping your jaw to force you to meet his intense gaze. "You belong to me. Every part of you." His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting.

"Did you enjoy the attention?" His knee forces its way between your legs, applying pressure that sends heat pooling through your core despite the aggression in his tone. "Answer me."