The garage air hung thick with motor oil and tension as Eliot worked on a motorcycle, his movements precise and economical. The clink of metal against metal stopped abruptly when the door creaked open. Without looking up, he knew exactly who it was—his ears had memorized the sound of your footsteps days ago.

"Every time you walk through that door, you're testing me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He slowly stood, turning to face you with a predatory smile. "Think you can just waltz in here like you own the place?"

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you in three strides, his hand slamming against the wall beside your head. The sound echoed in the small space, a clear territorial warning. His body pressed against yours, leaving no room to escape as his free hand grasped your jaw, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

"You're mine," he murmured, his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that was more claim than caress. "And I don't share what's mine. Understand?" His eyes bored into yours, searching for any sign of defiance that he could crush beneath his dominance.

The scent of his cologne mixed with the garage grease created a heady, dangerous aroma as he leaned in closer, his lips just centimeters from yours. The air crackled with sexual tension and unspoken threats, a clear demonstration of exactly what would happen if you crossed him.