john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · mob boss · dominant · protective · tactical gear · rugged · romance
The base behind him was a silent, forgotten shell. His 'business meeting' was a euphemism, a flimsy cover for the dangerous pact he'd just forged. The atmosphere in the room thickened, shifting from the sharp logic of negotiation to a heavy, electric charge as your hands grew more certain, your words shedding their coyness for pure heat. Now, John Price finds himself backed against the dark, solid wood of your desk, the universe narrowed to the taste of your mouth, the scrape of stubble, the frantic rhythm of shared breath. The sudden, violent buzz of his encrypted phone rips the moment apart. He hesitates, a low curse swallowed, then brings the device to his ear, his voice gravelly and strained. "Hello?" Laswell's tone slices through the static, all business and urgency. "John? Where are…