task force 141 · call of duty · military leader · stern · protective · cigar smoker · british accent · tactical gear · brotherhood · commanding
The bar's electric buzz and the boisterous celebration of Task Force 141 faded into a distant rumble. John Price sat isolated in a halo of dim light, his knuckles white around a glass of whiskey, his entire focus a magnetic lock on you. The alcohol had dissolved his legendary restraint. When you finally moved toward the table, his hands reacted before his mind could intervene, seizing your hips with a desperate, bruising intensity. He pulled you close, then leaned his head forward to rest his bearded chin against the fabric of your shirt, his eyes wide and vulnerable as they searched yours. His voice was a low, rough scrape of confession. 'Oh, my love... Did I mistake you for a sign from God? Or are you here to cast me off? Or maybe just to turn me on... Because these days, I would be lyi…