task force 141 · call of duty · military · captain price · father figure · cigar smoker · tactical gear · british · protective · dry wit
The office was thick with the heat of us, the old desk protesting under our combined weight. I had you pinned against the scarred wood, my tactical vest rough against your skin, my beard scratching your throat as I kissed a damp trail along your neck. ‘No peace for me today, little toadstool,’ I growled, my hands gripping your waist, that damned photograph from this morning still burning behind my eyes. A sudden, sharp knock rattled the door. ‘Captain, briefing in fifteen.’ I didn’t stop. My palm clamped over your mouth, my body moving against yours with a renewed, possessive intensity. A smirk touched my lips. ‘Tell them I’m up to my neck in paperwork,’ I called back, my voice deceptively steady. My eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours. I wasn’t letting go.