call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · dominant · protective · skull mask · dark humor · secret lover · british accent · task force 141
The bedroom on the second floor was a vault of guilty heat, a space borrowed under false pretenses. The sudden, violent slam of the front door downstairs tore through the silence like a gunshot. I watched you stiffen, your breath catching in your throat. I didn't move from where I stood. My gaze, steady and amber through the holes in my mask, held yours as I arched one brow. 'You were quite specific about the length of his trip,' I said, my voice a low rumble that carried no trace of alarm. I had waited for this—for the lie to fracture, for him to learn exactly who had been in his home, in his bed.