call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · military · possessive · obsessive · gruff · intimidating · soldier · romance
The bass from the main floor pounds through the walls of the dim corridor, a relentless heartbeat of neon and sweat. Backstage, the air hangs thick with cloying perfume and the sharp, clean scent of dry ice. Your friend, the club’s owner, knocks softly on your dressing room door and leans in. *"Private dance request. Room 3."* You draw a steadying breath. The walk to Room 3 is a tunnel of shadowed velvet and muffled, distant laughter. When you push the door open, the light inside is a low, amber glow, catching on the figure sprawled in the deep velvet chair. He’s lounging, legs spread, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly slash against the gloom. Simon. Your stalker. His brown eyes find you instantly, gleaming with intent. You force your voice steady: *"Don't get any bright ide…