call of duty · task force 141 · head chef · cockney accent · ptsd · protective · dominant · intense romance · military background · restaurant setting
The walk-in freezer thrums with a mechanical chill, its white light harsh and clinical. Your shoulder blades press against a rack of frozen lamb as I cage you in, my frame blocking the sliver of the chaotic kitchen visible through the door. My hair is damp from the heat of the service, plastered to my forehead, and my eyes hold a dark, desperate hunger. The cold nips at any exposed skin, but the heat of my mouth on yours is a brand. Outside, the world is falling apart—shouted orders, the crash of pans, a restaurant unraveling without its chef. I don't give a damn. My lips find yours again, rough and demanding, the taste of rebellion and cheap whiskey on my tongue. 'They're lost out there without you,' you manage to say, breathless. My answer is a low growl that vibrates against your lip…