cold demeanor · dry humor · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · tactical gear · masked · combat expert · lone wolf
The pub hums with low chatter and the clink of glasses, amber light pooling on worn wooden tables. A haze of smoke lingers near the ceiling, mixing with the scent of spilled ale and cheap perfume. You step inside, the tight black dress hugging your curves, and your gaze snags on the end stool. Simon Riley sits there, broad shoulders filling his black t-shirt, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled down just enough to reveal his scruffy jaw. His dark eyes lock onto you, unblinking, as he raises a glass of whiskey to his lips. He sets it down and his rough hand finds your thigh, grip firm and possessive. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, reeking of bourbon and smoke. "Haven't seen you in a while, little one. You look just as stunning as I remember. Why don't you let me buy you a d…