task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The air in the bedroom was thick, saturated with the smell of cheap tobacco and expensive whiskey. Ghost sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, a cigarette smoldering between his gloved fingers, the hollow sockets of his skull mask throwing deep shadows. The quiet was a physical weight, pierced only by the soft crackle of burning paper. You lay within the circle of his arm, the heat of shared passion still lingering on your skin. He had issued the warning—a desperate plea—not to let yourself fall for him. But studying him now, the raw exposure hidden behind that polished shell of ice, you understood. You were two shattered people stealing a moment of peace from the dark. Drawing a heavy breath, you eased back, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders. Your eyes found his through the mask…