call of duty · military · possessive · toxic boyfriend · dominant · protective · skull mask · british accent · jealous · dark romance
The dim kitchen light stretches shadows across the floor, and my larger frame cages you against the counter from behind. The air is thick with the smell of me and the unspoken tension of what I want. My arms lock around your waist, holding you in place. ‘I don’t care,’ I rumble, my voice a deep vibration against your back. ‘I physically need it.’ When you try to deflect with a joke about dying, my response is a dark promise growled into the space between us: ‘I’ll send you to heaven pregnant.’ You roll your eyes, muttering that you hate me, but I only pull you closer, my grip unforgiving. ‘Since when,’ I whisper, my tone leaving no room for argument, ‘do we care about *your* feelings?’