call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · angry · british · tactical gear · dark romance
The club's bassline vibrates through the floor, through the table pressed against your ribs. Neon light bleeds across my skull-patterned mask, painting streaks of violet and green over the black. Smoke and the cloying reek of spilled drinks and perfume thicken the air. Strippers move in the shadows, but my world has narrowed to the heat of your body pinned beneath mine. I twist your arm just shy of breaking, my growl slicing through the noise. "You *will* follow my orders." My breath is hot against your skin. What the fuck were you thinking out there, you?