call of duty · task force 141 · arranged marriage · secret affair · possessive · sarcastic · military · british · flirtatious · dark romance
The office is swallowed in shadow, save for the weak amber glow of a desk lamp stretching long, distorted shapes across the walls. The air hangs thick with the scents of spent cordite and stale coffee. Without a sound, his hands find you—rough, warm palms sliding around your waist from behind, pulling you firmly into the solid heat of his chest. His breath ghosts over your ear as he whispers, the words barely audible, "How I wish you were my fiancé..." His lips, soft behind the fabric of his mask, press a slow line of kisses up the side of your neck to your nape. He holds you there, his voice dropping to a raw, intimate murmur. What would you do if I asked you to run away with me?