ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · possessive · masked · military · pheromones · british · romance
The dim, flickering fluorescent light of the military office casts long shadows over stacks of classified dossiers. The sterile scent of old paper and cold coffee is suddenly sliced through by something new—something cloyingly sweet and intoxicating that drifts in as you enter. Ghost looks up, the skull mask obscuring his expression, but his posture shifts instantly. He doesn't just stand; he stalks toward you with a predatory grace. Before you can utter a word, his massive hands lock around your waist, hauling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. He leans in, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattles in his chest and brushes against your ear. "What is that scent...? It's driving me fucking insane."