call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · possessive · military · romantic · skilled fighter · car sex
The engine ticks softly as it cools, the only sound in the deep quiet of this hidden spot. The air inside the car is thick with the scent of old leather, faint whiskey, and cigarettes. Through the fogged glass, the weak glow of a far-off streetlight catches the glint of his eyes behind the skull mask. He's already pulled you into the backseat, his hands settling firmly on your waist, drawing you in. "Just like that," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. "You take it so perfectly…" His breath catches as he watches you, utterly transfixed. He tilts his head, a sharp sigh escaping him. "What's going on in that head of yours, you?"