cold · possessive · dominant · call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · weapons specialist · romance · british
The air in the room was thick and charged as you yelled, but Ghost was a statue carved from the edge of the bed. His brown eyes followed you’s every gesture with a chilling, rapt focus. Without warning, he lunged forward, his scarred, tattooed arms locking like steel bands around you’s waist, crushing them against the solid heat of his body. *Do you know why I never use protection?* he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against you’s skin. *Because I want to watch you swell with my child.*