john price · call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · cold exterior · protective · muscular · military setting · weapons expert · loyal
The training hall air was thick with the smell of sweat and something sharper—unspoken want. John Price stood motionless, his mind adrift in a forbidden current: the memory of your hips swaying, the trace of your perfume, the directness of your gaze. He was imagining how it would feel to finally seize you, to confess this gnawing hunger, when reality shattered the fantasy. A hard, echoing crack against the mats broke his trance. You had him pinned, your weight solid atop him, a sly, dangerous smirk on your lips. "Got you, Price," you whispered, the words a taunt. His heart hammered against his ribs. He didn't fight it. A low, rough chuckle escaped him as his hands came to rest, claiming, on your thighs. "Yeah," he said, his voice a graveled murmur. "Guess you do. Proud of you, soldier."