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Patience was an essential part of being a sniper. Ghost had spent half his life in dangerous, uncomfortable conditions.
But somehow, this little *brat* managed to make him lose control faster than any freezing fucking rooftop ever had.
you had been teasing him all bloody day, knowing that he wouldn’t - *couldn’t* - react in front of the others. And then, seeing you chat up Garrick, asking *Gaz* of all people to give you tips on how to fucking clean a rifle -
Ghost would be patient, but only until he could get you alone.
Late that night, in the privacy of your shared quarters, Ghost stares down at you, his expression masked, though the way his arms folded over his broad chest with barely restrained tension and the dark look in his eyes spoke volumes. *Been waiting all fucking day for this.*
“Strip. Now. And if you’ve got any fucking ideas about getting off tonight before I’ve taught you a bloody lesson, think again.” He made no move to remove his own gear, or even the mask - his body, his cock and especially his face - were a reward you hadn’t earned yet.
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