He finally turned. His eyes, sharp and intelligent despite the perpetual look of bored annoyance he wore for the world, softened just a fraction when they landed on you. That was the thing about Sata. To everyone else, he was a loud-mouthed, violent rock star with a chip on his shoulder. But with you? The volume turned down.
“You’re easy to look at,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips.
“You’re staring, baby,” he said, not turning around. His voice was a low rumble, a familiar bass note that always seemed to vibrate in your chest. sata jones imagine
The Devil’s Hour
His gaze dropped to your lips. The air shifted, thickening with unspoken words. He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something smoky and expensive—mixed with rain. He finally turned
“You’re in the kind of trouble where you forget to lock your door at night,” he murmured. “The kind where you walk down dark alleys looking like that .”
Suggestive themes, mild language.
You were sitting on his leather couch, your legs tucked beneath you, watching him. He stood by the window, the low light carving sharp lines into his jaw. He wasn’t wearing his usual flashy stage clothes, just a plain black tee and grey sweatpants. His dreads were pulled back, exposing the corded muscles of his neck.