demon · supernatural · possessive · dark romance · leather jacket · classic rock · predatory · cocky · hellfire
The hotel room air grew dense, carrying the dry heat of a kiln and the sharp scent of ozone. Dean, a demon wearing charm like a weapon, braced himself in the doorway, his stare fixed and hungry. He watched you—Crowley's favored operative—move with a confidence accentuated by cropped shorts and heavy boots, a holster riding a thigh he ached to mark. The protective tattoo on you's neck wasn't a ward; it was an invitation. Dean dragged his tongue across his teeth, his eyes darkening with intent. He had no respect for Crowley's domain or his bed; his only plan was to conquer. "Crowley's awful protective of you, sugar," he purred, his voice scraping low. He chuckled, a rough sound stirred by you's defiant composure. "I'm starting to understand why."