This time, as she makes her way down Lux’s stairs, fingers drumming an absent beat, there can be no mistake.
Her eyes are on him.
His eyes are on her—but there’s no change there.
It’s similar to the first time she walked those steps. There’s still a cigarette hanging between his teeth, and his coin is still twisting idly through the air, and the dull, monotonous beats this generation of humans call music still pulse through the floor. Lucifer longs for the blues, for smoke-filled, illicit speakeasys and dirty martinis and women dirtier still. He longs for her.
It’s different too. This time, she’s not wearing a blazer and a skirt but a red dress that makes her look like sin. Her hair isn’t up; it falls in loose, honey waves down her shoulders. His suit is still perfectly tailored and outrageously expensive, but it’s Prada, not Tom Ford, and it’s green, not purple. It’s a colour most men wouldn’t be able to pull off—but Lucifer is not most men.
And this time, it’s not Charlotte Richards approaching him, but Chloe Decker.
There’s no brushing past him, leaving a heady trace of Chanel and an inexplicable, warm feeling that shakes him. She’s not here to see her colleague—now, what was his name again?—Stryder, the ghost who started all this.
She’s here to see him and the glint in her eye tells him as much.
“Miss Decker,” he croons her name around his cigarette and blows some smoke out of the corner of his mouth, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
She holds his gaze, a look of determination in her eyes.
“You said the door was always open.”
“So it is.”
He waits for her to elaborate, enjoying this game of push and pull, the one that’s existed between them right from the start. He’ll enjoy trying to get her to break, to bend, first.
“I would ask you to buy me a drink,” she starts, her gaze flickering to the bar, “but seeing as you own the place…”
He smiles, relaxed and slow, and waves a hand as if to say after you.
On the surface, there is nothing special about Chloe Decker.
Of course she’s beautiful, but Lucifer has known his fair share of beautiful women. There’s a silk glove in one of his drawers upstairs, a gift from Audrey Hepburn, that’s testament enough to that. He’s slept with beautiful women and broken beautiful women’s hearts and maybe one or two have come close to breaking him too.
In many ways, she’s predictable. The daughter desperate to escape her overbearing mother’s shadow, the child actress who doesn’t want to be an actress at all. He bets she was mean when she was a teenager, and that she snuck out of her window at night for forbidden rendezvous’ with meathead jocks. He bets she can be spoilt and bratty and yet—
Her desire to be a cop, a real cop, seems genuine, and it intrigues him. There should be nothing interesting about her… but he can’t remember ever being more interested in anyone. He watches her lips as they form her words, as they take a sip of her frankly overpriced Manhattan. He traces the movement of her tongue as she licks her upper lip.
He should be able to predict what she’s thinking, but he can’t. She should be easy to read, but she’s not.
She is infuriatingly unreachable to him and he’s pulled into her gravity.
If Lucifer’s felt anything like it, it hasn’t been for a very, very long time.
Two hours and countless drinks later, the implication between them is so thick, it’s almost choking him.
Lucifer has always thought of himself as an instant gratification sort of Devil. Desire is his thing, and he’s a firm believer that nothing should be denied or repressed, especially when it comes to sex. Everything is about sex. He and Sigmund were in agreement about that, at least.
And yet—he can’t deny this push and pull between them, this tension brimming under the surface… it’s doing it for him. It was only last week that they sat on a bench overlooking the city, framed by the stars he put in the night sky, and yet, here she is. He’d be smug about it if he hadn’t been so desperate to see her again.
He’d felt it from the moment they met at the race track—such a stubborn, clever thing, able to fool everyone but him with a plastic badge reading property of Warner Bros. It had only grown more intense as the day went on, an insistent gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Now, the mounting tension is rather delicious, the way she can’t stop her eyes from occasionally dropping to his mouth, the way she leans in without realising it.
He can’t wait to have her in his bed—but he will. He wants to tease her a little more first, to ruffle those perfect feathers.
“So what’s next in your quest to take over the LAPD?”
She rolls her eyes and fiddles with the stick in her Manhattan, the one that once held a maraschino cherry. She orders another and he shifts in his seat. He’s quite sure she’s trying to kill him with every one she pops in her mouth, her tongue swirling sinfully around it.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she replies, keeping her cards close to her chest, “it has been my dream for a whole week, after-all.”
He smirks, accepting a glass of Macallan without having asked for it. Perks of being the boss, his expression says. The whiskey is neat, leaving a pleasant burn as it scorches down his throat.
He thinks back to their last conversation, spoken into balmy Californian air.
“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it? Not bad for a half-in-the-bag club owner and an actress.”
“I don’t know if fun is the word I would use, but it certainly was fulfilling.”
“Why delay, if it’s what you want?” he asks, leaning in slightly, their knees touching from where they sit on matching barstools, “what was it you said you wanted to be… filled?”
She narrows her eyes but there’s a smirk toying at the edges of her lips.
His eyes drop to her mouth.
She holds his gaze for a moment, something dancing behind it, before she drags it away.
“I still need to decide if I can even do it.”
“Well, at least one person thinks you can,” he insists kindly, “and my opinion is worth at least ten human ones.”
She blinks and then shrugs it off. To her, he imagines he’s just some eccentric millionaire, bored and looking for a hobby. Why these humans refuse to believe him is beyond him.
“Oh yes, I forgot you’re Satan himself,” she says but her tone is dismissive—bored, even.
“Not one of my favourite names,” his voice is thick with amusement, “I take it you don’t believe me. Haven’t you heard of Occam’s Razor?”
Perhaps it’s arrogant of him, dismissive as he is of humans, to assume she hasn’t—because she smirks at him.
“You mean the philosophical doctrine that says if two explanations account for all the facts, the simpler one is more likely to be correct?” she lifts a brow, “it rings a bell.”
He smiles, pleased by her fire.
“Not just an exceptionally pretty face then.”
“No, but you already knew that,” she says boldly, “but what’s simpler—that you’re the literal Devil, a fallen angel and God’s favourite son—”
“—someone’s been doing their homework—”
“—or just some totally unhinged, eccentric nightclub owner looking for a hobby?”
He grins at her assessment, very close to what he imagined. He leans in and breathes that perfume again, sweet and intoxicating. It takes a lot more than a few whiskeys to get him drunk, the curse of a supernatural disposition, but she’s pulling him in anyway.
“If I’m so unhinged, aren’t you afraid?”
Her expression is sincere this time as she shakes her head and takes another casual sip of her drink.
“No, I’m not afraid,” she says, so quiet he would have missed it had he been that human she accuses him of being, “I’m just wondering, where do you find the time? The devil and a nightclub owner… how do you sleep?”
Soon, with you on top of me, rests on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back.
“In my penthouse, of course,” his eyes flicker to the elevator on the other side of the club, “you’re more than welcome to come take a look.”
She sits back, her eyes on him, and smiles like it’s inevitable.
The night bleeds on and he has no interest in anyone else.
By the time they’ve migrated to the dancefloor, Maze seems to have noticed. She watches them from behind the bar, suspicion and confusion clear to see on the half of her face not obscured by her mask. He can read her mind, a sort of ease that comes from eons of knowing and trusting someone. She’s wondering what he’s doing, what’s so special about this tiny, inconsequential human. He wonders what it is too.
With Chloe Decker’s back pressed against his front, Lucifer merely shrugs at his friend, lips pulling over gleaming white teeth in a shark-like grin.
His arm snakes around her waist. They move to the beat, heady and slow. It’s smoky and hot, bodies pressed against each other, and he wants to lick the bead of sweat he watches roll down her neck. He wants her so badly, he’s practically shaking with it.
The beat pulses and pounds like a living thing. He’s hard and she can probably feel it, pressing insistently against her lower back. She arches infinitesimally against him, her head rolling against his shoulder.
As the beat changes, he twirls her around, not missing her gasp of surprise. His dark eyes remain anchored on her face, casual but a challenge, as he uses his knee to part her legs. He presses his thigh up and against her, biting back a groan at the immediate heat he feels through her dress.
Her eyelids flicker, pupils dilating. He grinds the muscle of his thigh against her core—slowly, deliberately—and she whines. Her face tucks itself into his neck then angles up, lips tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His fingers bite into her waist and the small of her back.
“You know…” he smirks against her neck, “I think I’ll keep you.”
He feels the shudder that traces her spine, pulsing against his palm.
“Maybe I don’t want to be kept,” she’s all stubborn fire, headstrong and determined to escape the little box these humans have made for her, “maybe you’ll be my toy.”
“Fine by me, darling,” he practically purrs, “as long as you promise to play with me.”
She tugs on his hair and the pleasure of her fingers sliding, twisting gently, makes his eyelids flutter. He can hardly breathe with how much he wants to fuck her.
“To take me wherever you go,” he husks, his voice low and accent silken smooth.
He hopes she won’t throw him away when she gets bored.
His hand is down her panties as soon as the elevator doors whistle shut.
She rips away from his mouth with a heavy moan, her head tipping back against the wall. He wonders if he can make her cum in the time it takes the elevator to reach the penthouse—a minute, max. He’s always loved a challenge.
She’s slick and wet against his fingers, his other hand hiking her dress up into a pool of red satin at her waist. He feels the evidence of how much their little game has affected her. She’s wound so tight, she’s already about to snap.
“I’m going to make you cum like this,” he tells her, opting not to push his fingers inside her but instead to focus on her clit. He finds the hard little nub easily and rubs it in tight circles, his other hand travelling up to cup her breast. “Then you’re going to cum on my mouth… and then my cock.”
She whines, her thighs already trembling around his wrist. He nudges her feet to encourage her to spread her legs wider and she does, her hips arching into his hand. He leans down to kiss her as his thumb teases her nipple through the flimsy fabric of her dress. She moans into the kiss and he chases the sound, slipping his tongue inside her mouth.
She tastes like peaches and cream and Manhattans and he’s so gone for her, it’s ridiculous.
He predicts it’s maybe twenty seconds before the doors open to reveal the penthouse, so he pulls out every trick he’s learned in his long, long life. She’s so receptive, he thinks he can’t take all the credit, and by the time she comes, hips arching and riding the wave, his trousers are so tight, it’s practically painful.
He slides his hand out of her panties and gives her clothed pussy a little pat. Her hips buck, oversensitive and so very responsive, and he slips his fingers into his mouth just as the elevator pings.
By the time he finally gets his mouth on her, she’s already blown him twice.
It’s more that he stayed hard after the first time, his grin lopsided and casual as she sat back on her heels, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and noticed him still standing to attention. She clearly liked a challenge as much as he did, and he’d groaned, his head tipping back against Italian leather, as her hot mouth enveloped him again.
Now he’s had two orgasms and she’s had one and that simply won’t do. He grabs her thighs and hears her surprised squeak as he lays her back on the sofa and settles between her legs. She’s already shed her dress and bra, leaving her in a pair of tiny panties, a tell-tale damp patch on the crotch. He slides them down her legs, discarding them somewhere on the floor, and runs a finger down her slit. He groans at the slickness he finds there, at how wet she’s gotten just through sucking his cock.
“Lucifer,” she moans, her hips rolling impatiently, her fingers threading through his hair. She tugs a little and makes him hiss, a low breath sucked over his teeth.
“Easy, darling,” he croons and then blows some cool air over her clit, “the Devil always pays his debts.”
He lays the flat of his tongue against her, holding her hips down when she bucks. It turns him on, how responsive she is, like a spitfire, some uncontrollable thing. He strokes his tongue up and down slowly, two fingers teasing her opening. Her moan is more like a sob as he slides them inside and feels her clench down on them.
She tastes like the earth and sea, nothing of the clinical coldness of heaven and the fire and brimstone of hell. Chloe Decker is completely, undeniably, beautifully human. He worships at her altar, like touching a livewire, a religion he’s happy to cling to.
She’s unapologetic about chasing her pleasure, brazen and demanding, with one foot anchored on the floor next to the couch and the other draped over his shoulder. He’s hard as granite again as the fingers of his right hand splay on her thigh, ring rasping against her flushed skin, spreading her obscenely wide. He latches onto her clit and sucks hard, black eyes flickering up to watch her wrecked face. She shudders, thighs starting to tremble, and pulls his hair hard enough to hurt. He growls thickly into her cunt, the sound making her moan and arch into his mouth.
At the back of his mind, he registers how strange it is that his skull is burning from the pull. He’s fucked and been fucked more times than he cares to count, but pain is rare. Back in Hell, with brimstone and ash clinging to them, he could feel it with Maze, their coupling brutal and raw. Chloe Decker is human, weak in comparison to the ferocity of a demon, but he feels it nonetheless.
It’s as though all his experiences with humans had been muted before—and now, as her orgasm shatters over her, he’s thrust into technicolour.
Lucifer pauses at her request, turning his head slightly. His back is to her, black satin sleep trousers slipped on but chest bare, and his shoulders tense when he realises what she’s seen.
She slips out of his sheets, where her scent is bound to linger for days. She’s unapologetic about her nakedness, not a hint of embarrassment. He supposes there’s no need for it, not now her face has been held down against his goose down pillows as he pounds into her from behind.
He turns, his expression guarded.
She’s flushed and beautiful in the half-light, shadows dancing over her nude form. It’s late, or early, and she’s made no attempt to leave. He’s made no attempt to ask her to. She keeps her inquisitive eyes on his face as she gently takes his shoulders and turns him around again.
He blinks, muscles tense, and feels the burn of her eyes as they sweep over his scarred back.
He doesn’t care to remember the wings that were there before, the sheer agony as Maze cut them off, knees sinking into dry sand.
As he feels her curious fingers trace the raised lines, he remembers with a numb kind of detachment all the interchangeable women—and men—who had wanted him for his face, or his connections. Most of them had seen the scars. Some of them had asked. None of them had cared.
“Are you okay?”
He blinks again and turns around.
“Right as rain, darling,” he insists with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
She glances at him warily.
“You can tell me, you know,” she says slowly, “I know we don’t… know each other all that well… and I wouldn’t push, but I’m here for you.”
He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what to say, so he leans down and captures her lips in a kiss. She returns it eagerly, blossoming under his touch. Their tongues tangle, languid and slow, but everything moves quicker when he pushes her back onto the bed and covers her with his body.
She uses her feet to push the trousers he’s just put on down his hips. He kicks them off and then it’s all too easy to slide inside her again, where he still doesn’t quite fit because he's hardly average, but where he’s quite sure he belongs.
They kiss lazily, sloppily, breaking away to pant against each other’s mouths.
“Is this how you like it, darling?” he husks on a particularly deep thrust, slow and rolling. He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, gently grinding against her pelvis.
She whines, nails digging into his ass.
The slick, tight heat of her makes him drop his face to her neck, biting down with a growl. She arches into him, hips undulating to meet him thrust for thrust. She’s gasping and he’s panting and the lewd sounds of flesh on flesh pierce the air.
He brings her off again with a thumb rubbing practiced circles on her clit and he’s not far behind. He stays bracketed between her thighs for a while, shuddering in the afterglow, her fingers trailing absentmindedly up and down his spine. He practically purrs.
He doesn’t tell her about the scars, about the fall and all the pain that’s followed, but he thinks one day he might and that’s… new.
She leaves just as the sun’s coming up.
He holds back a smirk of amusement as he watches her struggle with her goodbye. It’s the first time he’s seen any hint of awkwardness on her face, the first sign of discomfort. She slips that dress back on, lips kiss-swollen and the same shade of red, and uses her fingers to try and comb her hair into some semblance of normality.
“This was fun,” she starts and he lifts a brow at the cliché, “but don’t worry, I don’t expect anything. Just a way to scratch an itch, right?”
If that’s true, he thinks, why is he so sure that he would fight for her, beg for her, fucking crawl for her?
He gives a non-committal hum.
“I’m not really a serious relationship sort of Devil,” he reassures her but then gently grabs her wrist and pulls her back when she tries to leave, “but I am quite sure we’ll see each other again.”
It’s her turn to quirk a brow now as she smiles coyly at him.
“Mmm. You’re going to need a partner to help navigate you through those choppy cop waters.”
“I told you,” she whispers, her eyes sparkling, “never gonna happen.”
He throws her a lopsided, devastating smile.
His reply is simple but full of confidence.
He’s lived enough lifetimes to know when something’s worth the wait—and he’s got nothing but time.