And There Was Light - A New Day
Author's Notes:
Thank you so much to Pellaaearien for helping me polish this final chapter. And a special shoutout to little_bean, from whom I got the idea that Lucifer likens riding in his convertible to flying.
Thanks for coming along on this ride with me! You all have been a treat for me to interact with. You've reminded me why I enjoy writing. And thanks especially to everybody who takes the time to leave me feedback. If you've been saving up, here's your last chance :)
Chapter title credit goes to Kate Havnevik.
WARNING: This chapter is not safe for work (i.e. it's way way porny in places). Proceed at your own risk.
Enjoy!
Friday arrives like a wide receiver sprinting for the end zone.
But then the touchdown is made, and Chloe's trapped in slow motion while the universe oohs and aahs at Friday's athletic prowess. What little work there is to do, Dan and Emily take for themselves, telling Chloe, "You should enjoy your vacation!" Which leaves Chloe playing endless rounds of solitaire as her desktop clock creeps along toward 3 p.m.
3 p.m. is the time she's negotiated for her early departure. Her early departure for a weekend in Vegas. With Lucifer. Alone. And-
She sighs, dragging herself out of her chair.
Right into Ella, nearly bowling her flat. "Sorry!" Chloe blurts as a sheaf of papers cascades to the floor. She drops to her knees to help pick up the fallen report. "I'm sorry," she repeats miserably.
But Ella only shrugs. Like it doesn't even occur to her to be mad over collisions like this. And, of course, it wouldn't occur to her. Because Ella is Ella, and-
"Nervous, huh?" Ella says.
Chloe swallows. "Nervous? I'mnotnervous. WhywouldIbenervous?" She caps her caffeinated outburst with an awkward laugh that doesn't sound at all mirthful, and holy shit, could this be any more mortifying?
Ella pats Chloe on the shoulder as they stand up. "When I'm nervous," Ella says, folding her arms over her report, "I like to imagine them in their underwear."
Chloe's eyebrows knit. "Um …."
"Just remember, eye contact, but not too much eye contact. And talk to them like people. It's important to win them over."
Chloe shakes her head. "Ella, what are you talking about?"
Ella frowns. "The Radcliffe trial? Testifying for a jury?" she says slowly. "What are you talking about?"
Another awkward laugh tumbles from Chloe's lips. Ryan Radcliffe - the man who raped and killed Anita Rosario - stands trial next week. Chloe had a meeting with the DA yesterday about her testimony. "Yeah, that was totally what I was talking about." She licks her lips. "We have DNA and prints, and that's what everybody wants these days for a conviction. I'm not worried."
"Then why are you acting like you just got told you'll be walking the plank this evening?"
Chloe shrugs. "No reason."
Ella regards her for a long moment, hugging her case file, frowning. Realization sweeps in like a tide. "Oh, I know what it is!" And then a bright grin blooms across her features. She rests her case folders on Chloe's desk, and then leans close to Chloe's ear. "You and Lucifer are finally gonna …." She makes a vague motion with her hands, somewhere between a close-fisted cheer and something lewd. "You know." She bounces, eyes alight. "Right? In Vegas?"
Chloe's face heats. "I'm not talking about this at work."
"Look, don't worry!" Ella says, ignoring her. "You two are like … peas in a pod." She frowns. "Well, you know. If one pea is a cumquat, and therefore not similar at, all except that it's a plant. But still! It'll be great."
"You think we're a pea and a cumquat?" Chloe says as a lump forms in her throat. "How in the hell can a pea and a cumquat get along? How did the cumquat even get into the pod in the first place? What if the cumquat is kind of a slut, has way too many other encounters with better-tasting fruits and veggies - like … strawberries … or twice-baked potatoes … or … maybe a kiwi - and after all this buildup, he finds that …." She coughs. "Er …." Another cough. "Eating." Cough. "I mean … what if the pea isn't satisfying?" God, this metaphor has gone south.
Ella snorts. "Dude. I don't think it's possible for the pea to disappoint the cumquat. Cumquat is all about the pea."
"How in the hell do you know that?"
"Um. I have eyes."
Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose. Her hands are shaking. She's so stressed out, she might throw up into her trashcan. Which … wouldn't that be a great start to the weekend?
Ella's gaze softens. "Seriously, Decker. Don't worry about it. The best sex usually doesn't have much to do with the physical stuff that accompanies it. I mean, not that multiple screaming orgasms aren't great, but-"
"That's kind of what he already said to me," Chloe admits. "But … I'm finding his assurances help less and less as we approach …." She glances at the clock. 2:17 p.m. It takes about five hours to get to Vegas. Friday rush hour might extend that considerably. She'll say seven hours to be safe. Which means … she might be in a hotel room, naked with the freaking Devil, in less than eight hours.
And, oh, God, what is she doing?
"Decker," Ella says, stepping closer. She shakes her head and amends it to, "Chloe." Then she wraps her arm over Chloe's shoulder. "By all means. If you don't feel good about this, don't do-"
"I want to," Chloe says.
"Well, then, I'm telling you. Cumquat just wants to be in the pod with you. I really don't think he gives a single crap about the mechanics of how he gets there. And even if he does, mechanics are totally a fixable thing, anyway. He seems like the kind of guy who'd revel in a teaching moment."
"It's that simple to you?" Chloe says, folding her arms. "He's happy as long as he's in the pod?"
Ella grins. "I. Have. Eyes."
Lucifer arrives at the precinct at 3 sharp. Well, 3:02, by her clock. But that's close enough for a man who couldn't - in his opulent life full of want now, have now - stick to a schedule, even if it were stapled to his ass.
"Hello, darling," he says with a soft gaze as he steps up to her desk. "Are you ready to go, or shall I have a seat?"
He's wearing a crisp black three-piece suit with a black button-down shirt, and a teal handkerchief folded into his breast pocket for a pop of color. His hair is coiffed, but not shiny with product, and she's tempted to try running her fingers through it. The only thing missing from the ensemble is his-
Wait.
She reaches for his hand. His warm fingers close around hers, mashing her knuckles together, like the movement is reflex. She rubs his thumb as she pulls his palm toward her face. "I thought this got incinerated?" she says, marveling at his onyx ring.
"Oh, it did," Lucifer replies with an easy shrug. "Michael reconstituted it for me."
Chloe frowns. "I thought he wasn't allowed to talk to you anymore."
"Leaving a ring in an unmarked envelope on my nightstand while I'm downstairs is hardly talking."
She grins. "I guess he's still finding some loopholes."
"Yes," Lucifer says with an odd, wistful look. "He seems to be."
She peers at the ring. He wears it every day. It means something to him - enough for Michael also to know it means something. The opaque black stone almost seems as if it's sucking up the surrounding light. Like … maybe it's not onyx. Maybe, it's not from Earth in the first place. Maybe, it has something to do with Michael's similar "lapis lazuli."
"You're going to have to tell me this story someday, you know," she says, gazing into the fathoms of the black stone.
"Of course," Lucifer says, withdrawing his hand. "But … not just now, all right?" His gaze roves up and down. His eyes are dark and hungry. "I'd like to think of … other things … at the moment." Carnal things, he doesn't say, but she can read the words all over his face.
She swallows as her nerves come crashing back. "Yeah," she says with a wispy smile. "Right. Later."
His eyebrows creep toward his hairline. "Are you ready, darling?"
She's not ready. She's so, so, so not ready.
"Can I drive?" she blurts as she watches him transfer her overnight bag to his Corvette.
He sets her bag into the trunk and looks up with a dubious frown. "You know how to drive manual?"
"Of course, I can drive stick."
He holds up his hands. "I didn't mean the question as an insult, darling. It's just that it's not so common, anymore." He glances around at their sunny, palm-tree-filled surroundings. "Not in the States, that is."
"My dad taught me," she says. And if she's driving, it'll give her something to do that doesn't involve thinking about having sex with him. Maybe. "And your car looks fun."
"Of course, it's fun," he purrs. "That's why it's mine." His tone is possessive and throaty and it sends a shiver down her spine. He steps into the space behind her, keys jingling. The scent of his cologne hits the back of her throat. His body is warm. She can feel him hovering. Inches from her. He leans in to kiss her cheek, and then the keys dangle in front of her face. "One condition," he says. And then is quick to amend, "Well, two conditions."
She wraps her fingers around the keys, and he lets them go, into her keeping. She turns around, looking up at him. "What are the conditions?"
"First, you must take exit 246."
She frowns. That's … a weird request. But okay. "And the second?"
"Will you bloody live a little?" he says. "Speed limits are suggestions."
She snorts. "Speed limit plus four."
"Speed limit plus nine," he counters. "It's not like you'll get a ticket, even if you do get pulled over. Professional courtesy and all."
She folds her arms. "Speed limit plus six, and that's my final offer."
"You drive quite the hard bargain." A smile oozes across his face. "I approve."
"Thank you," she says, grinning. She rises onto her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. And then she settles into the seat behind the wheel as she thinks about how to get them out to the 15.
She was right.
Driving his car is fucking fun.
So, she zips through traffic like a caffeinated bee, unable to wipe the twitterpated grin off her face. She doesn't even need to speed. The thrill in driving this car comes from abrupt changes in speed. In acceleration. In braking. And she almost can't help but giggle as she jams on the accelerator to fly past a slow-moving beater in the right lane. The Corvette kicks forward with a pleased give-me-more-and-I'll-do-more rumble, and inertia pastes her to the leather seat.
"Dearie me," Lucifer says gleefully over the roar of the wind. Between his dark sunglasses and his perfect smile and his wind-mussed hair, he looks like a goddamned movie star. "I'd no idea you had such a rambunctious streak!"
And she laughs. "I'm not in a cop car right now. And I'm not a detective." She gestures to the open road. East of Los Angeles, out in the desert, the traffic drops to near zero. "Having a little fun out here is a bit different than having a little fun downtown. Plus, I'm trying to distract myself."
"Distract yourself?" he says. "From?"
Shit. She grinds her teeth. "Nothing," she says. "Never mind."
"… All right," he says cautiously.
She's doing what she always scolds him about. Prevaricating. She knows she's doing it. But ….
The sunglasses perched on his nose make him hard to read. All he does is sit in the passenger seat, head tipped back, like he can't get enough of the wind that whips his hair. A sigh heaves his frame.
"You look … peaceful," she says.
He tilts his head to face her, dragging his sunglasses down his nose. He peers over the rims at her with his dark eyes. Get a little, give a little. Quid pro quo. She can see his thoughts plastered all over his face when he's not concealing his eyes.
"It reminds me of flying," he confesses. "Just a bit." He stretches, folding his graceful hands behind his head. "More so when I can just sit here and imagine, without having to pay attention to the road."
Her heart constricts. "But … I thought you didn't like-"
"I didn't like being forcibly altered," he says. "I didn't like hearing the world's filth. But the capacity for flight was never something I objected to. It's … freeing."
She bites her lip and presses down on the accelerator. Inertia presses her farther into the seat. She can't help but grin. "So, this is like flying?"
"Yes," he says, smiling back at her. "A bit."
No wonder he likes convertibles. She accelerates a little more. She doesn't miss the way his smile twitches wider. He's having fun. Probably a lot more fun than he's willing to admit.
She glances at the speedometer.
The speed limit, even out in the middle of nowhere, is only 70.
California is a stick-in-the-mud about that.
But … Lucifer's not wrong about professional courtesy.
Oh, live a little, Detective, she can hear him say, a Devil on her shoulder. You're driving a bloody Corvette. You're in the bloody desert. Hardly anyone's around. You might as well enjoy it. Right?
She bites her lip and accelerates. And accelerates. And accelerates.
The engine roars.
The speedometer creeps into triple digits.
"Chloe Decker, I am scandalized by your behavior," Lucifer says, in a breathless tone that suggests he's only a teaspoon of bliss shy of ecstasy. "Scandalized!"
She laughs as they chase the horizon.
They sit in the little blacktop parking lot outside the Mad Greek. A restaurant with white walls and a blue roof. Lucifer's stop at exit 246.
Chill inundates her fingertips. She slips the straw between her lips and sucks. Pulpy bits of fresh chopped strawberries and frozen cream spill onto her tongue, and she can't help but close her eyes. When he told her these were the some of the best strawberry shakes he's ever had, and he considered them a requisite part of any weekend in Vegas, she chalked his assessment up to, perhaps, lack of experience with strawberry shakes, but … nope. She should have known better. The Devil is excellent at locating sin, whether it's in a milkshake or in a bed.
"Well?" he says.
She nods, taking another sip. "Worth the stop."
His grin is so loud she can hear it. "Splendid."
When she opens her eyes, she notices he has a little spot of pink at the corner of his mouth. She doesn't even think about what she's doing. She leans over the parking brake. She says, "You have a little bit of … um …." And then she kisses the cream off of him.
He tastes like strawberries.
A soft, pleased, "Hmm," fills his throat.
And then they're kissing. And she's not thinking about milkshakes or driving or-
"No, no, no, we are not doing this in your car," she snaps, breathless, as she pulls away.
He laughs. "What, you've never snogged in a car before?"
"I've 'snogged' plenty in a car before, I just meant-"
He raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"
She bites her lip. "Is car sex one of the many 'locations' you'd like to show me?"
"It wasn't on my list for this weekend, no," he says, a smile oozing across his face.
"You have a list?" she says, gaping. "Like bullet points we're supposed to hit, or-"
He shakes his head. "Darling, I'm joking with you," he says, rubbing her shoulder. He frowns. "Are you all right?"
"No," she says. "Yes. No. I mean …." She sighs, frustrated with herself.
He regards her for a long moment, suspicion and realization blooming in equal measure. "We'll start slow, shall we?" he says softly. He brushes a loose lock of hair out of her eyes, giving her an affectionate look. "If you desire no snogging in the car, then there shall be no snogging in the car."
They sit and enjoy their milkshakes in companionable silence.
Chloe's been to Las Vegas before. She's stayed on the strip, seen the sights. She's even been inside the Bellagio itself, to look at the botanical garden. Which is why, when they skip past the winding line at check-in and are directed to a small private lounge, when the concierge addresses Lucifer by name without any prior introduction, when a bellhop whisks their luggage away before she can blink, she realizes … she's in for a bit of a different experience, this time.
The suite Lucifer obtained for them is on one of the topmost floors, and when she steps inside, she can't help but gape. Their hotel room has an honest-to-god foyer. A foyer that leads into a giant semi-circular-shaped living room with a sweeping view of the fountains far below, thanks to multiple bay windows. She wanders around, exploring, stunned. A fully stocked wet bar resides against one wall, along with a six-seat dining room table. Two bedrooms, each sporting a king-sized bed, are situated to the left and to the right. Each bedroom has two bathrooms, and each bathroom has a ginormous walk-in shower (only two of them have a ginormous jacuzzi).
Lucifer probably got the "room" for free, thanks to calling in one of his many IOUs, but she doesn't even want to think about the astronomical daily rent for this place.
She watches Lucifer stuff a crisp $100 bill into the bellhop's pocket.
And this is the point when it sinks in how differently the 1% lives.
Lucifer's penthouse should have prepared her, she supposes, but ….
This is like … another planet.
"Will this suffice?" Lucifer says quietly as he walks up behind her.
She can't help but laugh. "The only people this wouldn't suffice for are nuts or have 36 children to accommodate. What is this, like 3000 square feet?"
"3001."
And then she sobers. "Two bedrooms?"
He shrugs. "I thought it prudent to have a space where you can be … 'away from me,' if you need. I've no desire to make you feel pressured."
She looks up at him. Prior to the wing ordeal, she'd seen glimpses of his considerate side. Enough to know that his self-orientation had malleability, if he felt motivated to bend. It's just, surrounded by cadres of people he viewed as also self-oriented, he didn't have much motivation before.
She licks her lips. His eyes are dark and unblinking and serious as he regards her, trying to gauge her reaction. She wraps her arms around his waist, stepping close. His body is warm, and the sandalwood scent of his cologne fills her lungs as she breathes.
"I'm nervous," she confesses. "Like … sick to my stomach nervous." If the butterflies doing a cha-cha in there are any indication.
His gaze softens. "I know."
"But I want this," she rushes to say. "I want you." He licks his lips like he's nervous, too, and she wonders how often he's heard those words from someone who wasn't talking exclusively about his body. "And I don't feel pressured. I promise."
He regards her for a long moment, gaze searching.
"Lucifer?"
"Let's play tonight," he says. "Tomorrow, too."
She blinks. "Play?"
He nods. "Forget about expectations. Yours or mine. We're not here for a shag. We're here for fun, and there are plenty of fun things to do here, other than shagging. Even at this hour. This is the city that never sleeps, after all."
"You … don't want to have sex?"
"Oh, I do," he says baldly. "Very much, I do. But nothing needs to happen tonight. Or any night that we're here, really. If the mood strikes you, we will, but what I want for this trip is your companionship, and I already have it." When she doesn't immediately reply, his intent look deepens. "I've no desire to do something you won't enjoy. You're clearly not enjoying yourself right now. So … let's play."
She looks up at him. "I am … kinda hungry," she admits.
"I know an excellent steakhouse close to here. Have you seen the Bellagio fountains at night before?"
She shakes her head.
He steps away from her, but only hold out his arm for her to take. "Let's go to dinner, then, shall we?" he says with a charming smile. "We can walk past the fountains on the way."
"Okay," she says, locking her arm with his. All of her nerves melt away, forgotten. "Let's play."
So, they watch the fountains. He wines and dines her.
They play.
On Saturday morning, he teaches her how to play craps.
It's early enough that the high rollers have yet to appear. Tables that become $10, $15, or $25 minimum in the late afternoon and evening are cheap at $5, which is more to the tune of her public servant salary, so she doesn't even need to borrow his money to partake.
The craps board is a long green rectangle with rounded corners, and it sits nestled between black sidewalls topped with a padded railing and inset with chip trays. The board has two distinct sides. Each side is covered with numbers and phrases like "come" and "pass line." Nine people hover around the edges of the table, resting on the padded railing. She and Lucifer squeeze in at the end of the table.
A man at the opposite end tosses a pair of dice. They fly down the board toward her and bounce against the sidewall below.
"Seven out!" the dealer announces when the red dice come to rest - on a four and a three - and everybody at the table groans.
"Fuck," the guy who rolled the dice snaps.
Three people pick up their remaining chips and walk away, thinning the crowd at the table.
"This looks like Greek to me," Chloe says.
Lucifer lights up beside her. "Well, isn't it lucky, then, that I speak Greek?" He turns to the scantily clad server as she wanders by with a little round tray and adds, "Darling, would you be so kind as to bring me a rum and Coke?" He glances at Chloe, resting his warm palm on her shoulder. "And some bottled water for my straight-laced, lovely partner, yes?"
Chloe snorts. "You know me well."
This observation pleases him, and he visibly preens.
"Shooter coming out!" Chloe hears.
She looks back at the table to see the dice bounce against the sidewall below her. A seven again. "Winner seven!" the dealer calls. This time everybody seems happy and claps. Chips are exchanged at a rapid pace.
This is … beyond Greek.
Lucifer leans into her. His body is a long, warm line, and she can't resist resting sighing at the touch. "The trick is," he murmurs by her ear, "to ignore everything on the board except for the pass line, and the boxes at the top where it says four, five, six, eight, nine, ten. The boxes - they're called place bets - are where you'll make your money back and then some. Craps is one of the easiest games to beat the house at, if you don't let yourself get wrapped up in all the extra noise, and you know when to walk away."
"So, why can a seven be good or bad?" she says.
Lucifer is right. Craps is a lot simpler than it looks. And the snowballing energy at the table whenever a shooter gets more than a few rolls in is palpable.
"I've one requirement," Lucifer announces to the table when the dealer passes him the dice. He takes a sip from his rum-filled tumbler. "No prayers to God, yes? At least, none aloud. He's a self-righteous dick, he won't help you one bit, and hearing his name bloody ruins my mood."
Everybody laughs.
She rests on her elbows, sparing a glance to her $5 chip sitting, lonely, in the pass line. He has a ritual, it seems. Kissing the dice isn't allowed for hygienic reasons, but that doesn't stop him from making lewd gestures with them, and she can't help but laugh as he hams it up for the crowd.
He tosses the dice, eyes gleaming.
"Winner seven!" the dealer announces, and the table cheers.
Chloe scoops up the instant fruits of her line bet.
And then Lucifer kisses her.
"Let's see how much money I can make you," he murmurs, "shall I?"
Lucifer is the shooter for more than three hours.
The table is a frenzy.
Her heart is pounding, and her blood races in her ears.
She leans against the railing, watching as he makes toss after toss after toss after toss. She has place bets on all six viable numbers, along with a little pass line bet, exactly as Lucifer suggested. And the money just keeps raining onto the table. She's never experienced anything like it.
He rolls a six, this time, and the table cheers again.
The dealer deposits a bunch of chips in front of her, and she gleefully scoops them up. Lucifer completes his ritual with another kiss - he's kissed her so much at this point, she's feeling almost bruised. And she gets it, now, why people like gambling so much. Why people can get addicted to it like it's a drug.
He rolls again.
"Seven out!" the dealer calls, and her high crashes to the pavement, all smoke and burning metal.
"Well, it had to happen sometime," Lucifer laments, though he's grinning, and her disappointment fades as quickly as it burgeoned.
She stretches. She feels loose and achy and sated, like she just had amazing sex. He's won the table so much fucking money that all anyone does while cashing out is cheer and clap and say, "Thanks, man!" or, "Wow!" or, "Holy shit, never seen a game go that long."
Lucifer throws the dealers several $100 chips as a tip.
He glances down at her haul. "How'd you make out?"
She shows him her overflowing pile of chips, gaping, and says, "I think you just paid me for a month."
"Excellent," he says, pulling her into his arms, and the rest of the casino falls away. "You can wine and dine me, tonight."
And she laughs.
His joie de vivre is as much a drug as any amount of gambling ever could be.
The sky is azure-colored. A balmy breeze blows, ruffling her hair. They watch the fountains outside the Bellagio again, this time in daylight. He takes her to lunch at a little bistro in the Venetian, where she eats a delicious panini. They explore the strip. The rainforest in the Mirage. The empty pirate boats outside Treasure Island where there used to be a show. They visit countless little shops and tourist traps. They walk. And talk. And walk. And talk.
And it's nice.
Just to be with him.
Until the Stratosphere towers above them.
"No," he says, staring up and up and up. "Absolutely not."
"Lucifer, it's like a ten second drop, if that."
"Any drop is not to my fancy," he replies with a shudder.
She boggles at him. She gets it in an intellectual sense. Why he has bad memory associations with free fall. But … the idea that anything manmade could unsettle him to this degree seems ludicrous to her. If it hadn't seemed ludicrous, she wouldn't have brought it up in the first place. She's not trying to make him miserable.
"There's a harness," she says slowly. "You'd be seated. I'd be there. And the view is supposed to be awesome."
"No," he says. "No, I …." He swallows, and he gives her a faint smile. "I'm happy to cheer you on."
But she shakes her head. "I don't want to do it, if you don't want to do it. This is our vacation." She grabs his hand. There's plenty of other stuff in this city to amuse. Stuff that won't scare him witless. "What else is here on the old strip?"
But Lucifer gives her a don't-you-bloody-dare look. His gaze wanders up again. He grimaces. "You really desire … that." Not … exactly a question.
"It looks fun!" she says with a shrug. "And I like thrill rides."
"Of course, you do." His tone is dry and sardonic. "Such is my luck in life."
She squeezes his palm. "Lucifer, I'm not out to torture you. If you don't want to do it, we won't do it. I wouldn't have brought it up if I'd realized you didn't like this stuff. Really, it's not a big d-"
"All right."
She frowns at him. "All right?"
"It's what you desire," he replies, as if this trumps all else.
She bites her lip. "Lucifer …."
But he doesn't engage her attempt to back down. Instead, he pulls her toward the Stratosphere's entrance. "I believe we go in this way," he says.
True to his word, he goes on the ride with her.
The Big Shot.
It's a bunch of chairs that ring the top part of the Stratosphere tower. The chairs are shot into the air and then allowed to fall, several times in a row. The whole ride takes less than a minute.
The view of Las Vegas from this height is spectacular, particularly as the sun is nearing the horizon, setting the sky on fire. The breeze refreshes her, and the sensation of her innards rising into her ribcage as her body plunges to the ground is thrilling. She can't help but cackle with glee, joining the ecstatic chorus of her fellow riders, as they're bounced up and down in the air. She's breathless and blissed out as the ride grinds to a stop.
Lucifer's like a nighttime graveyard beside her, though, silent and still, and he keeps his eyes squeezed shut until his feet are touching the ground again. He stumbles, getting off the ride. Like his legs are so shaky he can't walk.
As she watches him struggle, she feels a bit rotten, like she dragged him into doing this, even though he's the one who insisted.
"I really shouldn't have suggested this," she laments as he shuffle-walks back inside beside her. "I'm sorry."
It takes him a while to unkink. To find words again. But as the elevator doors trundle shut, he looks at her, musters a genuine smile, and the whole world falls away.
"I'm all right," he assures her, a soft murmur, as he wraps his arms around her. "I'm pleased that you enjoyed yourself." He kisses her. "Quite worth it, really."
"Okay," she says, deflating with relief, "but we're officially not doing the roller coaster at the New York, New York. I forbid it."
His eyes gleam with mischief. "Oh, you forbid it, do you?"
"We're sticking to terrestrial pleasures from now on," she replies with a definitive nod. "Something we both enjoy."
He barks with laughter and says, "All right, then. What mutual 'terrestrial pleasure' is next, pray tell?"
She can't help but lick her lips at the possibilities. Still, she picked this one, so she says, "Any suggestions?"
He takes her to the Paris Hotel, and they eat dinner in the mock Eiffel Tower as the pinks in the sky fade to midnight blues.
Then he walks with her to the Excalibur.
Past oxygen bars. Past slot machines. Past scantily clad women dancing on tables. Past restaurants, and shops, and ticket counters, and bars, and ice cream stands, and it goes on, and on, and on. The smell of smoke tickles her nose, and the rumble of revelers floods her ears. Las Vegas is a feast for the senses, and there's so much to hear, taste, smell, touch, see that she's glutted herself in a matter seconds.
Lucifer stops and pulls her into the end of a long, meandering line on plush red carpet. "Here we are," he says, with a tone that's far too cheerful.
The line is filled with mostly women, though there are a smattering of men, too. In one cluster, a bubbly blonde woman wearing a crown stands inside a ring of other chatting, laughing women. Like … this is a bachelorette party.
Wait.
Chloe's eyes wander to the marquee emblazoned over the black door at the terminus of the line, and her eyes widen. "I can't do this," she says, shaking her head. "No way."
"Why not?"
She points at the sign. A landscape photo of half-a-dozen shirtless men, each with perfect bronze tans and bulging muscles that speak of like 0% body fat. "It's a strip show!"
His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "And?"
"A male strip show!"
His grin is sly and oozing. "So, then we'll both have something lovely to look at, yes?"
"But-"
"What better way to get in the mood?"
"This is like the opposite of getting into the mood, Lucifer," she snaps. This is mortifying!
He folds his arms. "Chloe, have you ever even been to one of these?"
"No."
"Then, how do you know it's the opposite of getting into the mood?"
Which … okay. That's … a fair point. She sighs.
At an open bar nearby, a live band is singing an out-of-tune cover of some Rolling Stones song. A woman in a business suit trundles past with her rolling suitcase, giving the line Chloe's standing in an irritated look as she works her way around it. What makes Chloe blink, though, is the next passerby. A man pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller is an oblivious, sleeping toddler. But …. She glances at her watch. 10:53 p.m. Wow. She looks back at the bachelorette party, many of whom are sipping on long plastic cylinders filled green liquid. 32 oz. margaritas. Refillable.
She can't imagine bringing Trixie to a place like this, asleep or otherwise.
"Come now, give it a try," Lucifer says, pulling her back to the dilemma at hand. "If you find that the show isn't to your taste, you can always walk out."
"You promise not to whine if I walk out?"
"I'm the Devil, darling," he says primly. "I do not whine."
"I beg to differ," she grumbles at the floor.
"I heard that, you know."
She snickers. "I wasn't trying to be sneaky about saying it."
He looks down at her, smiling, gaze soft. "If this is not what you desire, then, yes, I promise not to whine. But only if you give it a fair chance. All right?"
"Fine," she says. "What's a fair chance?"
"An hour."
She slumps. Okay. She can do this. An hour.
Frigid air blasts her in the face as they shuffle into the semi-circular theater. On the floor are about a half-dozen long tables set up with chairs. She pulls Lucifer up to the amphitheater area, and they take a seat behind the bottom railing. Close. But not … too close.
"It's freezing in here," she says, and Lucifer raises an eyebrow at her.
"It won't be, later," is his reply.
Which … what in the hell does that mean?
He's right.
It's not cold, later.
When several hundred women - each at varying degrees of drunkenness - are all crammed into a tiny space for the purposes of staring at muscle-bound men wearing only g-strings, it's like a vortex where all things cold go to die.
The bedlam is sweltering by the time an unassuming man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt swaggers onto the stage with a shit-eating grin and says, "Good evening, ladies." His purr is a lot like Lucifer's. "My name is Brandon. I'll be your host tonight."
The crowd erupts into cheers so loud it hurts Chloe's ears. Lucifer joins in, yelling beside her.
The announcer enters into a spiel about no photography. No touching except to tip. Everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Blah blah.
How in the hell is this sexy? How in the ….
And that's when the curtain rolls up, the music begins to thump, and the pirate appears to a thunderous roar of screams and whistles.
She can admit the scenery is gorgeous.
Pirates. Firemen. Construction workers. Police officers. All the male stripper stereotypes are on parade, and they all have sculpted muscles she could bounce quarters off of.
But that's where her enjoyment ends. Being surrounded by so many people, all screaming themselves hoarse, isn't quite her idea of a good time.
"Lucifer," she says as the men dance on the tables in the pit, pouring water over themselves, "this really isn't my thing."
But his reply is a dashing smile and a, "Trust me, darling!"
She's almost at the end of her required hour when Brandon appears back on the stage, looking for volunteers. "Don't be at all shy or a prude!" he warns, as he walks among the writhing, screaming audience. He picks the bachelorette wearing the jeweled crown. And he picks Lucifer. Of course, he fucking picks Lucifer, because Lucifer is a magnet for this kind of thing.
"Hold this for me, will you, darling?" Lucifer says as he shrugs off his suit jacket.
Everyone cheers and claps and screams as Lucifer and Bachelorette trot onto the stage with Brandon.
Brandon pushes the microphone into Bachelorette's face and purrs into the microphone, "So, what's your name?"
"Lindsey," she says.
"Lindsey," Brandon says, grinning. "And where are you from, Lindsey?"
"Scottsdale."
Brandon shifts the microphone to Lucifer. "And what's your name?"
"Lucifer."
Brandon's face lights up with glee. "Ladies, it seems we have the Devil himself in the house, tonight. I guess we don't need to ask what brings him to the City of Sin."
Thunderous cheers erupt.
"All right ladies and gents," Brandon says happily. "This is a contest. Winner gets his or her fantasies fulfilled. I want both of you to fake an orgasm for the microphone. The audience will pick the better faker by cheering."
Lindsey laughs nervously, eyes wide, as the microphone is shoved in her face. "Makes us believe, Lindsey!" Brandon says.
Chloe wants to die of secondhand embarrassment as the poor woman moans and flails with the microphone like she's having some kind of seizure. She finishes with, "I'm sorry!" as she blushes like a beet. The crowd laughs, and Brandon shakes his head.
"I warned you!" Brandon says. "Shyness won't win you this one." He grins at Lucifer. "Please, tell me the Devil isn't shy."
"Oh, I'll strip right here, if you like," Lucifer replies with a smirk.
And the crowd goes insane.
"That's the spirit!" Brandon says, clapping Lucifer on the back. "Give us your all!"
"Right then," Lucifer says as he takes the microphone from Brandon. He scans the crowd, and then his dark gaze comes to rest on Chloe. He undoes a button on his shirt, exposing a little bit of chest, and then he pushes his free hand back through his hair, mussing it liberally. "Ready?"
The crown screams. Chloe swallows.
He drops his eyelids to half mast, giving himself a bit of a sleepy look. His hand roams sensuously down the lapel of his shirt. A soft rumble of pleasure falls from his lips, filling the room through the speakers, and then another rumble follows, slightly louder.
"Oh, yes," he purrs for the crowd. "Oh, yes."
She licks her lips, unable to tear her eyes away.
Lucifer Morningstar is sex.
That's the only explanation she can think of as she watches him unravel for the microphone, never taking his gaze from her. With every moaning exhalation, he brings more of his body into the fakery. His legs. His hips. Every muscle. Every sinew. Until, even though there's nobody standing there other than he, even though dozens of feet separate his body from hers, she could swear he's fucking her right there on the stage. His vocalizations hit a beautiful crescendo.
Her insides tighten like a screw, and she can't breathe, and she's hot, and she can't look away.
When he comes undone, the sound is so pornographic she almost blows a gasket right there in her seat.
The crowd goes wild, and she thinks her eardrums might not work for a month.
"Wow, I think we have a winner!" Brandon says, joyous.
And Lucifer's still looking straight at Chloe when he says, "Yes, we do, if she'll claim her prize, tonight."
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Chloe says after the show, as the crowd spills back out into the open space beyond the entry doors.
Lucifer grins. "Brandon owed me a favor." He wraps his arms over her shoulder. "Did it work?"
"I thought you didn't lie."
He shrugs. "Darling, it isn't a lie if everybody knows it's not real." He leans closer to her. "That being said, it was an accurate performance. And you'll get that ten times over, if you'll have me."
She licks her lips. Her lower body is a frustrated ball of un-sated desire, and she can't stop thinking about the sounds he made. The way he looked at her. "… Yes," she says, heart thumping in her chest.
"Yes, what?" he says.
"It worked."
"So, the mood has struck?" he says, delighted.
She nods. "I'm still nervous, Lucifer. But …."
His widening smile makes her feel warm. "Let's head back then, shall we?"
Her heart starts to pound. This is it. Sex is going to happen. Sex with him. Soon.
"Care for a drink?" he offers, wandering behind the wet bar as she drops her purse onto the couch.
She watches him pour himself an Old Fashioned. That's the trick, she thinks. Getting hammered. Because the problem with the trip back from the Excalibur is that it gave her time to think. And all the walking straightened out the unbearable knots he'd tied her in.
"Is there any coconut rum back there?" she says as she approaches him.
He frowns, bending down to search behind the bar, and returns with a bottle of Parrot Bay.
"What shall I-" he begins, but he doesn't get a chance to finish, because she grabs the bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes several hearty swigs.
She coughs, setting the bottle down. He regards her with raised eyebrows. "Well, well, well," he says with a smirk.
"I'm nervous again," she confesses woefully, and takes another swig. And then another.
"Darling, we don't have to-"
But she shakes her head. "No. No, no, no." She swallows. "I think this is like skydiving."
His eyebrows knit. "Skydiving?"
"The buildup is terrifying, but the payoff is … perfect. And I think I need you to shove me out of the plane to enjoy it."
He blinks. "You've been skydiving?"
"I like thrill rides! Sue me!"
His grin widens. "Well, darling, I can't say I share your proclivities, but I do enjoy how you're always surprising me."
He steps around the bar and wraps his arms around her. His body is warm, and he smells like smoke and sandalwood. She rests her cheek against his chest.
"I won't shove you out of a plane," he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. "That's a tad too nonconsensual for my tastes. But I do have an idea that might get you back into the mood."
"Oh?"
"How about that shower you promised me?"
She swallows. "Okay," she says. "Okay, I can do a shower."
"Good."
She sighs. "How many times have you ever had to coax someone into getting naked with you?"
"Just this once," he admits. He kisses her. "But, darling, there's quite a lot of low-hanging fruit in this world. And this is the first time I've wanted someone on a top branch enough to bother with getting a ladder."
"Oh," she says.
He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "Shall we?"
She nods. "Give me a minute. I'll … I'll catch up."
"All right," he says. He kisses her. "And it's all right if you change your mind, darling. Truly."
Then he pulls away, leaving her alone to gather herself and follow if she wants.
Or not. If she doesn't.
The water's been running for more than ten minutes by the time she steps into the steamy master bathroom. In the dim light, she can see his flesh-toned silhouette through the frosted glass. Her hands are shaking. Her legs are shaking. Her mouth feels dry. Her heart is thundering in her chest. But ….
Rip the band-aid, she tells herself. This is only going to get more and more nerve wracking the longer she puts it off. And she wants the results. She wants them. She just needs to get over this fear that he's going to find her laughably lacking, somehow.
Rip the band-aid.
Rip the band-aid.
Just ….
With a deep breath, she takes off her clothes, piling them in the corner underneath the towel racks, and then she steps to the shower door and taps on it, just to warn him that she's there. Or, hell, he probably already knows that she's there. What with his preternatural senses and his-
JUST RIP IT, CHLOE.
She yanks open the door and steps inside before she can talk herself out of it again. Wet air envelops her skin. His big, pale body is blocking most of the water from drenching her at the outset. He's facing the wall at first, and she gets a glorious view of his ass, his quads, his back, and the marbled, horrific wing scars. He's toned, but not beefcake. He's- Turning around. Annnnd … now she has a view all the way south, from the dark happy trail at his navel, and down. It's the first look she's gotten in years that hasn't been draped in the sepulchral pall of his suffering, and it's …. Her insides feel like they're squeezing into a tiny ball.
"Hello," he says with a delighted grin. "I was beginning to think you might opt to stay dry."
The double-entendre slides down her spine like silk. "Um …. No. No … not dry."
She wants to smack herself. She's being an inarticulate, nervous freak, but-
Water sloshes as he steps close to her. Into her space. He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Not dry at all," he murmurs by her ear, gently guiding her under the hot spray with him. Her hair mats to her scalp in seconds.
The warmth of the water and of his body makes the air rush out of her with a whoosh, and when she breathes in again, it's easier. Calmer. Until she realizes she's eye-level with his pecs, his wholly naked body is inches from hers, if that, and she's-
He kisses her. Not at all chastely. He nips her lower lip. His tongue slides into her mouth, rubbing hers. And she forgets what she was thinking. Or thinking of thinking. Or ….
He pushes his fingers through her wet hair, licking his lips as he pulls away.
She's panting.
"You're all right?" he murmurs.
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I'm …."
She looks up at him. His gaze is hooded. Dark. Hungry. Burning. And he looks about as far from laughing at her as California's politics are from Mississippi's. The butterflies in her stomach are starting to settle, but her limbs are still shaking, and her mouth is still dry, and her heart is still thumping in her ears like a timpani.
"Still nervous," she admits. "But …."
"I'll help with that," he says, stepping away from her, but only to grab a washcloth off the rack.
He stands in profile for her, a dark Adonis. She watches the muscles in his arms bulge as he rubs the soap into the washcloth. Lets her gaze rove up and down. She can ogle, for once, and it's not weird or out of place. He isn't circumcised. Which … well duh. Her ribs compress as the air leaves her, and she imagines him filling her to his hilt. What a ride that would be.
"Like what you see, darling?"
She blinks. "Yes. Yes, I …. Yes." Fuck, yes.
"May I?" he says, holding up the lathered washcloth.
"May you … where?" she says warily.
He shrugs. "Is there anywhere you don't want me to touch?"
She swallows. Her insides are doing that squeezing thing again. She laughs nervously. "Not really, I guess."
He nods, stepping into the spray behind her. He starts in a "safe" spot. Her upper back. Her arms. Rubbing in slow, soothing circles. Her eyelids drop to half mast, and she she can't help but lean back into his expert touch.
"You're a really good masseur," she mumbles, sighing.
And he laughs. "I'm a man of many talents."
"You are."
He wraps his arms around her, tipping her against him, and he starts working at her navel. Her hips. His body is a long line of warmth touching her back, skin to skin. His breaths are soft by her ear. His touch is gentle. Sure. By the time he reaches her breasts, she's putty. And she's forgotten why she was nervous in the first place.
The water rains down, filling the silence with thunder.
He does her legs. Her inner thighs. She can't help the little moan that falls from her lips as her insides tighten even more.
And then she hears a wet slap as he tosses the washcloth to the floor. She thinks, maybe, this is it. The shower is done. But then he splays his fingers just over her navel and plunges. Until he's cupping her.
Touching her.
Touching her there.
"All right?" he says.
Holy. Fuck. "Has anyone ever said no, at this point?"
And he laughs. The sound unfurls in the shower stall, rich and dark and echoing.
She tips her head back, looking up at him. His jaw is a sharp line. She presses her lips against his skin and wraps her hands over his to show him that, yes, she does indeed feel, "all right."
He experiments, at first. Trying to figure out what she likes. He tests her reaction to stroking with his thumb. A bit like one would pet a cat. Different speeds. Slow. Medium. Fast. He tries button presses. Finger flicks. And ring-around-the-rosie. He decides the last one produces his desired effect, and he settles into stroking her in circles. His other hand cups her breast, matching the motion below with the same motion around her nipple, until she's pert against his thumb.
The constricting feeling in her abdomen becomes unbearable. She starts to feel like she has a hole inside that she wants him to fill. Every exhalation pushes out a moan. Hot blush unfurls down the front of her body. Her nails dig into his wrists.
"Lucifer," she rasps.
"Come for me, darling," he tells her. The pressure of his fingers increases. "Come, now."
And then she hits her pinnacle. She can't stop herself as her neck arches backward, and her lips part, and her lungs squeeze into little pinpoints. She makes a noise that speaks of agony, but isn't. Every muscle in her abdomen contracts at once, and she can't breathe, and she can't think, and she can't do anything except hang there, in his arms, a willing prisoner. He keeps ringing the rosie, and her whole body is seized up like an engine without oil. She looks up at him, and he looks down.
"Come," he tells her in a velvet, midnight tone.
And then it all pops loose at once. Her insides flutter. She loses her footing as the shockwave floods down to her toes, but he keeps her from falling.
She sags against him, panting.
"Oh, my God," she says. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."
"Wrong deity," he tells her, grinning lecherously. "But I'm glad for the sentiment."
"Sorry," she says.
"Feeling a bit more relaxed, now?"
"Yes," she says. "Yes."
"Good," he says.
When she can move, she turns to face him, smiling like a drunk. He's aroused and unabashed. She presses close, rises to her tiptoes, and kisses him. "What about you?" she says, reaching down between them.
She cups him gently. His skin is feather-soft. Warm. Wet.
His eyes glaze with pleasure at her touch. "Hmm," he rumbles. The sound is bliss in a syllable. "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting quid pro quo," he says, pressing into her hand, "but I'd never stop you."
Thick steam coils in the air.
She licks her lips. Her fingers are pruned. She hasn't done this in … way too long. She only knows a few different techniques. She can't cycle through a repertoire until he's screaming, like he did for her. But ….
"What's your favorite thing?" she says as she reaches for the little travel-sized lotion bottle sitting with the hotel's soap and shampoo offerings.
"Anything where you touch me, darling," he replies. He kisses her. "In this moment, I'm quite easy to please."
So, she returns the pleasure he gave to her.
And, in the end, as he comes undone against her belly, she has no memory of nerves or shyness.
The world is hot.
And small.
Comprised of just him.
Just her.
They move to the bed in a blur she can't remember, because he's kissing her.
He rises above her on all fours, dipping down to kiss her lips. The little crook where her throat meets her collarbone. Her cleavage. Her belly. Her navel. He splays his palms against her abdomen like a sculptor inspecting his art, and then sits back on his knees. His touch slides lower. To the crease where her legs meet her torso. To her inner thighs.
She bucks. "Lucifer, what-," she has a chance to say.
And then he spreads her open like she's a gift for him, and he drops his head and body like he's praying at her altar. She feels him press lips to lips. Then she feels his tongue. She arches backward until the headboard looms in front of her. Breaths rasp in her throat. Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.
He pauses, looking up at her. "Have you not done this before?"
"N-no," she manages to say, quivering.
He makes a tsk tsk tsk noise and says, "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Clearly, he needs some … education."
The word education unfurls down her spine, a purr that makes her shiver. Lucifer smiles, prideful, lustful, gluttonous, covetous. Four deadly sins in one look. His body undulates like a wave. Then she feels his tongue again, and she forgets he ever brought Dan into the bedroom with them.
"Oh, oh, oh," she stutters as Lucifer works her into a blissful frenzy.
Their tiny world brightens as he kisses and teases and coaxes her toward the cliff. She needs to grab onto something. Anything. She finds his hair, and the pleased, guttural rumble he makes when her nails scrape his scalp is almost enough to push her into free fall.
Almost.
He brings her with a lick, and then her eyes roll back, and she's falling.
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God. OhmyGod," she chants.
She doesn't even land before he moves up again, straddles her, and kisses her on the mouth. She rakes her nails down his bulging biceps. He growls, the sound so deep it makes her toes curl.
When she can see more than spots again, he's there, inches from her face, peering into her soul.
She can feel him between her legs. Waiting. "All right?" he says before he joins them together.
She can't find words. She only nods. He kisses her. And then he jerks his hips. She's so wet, he glides right in. She was empty, and now he's filled her up. She squeezes her pelvic floor, welcoming him, and he groans. He's not small.
"Wow," she whispers, trembling. It's the only thing she can think of to say.
He's panting now, too, just hovering there, looking at her through his dark eyelashes, eyes full of stars. "You feel so bloody good to me," he murmurs, overwrought, pushing his fingers through her hair. He kisses her once. Again.
She tips up her chin to kiss him in return. Runs her hands down his back, teasing muscles and skin. His spine is a gentle curve she can't resist stroking.
"Thank you for being patient," she says.
"Quite worth it," he replies.
She winces as a thought occurs to her. It should have occurred a lot sooner than this. "Um."
He raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Condom?"
He shakes his head. "I'm a different species, darling. We're not remotely compatible in that sense. And I'm immune to disease. I imagine I'm immune, even when you've made me vulnerable, given the species barrier. Though I suppose if there's some angel flu floating about, I could, in theory, catch it, now."
"Oh," she says, swallowing. "Right."
She's fucking an angel.
An angel is fucking her.
Not just any angel, either.
She can't help but snort with amusement. "Every time I think I've got my head wrapped around this shit …."
He laughs, and the sound is bright and beautiful.
She kisses him. "Lucifer the Morning Star." She strokes his sweaty chest. "My morning star."
His eyes narrow, and he gives her an odd look.
"What is it?" she murmurs.
He shakes his head. "Just … not something I'm used to hearing with affection."
A lump forms in her throat. "Do you like it?"
"I …." He frowns. "I don't know."
She wonders if he means the words are bittersweet. Good but … heart-wrenching all the same. Like Trixie and her steadfast refusal to stop growing up.
"I love you," she says, looking up at him.
He presses his lips to hers, a soft sound of pleasure rasping in his throat. He loves her, too, he doesn't say. Physically speaking, he's a thunderstorm of positive feedback, happy to shower her with any and all reminders that she brings him to places that make him feel good, and that he desires. But he's not verbally demonstrative. Not yet. He's got quite a lot of ingrained habits to overcome in that arena. But … knowing how he feels is enough.
"Love me," she tells him.
And that … he knows how to do in spades, as long as he doesn't have to describe it with language.
"As you desire," he says, a purr.
He takes a deep breath and begins to move. His hips grind against her as he thrusts like a piston. And what little is left of the world falls away. He stares at her, unblinking, and she stares back as he searches for his own release. His body is a wave, crashing against her shore and receding. Crashing and receding. Like everything else, he does this with gusto. With joy. With wanton fervor.
And the Devil is beautiful when he comes.
His muscles hit gridlock in a quick cascade from curled toes to clenched jaw, expelling the air from his lungs as he stills. His lips part, showing teeth, and he stares miles deep into her soul. The sound he makes deep in his throat tightens her own body in desirous echo. Then his hips kick forward, and he spills himself into her body, warm and wet, abdomen twitching rhythmically, as the seconds crawl into memory.
He sags against her, sated and spent.
With a relaxed sigh, he slides off of her, out of her, and comes to rest along her heaving side.
He pulls her into his arms.
And they bask in a whorl of pleasant lethargy.
He shows her a lot of new places that night. So many, she loses count - "The many advantages of a celestial constitution," he says with a lecherous grin - until she's so exhausted she can't even think anymore, until she's hoarse from all her moaning, until she's had every inch of herself touched and tasted and loved, until the oxytocin and dopamine rushing through her veins are a constant, blissful delirium.
She's never been with a man who won't take more for himself than he gives. She's never been with a man who knows a woman's body as if he were woman himself. Every orgasm Lucifer receives, he gives her one in return, or more than one, or more than two, and she gets the impression that he loves experiencing her release as much if not more than his own.
He was telling her the truth, baldly, without spin.
He doesn't care about how experienced she is.
He literally gets off on desire.
And desire is skill blind.
He delights in her body.
He delights in watching her fall apart under his ministrations.
He delights in her, and so does she in him.
"So, the Devil gets sex hair," she says with a pleased sigh as he rests beside her, panting, done for the night by mutual agreement.
His gives her a lazy, wanton smile. "Unfortunately."
Curls he tamed have exploded back into existence, and not in a styled way. More … I-plugged-myself-into-a-light-socket chic. She thinks she may have contributed, what with all times she's pushed her fingers through it. It's just so grab-able in the throes, and there'd been quite a few throes this night. Still … she glances over at him, grinning, only to burst out laughing.
His eyebrows knit. "What?"
She swipes at an unruly lock that's tumbled over his forehead. It sparkles in the dim lamplight. "You've still got glitter. In your um." She snorts. "Your … 'do."
He glowers. "I imagine I'll be finding it for eons. How do you get rid of it?"
She gives him an apologetic look. "You really don't."
"You're lucky that I find your offspring tolerable."
"Oh, I think you find her more than tolerable. I think you might even like her."
He gives her a gleaming look and winks. She laughs and presses her lips to his, and then she twists, pulling his arm over her shoulder. The covers rustle and the bed moves. The lamplight winks out. Then he curls around her like a big cat, pressing his nose against her hair, and sighs.
The early morning silence settles like a warm cloak.
"I kind of don't want to go home," she confesses, leaning against his shoulder as Lucifer settles the bill at the front desk. One smile from him, and all of the room service charges are comped, fresh strawberries and wine included. How does he do that?
She watches him sign his name with his gorgeous almost calligraphy, and then he turns to her. He looks sated. And relaxed. And happy in a way she hasn't seen him in far too long.
She gets it. Her whole body is pleasantly numb, too.
"I think Beatrice might be cross with me if I kept you away for another day," he says as he leans in to kiss her.
"I do miss Trixie," she admits as he pulls away.
"And we can have all this fun at home, too, you know. Sans the gambling, and falling from death-defying heights."
She snorts. "You promise?"
"My word is my bond," he replies with a lazy smile.
He wraps an arm over her shoulder, and they wheel their suitcases to the valet outside. Sunday morning is sunny and balmy and perfect, much as the rest of the weekend has been. A cool breeze billows down the valet line, in the shade of the Bellagio. Lucifer gives his ticket to the valet, along with a $100 bill.
"Do you want to drive again, darling?" he says.
"No, thanks," she says. "I don't have your 'celestial constitution.' I'm beat."
He laughs. "Should I apologize?"
"Never," she says, kissing him.
The Corvette rumbles to a stop in front of them, and the valet hops out. Lucifer hands him another $100. "Thank you, sir!" the young man says, and he races around to open Chloe's door for her.
Lucifer pulls his seatbelt across his lap, clicking it into place. He stares through the windshield. And he smiles like he has a secret.
"What is it?" she says as she climbs in beside him.
"Whatever I want," he replies with a laugh, and they peal out into the summer sun.
~finis~