They don't bother to clean the glass strewn across the floor. His shoes crunch across the shards like he's walking on freshly fallen snow and he gathers her in his arms, pressing a broad hand to the small of her back as he carries her across the treacherous ground.

Her head is buried in the crook of his shoulder as she straddles him, feeling him stride across the room and mount the steps to the bedroom swiftly and slowly all the same. She can't bring herself to lift her head to kiss him — not yet. She doesn't want to cover his lips with hers; not when the words are still searing into the narrow space between them. She breathes him in instead, feeling the beat of his pulse against the base of his neck and closing her eyes against the low rumble in his chest.

He deposits her on the edge of the bed, leaning gently over her as she disentangles her legs from his waist and her eyes open to look at him — really look at him — with soft reverence.

I love you.

She knows.

There's a quiet wince as she tries to push herself up, to meet his lips as he looms over her with arms bracing himself on her either side. There's a shadow of concern shading his brow at her sharp breath in and he retracts slightly, dancing above her lips and poised like a nervous cobra as he hovers above her.

"Detective," he breathes, "Are you sure?"

She's close to him now — so close — sitting up the rest of the way and drawing a finger across the rut of his jaw with a silent smile. The mottled ring on her finger is dancing in the low light of the chandelier and the cool metal of the band as it drags across his lips is enough to jolt him into action.

He folds into her hand and kisses her; gently at first, gauging the sounds of her uneven breaths against his mouth and brushing a tentative finger against her arm as if she's made of porcelain and he's terrified — terrified — that he may break her.

When he pulls back an involuntary hum escapes from the back of her throat and she fixes him with a pleading stare, still trapped under his bent frame as he leans against the edge of the mattress. His hair, usually attended to with such expert precision, tickles the base of her chin with a mess of loose curls as she wriggles beneath him and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

It seems like forever ago that she had stepped out of the elevator dressed in red, since he had led her by the hand up these steps, onto this bed — an eternity since she had traced her fingers across his bare chest and along the smooth leather of his belt.

Incredible.

So much is different now. So much has changed. There's so much he should have told her, sooner; so many words he never should have said and so many ways that he should have kept her safe. She can hear his mind racing, feel his hand light and trembling as she covers it with her own.

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. "Lucifer," she says, the words quiet and hot against his ear. "I'm here."

His eyes flicker open and his hand steadies with the cool insistence of her tone. She's here. Now. With him, surrounded by him, draped underneath him and imploring him to kiss her and she's safe.

His hand moves from its place beside her and he wraps it gently around her neck, leading her back against the bed and telling her - demanding her, wordlessly, to stay. She had taken the lead the last time, and he had gladly let her — but not now. She melts under his grasp and whines against the light weight of his palm on her throat; when he pulls back and traces a finger along her collarbone and cups the outline of her breast in his hand she's panting, and her hands are grasping at bunches of satin sheets.

He undoes the button on the dress shirt she's wearing — his dress shirt — and stares at her, framed by black satin and the white linen shirt that now hangs to her side and glowing in the soft light.

"Chloe," he mumbles, and then he's crashing down and his lips are on her, replacing the hands that had explored her only moments before.

He stops when his mouth ventures to her navel, pausing above the sheet of white gauze that's wound about her stomach. She's suddenly very aware of the scar that runs beneath it and scores her midsection, and of the shoddy bandage that holds her in place. She's looking at him; waiting for a reaction, for a pursed lip or a drawn eyebrow at the sight of the thing in all its glory, but he's only looking at her, waiting for her gaze to settle so that he can ask her, gently — "May I?"

She only nods. He undoes the bandage that wraps around her stomach and waist; slower, this time, than when he had so deftly removed her shirt and run a stubbled jaw along the valley of her chest. She's there, now — all of her — and he casts the bandage aside and lowers his lips to the scar across her belly, following its jagged path with worshipful, agonizing slowness.

When she gasps and her fingers knot in his hair he rears up to face her, his mouth still hovering inches from the base of her scar. There's a curious look in his eyes — a knowing; and he bends back down to continue his lazy trek, until he's just below her navel and her knees are squirming by his shoulders and the hint of nervous fire that had sparked in her eyes is quelled by his hand nudging open her thigh and his breath hot against her.

He pauses, his mouth poised just above her, and she's practically bucking her hips against him, begging him please, please, not to stop, to tell her he loves her with the words hot and frantic between her legs and to bury himself inside her, but he's sitting back on his knees and slowly — painfully slowly — removing the layers of clothing that separate him from her.

When there's nothing left, save for him, he takes her hand and turns away from her, still on his knees, facing the windows and the edge of the bed as if preparing a confession. She lets him guide her hand, and when he can't reach further she goes the rest of the way, placing a gentle palm against the two crescent scars that still mar his back. There's no whirlwind of frenzied emotion this time; no whipping around to grab her by the wrist as she outlines the marks against his skin.

"I did try to get rid of the bloody things, once," he says, smiling softly as he turns back to face her. She's watching him with wide eyes. "Now these are… just memories."

She's seen his wings, plenty of times — giant and white and unfurled in all of their majesty — but his scars had remained uncharted territory even after that night in the penthouse. He had let her take control, straddle him, ride him with one hand on the headboard and the other clutching at Assyrian stone — but he had never rolled over for her like he did now. He's showing her; she realizes, telling her that it gets better — comforting her in the confusingly analogous way that he seems to have mastered.

She's never loved him more.

He smiles at the expression on her face — her eyes must have betrayed her — and works his way back up to her, draping himself across her and burying his lips against her neck. The stubble on his jaw and the playful nip of his teeth against taut skin summons a breathy giggle from her; one which catches and tears and fades to a whimper as two fingers shove her underwear aside and plunge inside her.

"Look at me." He breathes, his face inches from hers as she writhes beneath him, grasping at the sheets and the pillows and the arm that he's using to wrap around her and brace against the steady rhythm of his fingers. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her head is arched against the crook of his elbow — she doesn't trust herself to look at him, doesn't trust herself not to fall off the edge right then and there and explode at the sight of him.

"Detective," he summons her again, calling her back from the brink and forcing her to look him in the eye. The word is devilishly wicked on his tongue; he pauses his concentrated efforts and she moans in frustration as the familiar pressure of his hand lightens against her. He's teasing her.

Bastard.

He grins at her mounting displeasure and his left hand, wrapped and braced against her, shifts to the back of her head and folds into her hair, tilting her head up so that she's trapped against his gaze and holding her in place while his other hand resumes its work.

"I did give you the choice first," he murmurs, and this time a cry escapes her lips as his thumb draws deft circles around her while his other two fingers beckon inside.

She had been right not to trust herself to look. The sight of him, dark eyes blazing, mouth lingering just above hers, upturned in a smug smile — is enough to elicit another cry from her, and the combination of his teeth on her neck and his hand in her hair and his fingers folding against her and his thumb — what is he doing with his thumb? — sends her tumbling over the edge.

A shudder racks her body, and the low hum of pleasure is barely dead on her lips when the familiar pressure of his hand lessens and fades, and for a moment the whine she breathes at the loss of him hangs heavy in the air, strangled by a gasp when he slides into her.

For a moment, he doesn't move —feeling her gasp, watching her face as he looms tentatively above her. And then she grabs him, grasping at his shoulders with desperate need and pushing herself against him, burying him inside her. It's all the incentive he needs.

This time, it's her turn to speak. His taunts had given way to quick, labored breathing — he's trying not to ruin his devilish reputation with a world-record speed round, but the sight of her wrapped against him, pressed to his chest, buried in his neck and fully, completely, his — is quickly laying the groundwork for an embarrassing precedent. He doesn't trust himself to speak; it's all he can do to flip her on her side and wrap her leg over his and thrust into her with a low moan.

"Say it." She gasps against him as the strokes become quicker; more erratic with the sound of her voice and the heat of her request.

The words are quiet, broken by the sound of him coming apart as he crumbles on the phrase.

I love you.

She knows.