It's not the first time they've stood in the evidence room together, though the strain that had wrought their last meeting has been replaced by a tension of a vastly different sort. Where Chloe had stood opposite him just weeks before, eyes glassy with tears as he stumbled and tripped over words he couldn't say, she now clings to him with fervent desperation as the door clangs shut and leaves them breathing in the heavy silence.
As their eyes adjust to the darkness, cluttered shelves loom sharply into view: forgotten boxes of evidence from long-abandoned cases teeter off the metal racks and rain dust upon them as Lucifer backs her unceremoniously against one of the steel brackets. The handcuffs are clinking against each other, dangling from the palm that doesn't direct her against the shelves and teasing her with a metallic, glinting stare. She swallows. It's not the first time she's been in here for a purpose far beyond the realm of collecting evidence — her mind shifts briefly to Pierce — Cain — and her morning with him spent pinned against the wall; how she had closed her eyes and imagined it was Lucifer gasping into the crook of her neck, Lucifer fumbling with the fly on her jeans, Lucifer thrusting inside her with a tilted groan and a hand braced behind her head.
Now, though, she's shocked at the deficiency of her imagination. Whatever she had fantasized about that day with Pierce: the gentle scratch of Lucifer's stubble raking along her neck as Pierce's own smooth jaw had nuzzled against her; his eyes, dull blue and reflecting her own, replaced by Lucifer's, dark and glinting with desire — none of it compares to the Lucifer that now towers lazily above her.
Admittedly, she had had little to compare him to; whatever fantasies her mind had concocted were still limited by the depths of her experiential pool. And she had never — never — experienced anything like this. Where Pierce had hoisted her into his arms and shoved her with frantic desire against the wall, his hands firm against her back and never bothering to shrug off the blazer nor blouse that separated her from him, Lucifer now takes a decidedly different approach.
He's never been one to rush a good thing, and this is hardly an exception. He backs her against the metal rod of one of the evidence shelves, until her spine is arched against cool steel and her hands reach instinctively for him, to steady herself. He lets her cling to him, lets her tug him closer as her fists bunch in the folds of his shirt, and she shudders when he closes the distance between them. He hasn't touched the handcuffs that still hang, loose and taunting and wrapped around a casual finger, but he still pins her where she stands, nudging her legs apart with his knee and bending to drag a gentle kiss across her cheek.
Her legs part for him and she grabs for his free hand, guiding his fingers down until they're skimming up her thigh, brushing lightly against denim as both of their hands toy with her zipper. She can feel him harden against her at the easy insistence of her hand on his; the knee that had so cooly spread her legs apart trembles, and he rolls his hips against her.
"Oh, I don't think so." The words are curved in a willful smile as he mutters them against her neck; as he stops her hand from reaching for his belt and returns it gently to her side. "Why the rush, Detective?"
She's grateful for the cool metal against her back as warmth floods her core and sends a heated whine through her lips. There's nowhere to move: she's pressed against the bracket and he's close, so close, one hand traipsing up the inside of her thigh where his hips are pressed against her. He won't let her touch him: it's all she can do to moan softly at his lips against her collarbone and his fingers stroking her with agonizing leisure.
By the time the telltale jingle interrupts her quiet whimper, Chloe has all but forgotten about the handcuffs. She's never used them before — certainly not with Dan, not with Pierce, and, though perhaps surprising to the more perverse side of Hollywood, not ever in her Hot Tub High School days. This is uncharted territory for her, and he seems to register the fact from the look on her face.
"I want to," she breathes, before he can speak; before he can placate the nervous shadow that flits across her face. He won't press the cold metal to her wrists until she tells him — until she's sure — and so she speaks with quiet assurance before he can pull back.
He looks at her, then, dark eyes seeking grey amidst the tall shadows of the room. Still hovering between her legs, his fingers brush against black lace and curl about her, eliciting a final hum of soft approval before he draws his hand back and wraps it instead around her wrists. He guides her hands, gently, until they're pressed against her back and rubbing against the steel beam. There's a catch in her breath and she stumbles along a gasp as the cuffs slide from his fingers and snap around her wrists, tightening with a familiar hiss and binding her to the scaffolding.
She strains against them, instinctively, and the metal beam eeks out a high-pitched groan. The dusty boxes on the shelf beside her rattle slightly and settle back into place, and she murmurs in quiet frustration as Lucifer pulls back, stepping just out of reach and fixing her with a small smile.
"As I said, darling," he drawls, his voice dark and low, "Why the rush?"
For a moment he only stares at her, just out of reach, and then he's undoing the buttons on his vest and on the wine-colored shirt he wears and he's shrugging them to the ground, until her breathing is clipped and stilted and she's raking her eyes across his bare chest. The unrelenting tug of the cuffs is a firm reminder as she tries to reach for him again; to wrap her arms around his neck and drag teasing fingers down the panting valley of his chest. But she can't touch him, can't reach out to him, can't bring her lips crashing to his neck or to his mouth as he hovers just above her. It's all she can do to stand on trembling legs as deft hands undo the buttons of her blouse; letting it fall open and hang loosely from her shoulders and exposing the black bra beneath.
Now, finally, his hands are on her, all over her, lost in the hanging fabric of her shirt and tracing agonizing patterns along the cups of her bra and the curve of her breasts. He's already done away with the jeans she wears, having crumpled them about her knees as his fingers had urged them down and slipped inside her. He doesn't bother to shove them down, further; she's right where he wants her, writhing against his hand on her chest, and he's too desperate for her to keep up his charade of languorous undoing.
She might be the one in handcuffs, but it's he who kneels to her this time. He bends to the dusty floor of the evidence room, until his knees are on the ground and he's eye level with her hips. He looks up at her, then, and where she would tangle her hands in his hair and pull him in she can only close her eyes against a soft, keening whine.
This is what he meant, that night in the coat closet, when he had wanted so desperately to tell her that he worshipped her — that he could go his whole life only pleasing her — and that he wanted to. This is what he had tried, and failed, to tell her as her lips had circled around him and silenced the words on his lips; but now, here, she's a captive audience and his actions seem to be explaining for him.
"Lucifer," she whispers, and his mind snaps back — back from the coat closet, from the feeling of his hands bunched and pulling at her hair, from the words he had tried so hard to find — "Please."
The Devil is nothing if not a gentleman. She doesn't have to ask twice. He tugs her underwear down until they're crumpled with the jeans around her ankles and places his hands on her knees, nudging them apart and holding her still against the beam. His tongue coaxes her — teases her — and she moans, straining forward until his nose is pressed to her pelvis and his mouth is wet and hot and buried against her.
When he can't keep her still any longer; when she's arching her hips against him and the whimper that cuts through the dim stillness of the evidence room shakes her in a fumbling shudder, her legs seem to lose their trembling strength and she slides partly down the beam. His mouth parts from her and he steadies her with broad hands against her hips, holding her as the wave of pleasure racks her frame and rattles the handcuffs.
Lucifer rises to his feet, one hand glued to her waist where she still quivers and threatens to sink to the floor without the brace of his palm. When she recovers enough for him to release his grip, her eyes searching his with vitric desire, he finally — finally — leans to kiss her, his lips scorching hers, his tongue sliding to meet her own with a ragged groan. There's a glint of surprise in his eyes when she nips at his bottom lip — without her hands, it's all she can think to do to reclaim some semblance of authority over him — and she can feel him smile against her mouth; accept her smirking challenge as he pulls back, ever so slightly, and tugs on the wrists that lay limp within the handcuffs — reminding her.
She watches him as he works to remove his belt with a short grunt and unzips the fly of the dark suit pants he wears, now creased and powdered with dust at the knee. He doesn't seem to care. He's only looking at her, staring at her with a curious mix of wolfish lust and reverential adoration. She isn't sure which one prevails — or perhaps they both do, working in tandem — as he positions himself between her legs and wraps his arms around her back, picking her up against the beam and sliding into her with a stifled gasp.
His mouth is level with her collarbone, nestled against the scar on her shoulder as her legs fold around his waist and he thrusts up and into her with even, constant strokes. She's panting, her eyes shut in a concentrated attempt to smother the moan that drags along her lips and drowns in his tousled hair.
He is strong — supernaturally so — and the shelf beside them shakes as he grows more frantic; as the feeling of her tightening around him sends him plunging inside her with a canted moan, filling her until she's calling his name in a broken whisper, until the hands that hold her up are white-hot and slick against her skin, until her fingers are grasping for a hold on the silver chain that links the handcuffs.
"I love you," she's saying, the words mumbled thick and hot against his ear, "I love you."
She's said it before; so many times now but never like this, never pinned in his grasp with him pitched against her, never with the words fevered and reckless in a room she never thought she'd see again.
The sound of the words and the sight of her arched against the pole, wholly reliant upon the fixed strength of his hands as he holds her aloft, is enough in that moment to extinguish that all-consuming fear — that he can't keep her safe fear that gnaws at his mind. She trusts him — she's in his hands, quite literally, with hers bound and useless behind her — and as she speaks the words and her eyes flutter open, the fear that had chewed a hole in his heart seems to seal with the burning heat of her gaze.
This time she's sure it's love, not lust, that wins out in the end and sends him shuddering and crashing against her with a final, ragged thrust. For a moment he holds her, still, hoisted against the bracket as his breaths tickle the loose strands of hair beside her face and tremble down her neck. And then, slowly, reluctantly, he lowers her and unclasps the cuffs from around her wrists, stumbling back in tired, contented surprise when she surges forward in her newfound freedom. Her hands trail up his bare chest and this time it's he who collides with the shelf behind him, lips parted in gentle awe as her lips find his and her hands bury themselves behind his head, tangling in his mess of dark hair and forcing him close.
When she pulls away, he's panting again, and even he — with the reputation of a celestial hound dog — is arched in surprise as he stiffens once more under her vengeful touch. She notices, and smiles as she steps deliberately away, leaving him flustered and blushing and with eyes averted to the floor.
He's threading his belt through crinkled, dust-coated Tom Ford pants as Chloe stands with her elbow resting against one of the evidence shelves, toying with the handcuffs with a curious stare.
Lucifer wanders over to her with a loose grin, having now recovered some semblance of himself after she had nearly brought him to his knees for the second time that evening.
"It's only right you have a souvenir of your time here, Detective," he intones, nodding to the handcuffs. She somehow doubts that by her time here he's referring to her more professional days as a detective — his eyes are glinting with unbridled, winking desire at the lonely restraints.
"Mm," she mutters, rolling her eyes. She can't help the smile from creeping across the corners of her lips, and she drops them into his waiting hands.
"Lucifer, that was—" she's somewhat grateful that her sentence is cut short by his phone ringing in his pocket, as she isn't even sure herself that she can summon up words to describe to him the way the way she felt — the way she's feeling. He scrambles for his phone, if only to silence it as the piercing chime echoes through the empty evidence room, but his gaze darkens as he glances at the Caller ID.
"It's Maze," he says, almost apologetically. She raises a hand to dismiss his apology before he can even start, and urges him to answer with a clipped nod of her head.
"Where have you been?" He asks, as Chloe sidles up beside him in the darkness to hear the muffled voice on the line. His voice is dark with concern, but his eyes are still fixed on Chloe, trailing down the exposed neck of her shirt, the small patch of white skin where she had missed a button, the curve of her waist in those jeans…he snaps back to life as Maze's clipped voice burns against the receiver.
"Guess who I just found?" she pants, rasping and crackling and laced with exhaustion. Lucifer's eyes flit to Chloe, and they stand in rigid anticipation as she growls the next words.
"Lucifer. Your sister is in town."