21. Twenty-One

Lucifer is nervous. 

It’s ridiculous for him to be nervous. Absolutely absurd. The Devil doesn’t get bloody nervous. Not when he looks this good in a tux, and not when he has the most romantic date in the history of time planned, and certainly not when he knows that the woman he’s doing all this for is so easy to please that pizza and a six pack of IPAs and a Love It or List It marathon would make her perfectly happy. It is preposterous for him to be nervous. 

But he is. 

His hands feel kind of clammy. There’s a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, like there are a thousand tiny tap dancers tapping out a big finale. He feels kind of nauseous. But also strangely excited? His heart is racing. Like, galloping. There’s a Kentucky Derby in his chest right now. Is this how mortal men feel before they go on dates? Bloody hell, no wonder they spend so many nights at home alone with their hands. He feels like he’s going to keel over. 

When he pulls the Escalade to a stop in front of the Airbnb where he left the Detective, it’s a few minutes before six. He shoves the gear shift into park and stares at the front door. Should he go up there and ring the doorbell even though he’s a few minutes early? He wants to because he’s dying to see her, but what if she’s not ready? He should wait. But if he waits, what the hell is he supposed to do for the next three minutes? 

It feels hot in this car. Is it hot? It’s hot. He should get some fresh air.

He shoves the door open and steps out into the evening air. The weather is perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Although, if he’s honest, he’s kind of hoping it gets chilly later. He likes the idea of her wearing his tuxedo jacket over her dress. She looks good in his clothes. She looks best in no clothes, obviously, and he’s grown rather fond of the patterned blouses and various blazers and jackets she wears to work, but when she’s in his clothes...he likes that. He likes that a lot. 

He checks his reflection in the window of the car. He looks good. By Dad, he wears a tuxedo well. His hair looks excellent. He wonders what the Detective will have done with her hair. Will she pull it back? Or will she wear it down, perhaps in waves, so that he can brush it out of her face before he kisses her?

Well, now he’s thinking about kissing her. He likes kissing her. He’s never really thought much about kissing. Other than what it can lead to, that is. But kissing the Detective is different somehow. He didn’t realize it was possible to communicate anything other than lust with a kiss, but she communicates with him all the time. Sometimes she kisses him when she’s mid-laugh, and he knows that she’s amused by him. Sometimes she kisses him slowly, gently, and he knows that she loves him. 

He wonders how she’ll kiss him tonight. 

He shakes his head to dismiss the fantasy of kissing her while he unzips her dress. Surely it’s six o’clock now. He glances at his watch, and immediately groans. It’s only been a minute. How has it only been a bloody minute? 

He starts to pace and mentally slideshows through the agenda for the night. He’s proud of himself for planning all this on such short notice, particularly since he’s so inexperienced when it comes to relationships. Really, this is yet another example of how extraordinary he is. He’d bet the Escalade that none of her exes took her out for a night on the town like he’s about to. 

Although, come to think of it, is that a good thing? Perhaps he should have just gone with the pizza/beer/TV marathon thing. What if she doesn’t like all this fuss? What if it’s too over the top? 

Wait. What if it’s not over the top enough? What if she spent the afternoon getting her hopes up for something spectacular, and he doesn’t deliver? What if she’s disappointed in him?

He’s going to be sick. 

He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing the way he’s seen Doctor Linda coach her patients to do. What’s that other nonsense she’s always spewing as patients exit her office? Oh, that’s right. Affirmations. Ridiculous nonsense. But perhaps worth a shot? Can’t hurt.

He takes a deep breath. He is the Lord of Hell. Prince of Darkness. King of Demons. He ruled Hell for millennia. He has laser beam hands, damn it. He can do this. 

He yanks the door of the Escalade open, grabs the bouquet of flowers that he spent half an hour agonizing over at the florist, and then slams the door and strides up the sidewalk toward the house. She’s going to love these flowers. She’s going to love this date. She loves him. Everything is going to be fine. 

He reaches out, stabs the doorbell with his index finger like it’s personally offended him, and then another wave of anxiety crashes over him. He feels sick again. He’s going to be sick. If he throws up in this bouquet, will she still want it?

The door swings open before he can decide, and there she is. 

He’s never seen anyone so beautiful. 

The dress is...it’s perfect. The red is stunning on her, and the fabric hugs her body without being too tight. It’s elegant. Classy. There’s a slit in the skirt, and that means he can see a glimpse of her leg. He adores her legs. Especially when they’re…

Bloody hell, those shoes. He remembers the last time she wore heels like that, and desire burns in his gut. He trails his gaze upward over her body, lingering at her chest, and then he spots the necklace around her neck and the small diamond resting in the hollow of her throat. He feels a brief flash of vindication. He knew she’d pick that one.

Her hair is down, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing eyeliner, and her lipstick is a deep blood red that matches her dress. 

She’s smiling. He feels warm all over. 

“Hi,” the Detective says softly. 

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. She’s so beautiful it hurts. His body is aching for her, and the tap dancers are back in his stomach.  

He clears his throat and tries again, but all that comes out is, “Uh.” 

Her smile deepens. She nods at the bouquet in his hands. “Are those for me?”

He finally snaps to attention. “Yes,” he blurts out. “Apologies, I...here.” He holds the flowers out for her. 

She takes them from him, her fingers brushing over his, and he feels like lightning is racing through his veins. 

“They’re beautiful,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“The florist said lilacs are symbolic of first love,” he tells her, smoothing his hand over his tux. “It seemed apropos.”

She nods. “Yeah. Definitely.” She motions toward the inside of the house. “Can I put them in water, or do we need to go?”

“By all means,” he says, gesturing at her. “We have a few minutes.”

She smiles at him, and then turns and walks back into the house. He watches her go, his eyes glued to her figure. He knew that dress would look amazing on her, but he didn’t expect…

He tugs on the collar of his shirt. It might be harder than he thought to get through this night without pulling her into a closet or a bathroom. Bloody hell, even a dark corner would do. 

He steps across the threshold and closes the door gently behind him. He checks his reflection in the mirror hanging in the entryway, and then follows her into the house. She’s standing at the kitchen sink, her back to him as she fills a tall glass with water. The bouquet of lilacs is sitting on the counter next to her. 

He pauses at the island and sweeps his gaze over her again. She’s gorgeous. And magnetic. He can feel the pull in his chest. The desire to be in her space and breathe her in is becoming nearly unbearable, so he stops resisting. 

He closes the distance between them and slides a hand along her waist, and then presses his chest into her back. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales. She smells like that shampoo, and also like that hairspray she uses. He can smell her perfume too. 

She smells like home. 

She shuts the faucet off because the glass is full, but she doesn’t reach for the flowers. She doesn’t move. He wonders if her eyes are closed, and if she likes his closeness as much as he likes hers. He brushes her hair aside to give him access to her skin, and then he bends forward to press a kiss to the slope of her shoulder. He trails his mouth upward until it’s by her ear. It’s a crime he hasn’t yet complimented her on how she looks. He needs to rectify that immediately. 

“You look beautiful,” he whispers. 

She shivers a little, probably from his breath on her skin. He smiles. That won’t be the last time she shivers in pleasure tonight. Not by a long shot. 

She finally turns to face him, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“I do look dashing in a tux, don’t I?” 

She purses her lips around a smile and runs her hands along the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. “You going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

“No.” 

“Can I guess?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t lie, so if you’re correct I’ll be forced to tell you. And then I won’t get to enjoy your reaction.”

She hums under her breath. “Fair enough.”

He lifts his hand to brush a strand of her hair back from her face. “You really do look stunning, Detective. Absolutely breathtaking.”

A hint of a blush blossoms in her cheeks. “Thank you.” Her eyes flicker down to his mouth, but she doesn’t kiss him. “So is this our first date?”

“No.”

She frowns. “No?”

“Our first date will take place once everything is back to normal. I don’t want it to be tainted by the dream and its effects. This is just...well, it’s a half date. Our practice run, if you will.”

“Practice run,” she repeats in amusement. “Alright.”

He trails his fingertips along the chain of her necklace, down to the hollow of her throat where the diamond sits. “Later,” he murmurs, “when I take this dress off you, I want you to leave this on.” 

She swallows, her throat constricting just above his fingers. “Okay.” 

The tension ratchets up between them. He can feel it buzzing in the air and thrumming in his blood. 

“Lucifer,” she murmurs. 

He bends forward and kisses her. He has no idea how he managed to last this long without feeling her lips against his. He buries his hand in her hair, and she arches into him, and the agony he’s been in all day, his desperation to make her understand what she means to him, finally fades. He’ll show her. She’ll know.

He pulls back from her mouth. She blinks at him, looking a little dazed, and then she smiles. 

“Now you’ve got lipstick on your face,” she murmurs, swiping at his lips with her thumb. 

“I’m sure it suits me.” 

She rolls her eyes. She turns back to the sink and reaches for the lilacs. He watches as she arranges them in the glass, and then lifts it out of the sink to put it on the counter. Something flashes on her left hand, and that’s when he remembers. 

He darts his hand out to grab her wrist. She looks up at him, frowning in confusion, but he’s too busy staring at the ring on her fourth finger to meet her gaze. 

His heart flips in his chest. The last time he saw a ring on that finger, it was Pierce’s. She was Pierce’s. But she’s not anymore. She’s with him now. 

When he looks up at her, she’s watching him with an unreadable expression on her face. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and smiles. 

“You chose well. It’s beautiful.” He holds up his own left hand with a sheepish smile. “You approve?”

She stares at the ring on his finger, her mouth falling open a little. He waits, but she doesn’t say anything. Her silence lights a flare of anxiety in his chest. Maybe she’s uncomfortable pretending to be his wife and lying on his behalf. He should have asked her first. He shouldn’t have assumed. 

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry that we have to—”

“I’m not.”

He blinks at her, stunned into silence. She stares back at him, and then glances down at his ring. 

“Sorry. It’s just that the last time I saw you with a ring on that finger, it was…” She frowns. “Not great.”

“Yes,” he says. “For me as well. With you, I mean. And Pierce.”

She snaps her gaze up to meet his. Guilt shudders across her face. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I forgot.”

“I wish I could.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Her expression softens the way it does when she thinks he’s upset, and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to start their date with this hanging over them. 

“Never mind all that,” he says. “Water under the bridge.” He offers her his arm. “We should leave so we’re not late. Are you ready?”

She studies him for a moment, and then she loops her arm through his with a smile. 

“I’m ready.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lucifer says, shooting his hand out to grab the Detective by the arm when she reaches for her door handle. “You won’t be opening doors for yourself tonight.”

She gives him a look. “I can open my own door, Lucifer.”

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”

She rolls her eyes. “This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it? Throwing my words back at me.”

He grins at her as he reaches for his own door handle. “You started it.”

She snorts. He climbs out of the car, still grinning, and jogs around the back to her side. He swings her door open, and then offers his hand. She slips her hand in his and steps out of the car. He stares at her high heel as it hits the pavement, and then lets his eyes travel up the leg he can see through the slit in her dress as she straightens. 

“My eyes are up here,” she teases. 

He meets her gaze. “Wasn’t your eyes I was interested in, darling.” He lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Though I’ll be the first to admit they’re as beautiful as the rest of you.”

“Flatterer.”

“We’ve discussed this.”

She hums in amusement or agreement. He can’t tell which. It doesn’t matter. Her bottom lip slides between her teeth, and he’s trying to decide whether he wants to lean forward and nibble on that lip himself when someone clears their throat nearby.

He straightens and turns and finds the valet standing there. The kid can’t be more than seventeen. He flicks his gaze briefly over the Detective’s figure, turns the shade of her dress, and then snaps his gaze down to the sidewalk.

“Seems I’m not the only one who thinks you look beautiful,” Lucifer muses. 

The Detective slides her hand along his bicep. “Don’t,” she murmurs.

Lucifer pulls a fifty dollar bill from his pocket, palms it with the car keys, and then steps forward and offers his hand to the valet. “You’re aware of the time it needs to be returned?”

“Yes sir,” the valet says. He shakes Lucifer’s hand to take the keys, and then his eyes widen when he glances down and sees the fifty in his hand too. He snaps his gaze up. “Thank you, sir. I...thank you.”

Lucifer nods politely. He can feel the Detective smiling at him. He offers her his arm, and she takes it. He smiles too—how can he not?—and leads her toward the restaurant. Her heels click on the sidewalk as they walk. A moment before they reach the door, it swings open and a man in a tuxedo appears. 

“Mr. Jones?”

Lucifer nods. “That’s what it says on the license in my wallet.”

The Detective clears her throat, likely to hide a laugh.

The man in the tuxedo beams. “Welcome.” He bows politely at the Detective. “Mrs. Jones.”

The Detective blushes a pretty color and leans closer to Lucifer with a nod. 

“I’m Alec. Please, come in.” He bows again and gestures inside, and Lucifer leads the Detective over the threshold. 

Inside, the lights are off and the restaurant is illuminated entirely by candlelight. There are a dozen tables with white tablecloths, but only one is set with dishes and glasses. 

Lucifer glances down at the Detective. Her mouth is hanging open. Her hand flexes in the crook of his elbow. “Did you…?”

“Rent it out for the evening?” he finishes when she doesn’t. “Yes.” 

She continues to stare. Behind him, Alec closes the front door, locks it, and then pockets the key and strides across the restaurant. He disappears into the back room without a word. 

The Detective stares after him, a confused frown on her face. 

“The shades are drawn,” Lucifer points out, nodding at the picture windows that normally provide a view of the street but are currently covered. “So there will be no prying eyes from the outside. There are no other patrons, and no cameras. We’ll have very little interaction with Alec, our waiter. I’ve taken all the proper precautions. It is, for all intents and purposes, just you and me.”

She lifts her gaze to his. She looks a little stunned, which he thinks is a good thing, but his heart is racing in his chest anyway. He really wants her to like this.

He leads her across the restaurant to the table that’s set, and pulls out her chair for her. She sits, and he pushes her in, and then he seats himself across from her. 

“Valerie says this is one of the finest restaurants in the city,” he tells the Detective, unbuttoning his jacket and then reaching for the bottle of wine that’s already sitting on the table. “She has a very discerning palate, so I trust her implicitly when it comes to such things. But I also...well, it was important to me that we eat Italian.”

He gestures at her wine glass, and the Detective pushes it toward him. “Why?”

Lucifer opens his mouth to answer her, but finds that his hands are shaking slightly when he lifts the bottle to pour her a glass. He’s a little mortified by that, and the last thing he wants to do is spill red wine all over the white tablecloth like a prat, so he presses his lips together and concentrates on pouring her a glass. He pours himself one too, and then sets the bottle down on the table with a thunk. 

The Detective is watching him. She hasn’t prompted him to answer her, which doesn’t surprise him. She’s appallingly patient with him. 

“I’m immortal,” he finally says, though he can’t bring himself to look at her. “And for most of my life—up until I settled in Los Angeles, that is—I only spent short periods of time on earth. Sometimes when I would return after a long absence, things would be quite different than I remembered. And I never minded. I am, as you observed, a variety is the spice of life kind of guy. But you were also correct in your assessment that familiarity is desirable. And sometimes I...well, I occasionally found myself longing for something familiar.”

He finally lifts his gaze to meet hers. “I found that in Italy. Tuscany, to be precise. I was there when the Renaissance was in full swing, and I enjoyed it so much that I returned as often as I could. I still do. The world has changed in immeasurable ways, but Tuscany is the same. Some of it is deserted, and there are parts that are terribly touristy, but there are still portions that remain as I remember. The food, and the wine, and the streets. The stars in the sky. It feels…”

He can’t seem to find the word. 

“It feels like home?” she suggests. 

He smiles. “It did until I met you.”

He can tell by the look on her face that she likes what he said. He forces himself to look away from her, though, because he still has things to say. 

“Doctor Linda told me once that being in a relationship means sharing yourself without losing yourself. And it occurred to me the other day, when you confided in me that you were concerned that I might not be as committed to you as you desire, that I haven’t...well, I haven’t given you a reason to believe that. I’ve been so afraid of losing myself that I haven’t shared myself.” 

He laughs. “Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I have shared plenty of my physical self with you on more than one occasion.” 

She smirks. “We did do quite a bit of sharing last night.”

He chuckles in agreement, and then lets his smile fade. He fiddles with his cufflink. “I’ve never done this before, Chloe.” 

Her name feels sacred falling from his lips, too sacred to say aloud, but he knows what it means to her when he says it and he wants her to understand. 

“I’ve never cared enough about anyone to feel like I wanted or needed to share myself. But I feel that now, with you, and that’s what tonight is. This restaurant, and the other places I’ll take you...they’re symbolic of things that mean something to me. And I want to share them with you.”

She doesn’t say anything. He waits in agony, hoping he’s been clear enough and hoping she feels the same, and then she leans forward and holds out her hand, her palm up in invitation. His hands are shaking again, but he reaches for her and weaves their fingers together. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling a little. “For being willing to share.” She strokes her thumb over his skin. “I want to know everything, Lucifer. All of it. All of you.”

Relief crashes over him, followed by a wild burst of courage. He leans forward, his chest pressing against the table, desperate to be closer to her. 

“I own a villa in Tuscany. I’d like to take you there. Not now, obviously. But later. When this is over.”

She smiles. “I’d like that too.”

Dinner is divine. 

Lucifer used to think that he knew the meaning of that word. He associates it with wings, and supernatural power, and his family and the city he’s been banished from. But he realizes, now, that he never fully understood the word. Never fully experienced it. Maybe his wings are divine, and maybe the place that used to be home and the celestials he used to call family are divine as well, but they pale in comparison to being with his Detective. 

She asks him about Tuscany, and the Renaissance, and his villa. He tells her everything she wants to know and more. He spends the vast majority of dinner talking, regaling her with stories that make her laugh and stories that make her gasp and stories that make her roll her eyes. He repeats his request to take her to see it all firsthand. She agrees, and he feels…light. Free. 

If he knew it would feel like this, he would’ve done it so much sooner.

She looks happy. Her eyes are stunningly blue in the dimness of the restaurant. The candlelight makes her hair gleam. The ring on her fourth finger sparkles every time she reaches up to brush her hair from her eyes. 

After Alec clears the table of plates from the last course and then disappears into the back room, Lucifer sets his elbows on the table and leans forward. 

The Detective smiles at him over the rim of her wine glass. “Dessert now?”

He lets his gaze trail suggestively over her chest. “Later. Not here.”

“I meant actual dessert,” she clarifies, setting her glass down. “Not me.”

He smiles. “As did I. Get your mind out of the gutter, darling.”

She laughs. “Touche.”

He’s not sure what makes him say it. All he knows is that he opens his mouth and suddenly the words are coming out before he can stop them. 

“This went much better than the last time I surprised you with a fancy dinner by candlelight, don’t you think?”

 She goes still. The atmosphere between them shifts, and he sighs at himself. He just can’t resist the urge to self-sabotage, can he?

“Apologies,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to cast a shadow over the evening.”

A silence hangs in the air, and then she says quietly, “Maybe we should talk about it.” 

Lucifer pulls the napkin off his lap and sets it on the table. “I’d rather not.”

“Yeah, me too. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Things were going so well before he resurrected the ghost of her former fiance. Why is he like this? Why can’t he just give her a romantic evening without any angst? 

He knows the answer. It’s because that’s who he is. He’s just...dark. She’s sunshine and he’s an eclipse, casting her in shadow.

“Lucifer,” the Detective calls.

He inhales a breath, lets it out, and then lifts his eyes to look at her.

She tilts her head, licks her lips the way she does when she’s about to say something she’s nervous about, and then meets his gaze. 

“I was in love with you.” 

He stares at her. 

“That night when you surprised me with dinner to upstage Pierce,” she clarifies. “I loved you, and I wanted to be with you, and I thought that’s what you were going to say. I thought you were finally going to tell me that you were ready for us. But you just…” 

She shakes her head and drops her gaze to the table. Her eyes are glassy, and he hates the idea that even now, after everything they’ve been through, his inability to tell the truth that night still hurts her. 

“I didn’t think you felt the same way.” She frowns. “Or maybe I knew you did, and I just thought I wasn’t enough to make you want to commit.”

His chest aches. Is that what she’s thought all this time? That he didn’t commit because she wasn’t enough? It’s he who’s lacking. It always has been.

“I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pining over someone who didn’t want me,” she continues, oblivious to his thoughts. “So when Marcus showed up at my door, and said everything that I’d wanted you to say, I thought maybe that was my chance, you know? To move on. To be with someone who wanted to be with me. I cared about him. And he seemed...”

“Safe?” Lucifer offers when she doesn’t finish.

She nods. “Yeah. Or at least I thought so.” She makes a face. “Obviously I was very, very wrong about that.”

“You had no way of knowing.”

“You told me.”

“You had no reason to believe me. I wasn’t being fully honest, and you knew it.”

She presses her lips together and doesn’t argue. He fidgets with the corner of his napkin and tries not to think about how awful it felt when she stood across from him in the interrogation room and nearly said she loved Pierce. 

“So the Doctor was correct then,” he says quietly. “You chose him because he offered you what I didn’t.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“So then why did you call off the engagement?”

She chews her bottom lip, and then lifts her shoulder. “Because he wasn’t you.”

All the breath rushes out of Lucifer’s lungs. 

The Detective fiddles with the ring on her fourth finger for a second, and then she folds her arms on the table and leans forward. 

“I’ve always been right here, Lucifer. All you had to do that night was ask, and I would’ve been yours.”

He leans forward too, feeling suddenly desperate. “I’m asking now.”

She smiles. “Then I’m yours.”

His eyes feel warm. His throat is tight. He gets out of his chair and strides around the table and kneels before her, reaching for her hands. She turns toward him. He bends forward, kissing each of her knuckles, and then he pauses at the finger that used to wear Pierce’s ring and is now wearing his. It’s not a real ring, he knows. But it feels real.  

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry I wasted so much time.”

“I’m not.”

He looks up at her in surprise. 

She smiles at him, that soft smile that she wears whenever she’s about to say something that will wreck him, and lifts a hand to his face. 

“It’s been hard for us. Messy and painful. But if we hadn’t been through all that, I don’t know if we’d be here.” 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “So it was worth it?” 

“Every second of it.” 

There isn’t a trace of hesitation in her voice, and suddenly he’s crying. His eyes are brimming, and he can’t stop the tears from leaking down his cheeks, and some distant part of himself that he hates is horrified. The Devil, on his knees before a human, clinging to her and begging to be loved. 

But the rest of him—the man she sees and the angel he wants to be—doesn’t care. How can he care? She’s sunshine burning at midnight, and she loves him, and that’s enough. 

She’s enough.

There’s something profound about the way Lucifer looks at Chloe.

It’s not like Chloe has never noticed it before. It’d be impossible not to. They work together so she sees him every day, and he’s handsome as hell, so she looks at his face quite a bit. And it’s not like she’s the only one who’s noticed it, either. Zatanna isn’t the first person who’s pointed it out to her. Chloe doubts she’ll be the last. 

But tonight is different. 

It’s one look after another. The nervousness when she swung open the door to find him in a tux with a bouquet in his hand. The desire before he kissed her in the kitchen, and when he caught a glimpse of her leg as she climbed out of the car. The fear when he poured her a glass of wine, and the earnestness when he told her he wanted to share himself, and the joy when she said she’d go with him to Tuscany. The pain when she talked about Marcus. The cautious hope when he asked if he was worth it.

He’s worth it. He’s worth all of it. She tells him that, whispers it over and over as she kisses him and wipes his tears away, and she wishes she had more to offer him. She wishes there were better words. She wishes she could make him see himself the way she sees him. Maybe then he’d understand. 

Eventually, he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers. “We have to go or we’ll be late.”

“Late for what?”

He smiles. “Nice try, love.”

He kisses her once more—quick but firm, like he knows he shouldn’t but can’t help it—and then he gets to his feet. He dusts his pants off and wipes his face and clears his throat, and then he bends forward and offers his arm. 

“Shall we?”

She takes his arm and lets him lead her from the restaurant. The valet is outside, waiting in front of the Escalade with the keys in his hand and his eyes glued respectfully to the sidewalk. Chloe sees a flash of green in Lucifer’s hand as he takes the keys, and she knows he just handed the kid another fifty dollar bill. She bites her lip around a smile.

Once they’re both in the car, Lucifer reaches for her hand. She holds it in both of hers, smiling briefly at him, and then gazes out the window. She’s dying to know where they’re going. She’s never been to Denver, so she has no idea where they are. She doesn’t recognize the street names or any of the buildings as they drive. By the time Lucifer pulls the Escalade to a stop in what appears to be a loading dock, she feels like the suspense might kill her. 

Lucifer opens her door for her and helps her from the car. He holds her hand instead of offering his arm, and leads her up a ramp and down a cement corridor to an unassuming steel door. They’re greeted by yet another man in a tuxedo who asks if they’re the Joneses. Lucifer lies without lying again, shooting Chloe a wink in the process, and then the man leads them through the door and into a dark hallway. They wind their way through a maze of corridors and stairs until the man finally stops at a set of ornate double doors. 

The moment Chloe gets on the other side of the doors, her mouth falls open. She’s standing inside a massive, gorgeous theater. There are hundreds of red upholstered seats spread before her, and hundreds of people dressed in formal wear sitting in them or walking down the aisles and rows. To her left, an orchestra in the pit is warming up. Beyond them, the stage looms large and is shielded by a massive red curtain. 

“This way, sir,” the man in the tuxedo says, gesturing toward their right. 

Lucifer squeezes Chloe’s hand and leads her after the tuxedoed man. They walk along the back aisle of the seating section closest to the stage, take a right and climb up a gently sloping flight of stairs, and pass through two sets of doors until they’re in an empty hallway. The man in the tuxedo strides purposely past three closed doors, and then pauses at the fourth with a bow. 

“Here we are.”

Lucifer murmurs his thanks and leads Chloe through the door. The man in the tuxedo closes it behind them, and suddenly Chloe finds herself in a private box with four seats but no other people.

“No need to worry,” Lucifer murmurs when he sees her staring at the chairs. “I bought all four seats. I would’ve liked to seat you closer to the stage, but the box affords us the privacy we need at the moment.”

Chloe lets go of his hand and wanders toward the front of the box. They’re straight back from the stage and dead center. She doesn’t even want to know how much it cost him to do this. She can see the stage clearly, along with all the people finding their seats on the ground level of the theater, but no one is looking at her. It’s as private as a public show can get.

She turns to Lucifer. “What are we watching?”

He smooths his hand over his tuxedo. “Carmen. Not particularly romantic, as it doesn’t end happily for the lovers, but I’m afraid Denver had limited opera options available on a Tuesday evening.”

“Is that why we’re here? Because you love opera and that’s the next thing you want to share?”

“Yes. La Traviata is my favorite. I’m rather fond of La Boheme as well, though I’ll deny that if you bring it up in front of others.”

“Why?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s horribly sentimental.”

“Says the guy who bought me diamonds and a dress and took me to dinner at a restaurant filled with candles.”

He huffs at her. “That’s not sentimental. It’s romantic. There’s a difference.”

“And being romantic is less embarrassing for you than being sentimental?”

“I’m neither in my natural state, darling. I’m doing all this for your sake.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

He frowns at her. She crosses the box to stand in front of him, and tips her head back to meet his gaze. 

“I think you’re both,” she tells him. “I think the only reason you could give me that bullet necklace was because you were sentimental enough to keep the bullet. I think that speech you gave me on the beach was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard. And I think you think that I’m the one who makes you those things, but the truth is that I just make you feel safe enough to be who you are.”

He stares at her, apparently at a loss for words. Chloe curls her fingers around his arm, and takes advantage of the height of her heels to tip her head up and brush her lips over his cheek.

“I love who you are,” she murmurs in his ear. “Even if you are horribly sentimental.”

He huffs at her. “I am not.”

She laughs and starts to pull away from him, but he catches her waist and pulls her back. He ducks forward, nuzzling into the curve of her shoulder, and palms the small of her back. 

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low, “we’re in a private box. We could—”

“I’m not having sex with you at the opera, Lucifer.”

“But when the lights dim and the music starts, no one will—”

“No.”

“We could just—”

“No.”

“What if we—”

“No.”

The lights dim briefly in the theater, signaling the show is about to start.

“We should sit,” Chloe says, pushing lightly on his chest. “Show’s about to start.”

Lucifer doesn’t let her go. “You smell lovely,” he whines into her shoulder. “Why must you always smell so intoxicating?”

Chloe smirks into his chest. “It upsets you that I smell good?”

“It upsets me that you smell good and I can’t taste you.” His tongue darts out to stroke over the side of her neck, and heat flares in her body at the unexpected contact. 

“Pretty sure you just did,” she muses.

“I’ve kept my hands to myself all night,” he points out. “I should be rewarded for my restraint.”

“Your hand is on my ass right now, Lucifer.”

“Well yes, now. But I was good earlier, wasn’t I?”

She sighs. “I feel like when we get back to L.A. you’re going to need a sticker chart. Like, here’s a sticker for every hour you go without feeling me up in public. Good job, babe.”

“Are the stickers worth oral sex?”

“Lucifer.”

“What? It’s not my fault that your mouth is—”

“Okay,” she cuts him off, pushing him backward. “That’s enough. Come on. Let’s go.”

She tugs him toward their seats, and he throws his head back and sighs like a teenager who’s been asked to clean his room. Chloe ignores him. She settles into her seat, and he settles into his, and a few seconds later the house lights dim for good.

Lucifer leans toward her in the dark.

“Perhaps during intermission we could—”

“If you keep talking I’m not having sex with you for the rest of this trip.”

His mouth falls open and he stares at her, clearly appalled. Then he huffs and tugs on his jacket. 

“You wouldn’t last that long any more than I would,” he announces.

Chloe smiles. He’s not wrong.

Chloe loves the opera.

Which, honestly, is not something she ever thought she’d say. It’s a far cry from the music she usually listens to, but that doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate it. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean she understands it. It’s performed entirely in French, so she has no idea what anyone is saying. Lucifer hands her a booklet a few seconds before the curtain lifts, and she opens it to find the French lyrics on the left and English translations on the right. She gives up trying to follow along pretty soon after, though, because she’s too fascinated by what’s happening on stage. When Lucifer realizes she’s not using the booklet, he starts leaning toward her in between songs to whisper quick summaries of the plot in her ear. She tilts her head toward him, listening without taking her eyes off the stage. His arm is around the back of her chair. His fingers are stroking a pattern across her shoulder blades. It all feels so...normal.

She loves it. 

After the show is finished they linger in their box, waiting for the crowds to disperse. Lucifer tells her about all the composers he knew. She shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he was friends with Mozart, or that he helped write the music for Don Giovanni, but it’s still a little stunning. Her boyfriend was friends with Mozart and helped him write one of his most famous operas. What the hell.  

She thinks once they leave the theater that he’ll take her back to the house. But he doesn’t. He takes her to a bar instead, a place that’s tucked into an alleyway and requires a password at the door to get in. The interior looks like it was plucked straight out of the 1920s. The lights are dimmed extremely low, and there’s sultry jazz music oozing from speakers. There’s a long bar with stools, and a dozen tables with black velvet tufted chairs. 

There are more people inside than Chloe expects to see so late on a Tuesday night, but nobody gives her and Lucifer a second glance. He leads her to a back corner, where a circular booth made of the same black velvet as the other furniture has a Reserved sign propped up on the table. Chloe pauses when she sees it, but Lucifer ushers her into the booth. He follows her and then lifts his hand at the bartender.

The bartender slips out from behind the bar and heads toward them. “Mr. Jones,” he greets when he arrives. He replaces the Reserved sign with a bottle of Macallan and two glasses. 

Lucifer glances at Chloe. “What would you like to drink, love?”

She nods at the Macallan. “That’s fine.”

The bartender bows politely and disappears. Lucifer pours Chloe a glass and offers it to her. She takes it and takes a sip. The liquor burns the whole way down, but she likes that. It tastes like him. 

“So why bring me here?” she wonders.

He reaches for his own glass. “Because it’s a speakeasy. I’m surprised, actually, at how historically accurate some of this decor is. Most modern speakeasies are terrible replications of their predecessors. But this reminds me of a place in Chicago that I frequented in the twenties.”

“Like, the 1920s? During Prohibition?”

He smiles slyly at her. “The Prohibition years were some of my finest work, Detective.”

“Are you about to tell a cop that you illegally sold alcohol?”

“Sold, bought, made. I did it all, darling.”

She laughs. 

He drapes his arm over the booth behind her and leans toward her. “The stories I could tell you,” he says in a low voice. “Al Capone. Lucky Luciano. Bugs Moran. I knew them all.”

She sets the hand that isn’t holding her glass on his thigh. “Tell me.”

He does. At some point, the bartender brings them a bowl of something called hot fudge pudding cake. It’s really good. So good, in fact, that Chloe eats almost the entire thing by herself. Lucifer seems far more interested in her than dessert. He watches her mouth every time she puts the spoon to her lips, his eyes dark with desire, but he doesn’t try to kiss her. He leaves his arm draped over the booth behind her. Every once in a while, he threads his fingers through her hair and strokes the back of her neck. His skin is warm. He looks handsome as hell in that tux, his lips wet with whiskey and his voice low as he talks, but she doesn’t kiss him either. Tension hums in the air between them. There’s an ache between her legs that won’t fade. She doesn’t want it to.

She’s laughing at a ridiculous story he’s just finished about Bugsy Siegel and the Las Vegas Strip when Lucifer grabs the bottle of Macallan. 

“More?” he asks, nodding at her almost empty glass. 

She’s buzzed, but just barely. She doesn’t want to tilt into fully buzzed or drunk, so she shakes her head. “No. I’m good.”

He pours himself another glass. She watches as he lifts it to his lips and sips. He glances at her, and then double takes when he realizes she’s staring. He lowers his glass with a smirk. She holds his gaze, unabashed. She used to look away when he caught her admiring him. She doesn’t anymore. 

He leans closer to her. The sultry, smooth tone of a saxophone floats through the bar and drapes itself over them. 

“You like it here,” Lucifer murmurs.

It’s not a question, but she answers it. “Yeah. Might just be the company, though.”

He smiles, clearly pleased. The saxophone dips low and sends a shiver through her. 

“I like this song,” she says, setting her glass on the table. “Who is it? Do you know?”

“I believe it’s Coltrane.” He sets his glass down too, and then slips his hand beneath the table to rest on her knee, which is bare thanks to the slit in her dress. “It’s called Don’t Take Your Love From Me.”  

“Did you know him too?”

“Coltrane? Yes. But I was closer with Miles.” 

Chloe frowns. “Miles Davis?”

“Indeed.” He grins at her. “You look impressed.”

She is, but the arrogance in his voice makes her want to deny it. “Do I?” she says neutrally, lifting her glass to her lips. 

It’s his turn to watch her mouth. “I once stopped time for Miles, you know.”

She frowns. “How? I thought that was Amenadiel’s thing.”

“Oh it is. But I’ve always enjoyed annoying the hell out of my brother by summoning him whenever I please, and I knew he’d be headed my way soon to return me to Hell, so I summoned him myself to get Miles out of a bind.”

Chloe snorts out a laugh. Lucifer’s smile widens. 

“How’s that work, by the way?” she wonders. 

He tilts his head in an unspoken question.

“The whole prayer thing,” she clarifies. “Can all angels hear prayer, or is it just Amenadiel?”

“Prayer is dependent on knowledge,” he answers, pulling his hand back from her knee to reach for his glass. 

Chloe frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Think of it this way: Praying to my father is like using the 405 in Los Angeles. Anyone can get on or off the road whenever they please because knowledge of him is so abundant. Even if you don’t believe in him, you know enough about him that the communication line is always open. With angels, it’s different. It’s akin to trying to take the road into a gated community. If you don’t know the gate code—if you don’t know the angel who you’re seeking to converse with—then you aren’t permitted to enter.”

“So you can pray to Amenadiel because you know him.”

“Yes.” 

“Does that mean I could pray to you?”

He swirls the whiskey in his glass with a thoughtful frown. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve never had a human pray to me before.”

Chloe frowns. “How is that possible? Aren’t there, like, entire religions devoted to you?”

“Yes, but they don’t really know me, do they? They’ve a fundamental misunderstanding of who I am and what I do. So whoever they’re praying to, it’s not me.”

Chloe watches him sip his whiskey. She’s never really been a religious person. She’s only been to a few church services, mostly at holidays or for funerals, so she’s not really sure how to pray. But it’s just like talking inside your head, right? Can’t be that hard.

She presses her lips together, wondering if she’s supposed to fold her hands or close her eyes, but decides against it. She just wants to see if it works. She concentrates on what she knows about Lucifer and how much she loves him, and tries to reach out to him with her thoughts. 

I think you look sexy in that tux.  

He looks up from his glass with a wicked smile. “Well thank you, darling.”

Chloe grins at him. 

He frowns. “What?”

She opens her mouth, but thinks better of it. It’ll be better if she shows him. 

She presses her lips together again. I didn’t say that out loud, she prays, lifting her eyebrows. 

Lucifer blinks at her for a second, confused, and then his eyes widen. “You’re praying to me?” he breathes in disbelief.

She nods, grinning again.

He sets his glass down on the table with a thunk and turns more fully toward her, his eyes alight with excitement. “Do it again.”

She chews her bottom lip and reaches out to run her fingers down his lapel. Kiss me.

He lunges toward her and grabs her face to kiss her. She laughs into his mouth, curling her fingers into his lapel to hold herself upright when he tilts toward her. When he pulls back, there’s so much joy and affection in his eyes that she feels her heart flutter.

“Incredible,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking over her jaw. 

It’s the awe in his voice that does her in. It’s the same way he talks to her in bed sometimes.

She leans toward him. “Take me home, Lucifer.” 

He smiles. 

When Lucifer pulls the Escalade to a stop in front of the house, Chloe reaches for her door handle.

“Don’t you dare,” Lucifer tells her.

She sighs, but lets go of the handle. He climbs from the car, walks around the back, and then swings open her door and offers his hand. His eyes trail over her legs as she gets out, and then he lifts his gaze to hers and winks. She purses her lips around a smile and rolls her eyes. He wasn’t kidding when he told her he was a leg man.

It’s chilly out, but she’s not cold. She shivered once—just once—when they left the bar, and Lucifer had his tuxedo jacket off his body and draped over her shoulders so fast her head spun. Not that she’s complaining. It smells like him. He smells good.

She doesn’t let go of his hand once she’s out of the car, and they walk up the front sidewalk toward the house slowly, hand in hand.

“So,” Lucifer says into the silence. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

She thinks he’s trying to sound casual, but she can tell by the straightness of his shoulders and the way he’s studiously staring at the sidewalk that whatever she says could make or break his night. 

“Yeah,” she says truthfully. “Best first date ever.”

He snaps his gaze toward hers, clearly thrilled, but then he catches himself and schools his expression back into something calmer. “Half date,” he corrects.

“Right. Half date.”

He clears his throat as they climb the three steps up to the front porch. “So you understand then.”

“Understand what?”

“That you’re enough for me.”

She slows to a stop outside the front door and turns to face him. “Is that what tonight was about? What I said yesterday in the diner?”

“It was about you,” he says, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. “And us. And making sure you understand how I feel. I want you to understand, Detective.”

He steps closer to her, and lifts his hand to her face. 

“I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live,” he murmurs. “Nay, it were easier to forget the food, which only nourishes my body miserably, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul.”

Chloe’s pretty sure she’s about to melt into a puddle. She just went on a date with the Devil. The actual Devil. Like, used to sit on a throne in Hell and rule over demons who were torturing people for all eternity Devil, and now he’s standing in front of her with that look on his face, quoting romantic lines at her like some kind of love letter encyclopedia, and he’s just...he’s so damn sweet. 

Lucifer smiles at her like he knows what she’s thinking. “Michelangelo’s words.” 

She finally finds her voice. “I can’t believe you tried to tell me you aren’t romantic. What a bunch of bullshit.”

He laughs and drops his hand from her face. 

“Seriously,” she says, unable to keep a smile from her lips. “This isn’t how real life works, Lucifer. It’s not...men aren’t like this. Dates aren’t like this.” 

“You mean you’ve never been on a date like this?”

“No. Never. Not even close.”

He looks smug. He opens his mouth, and she brandishes her finger at him.

“If you’re about to bring up Jed, don’t.”

He opens his mouth again. 

“No Dan either,” she warns. 

He sighs. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

He arches an eyebrow at her. “I am rubbing off on you.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

He reaches for her, his hands slipping beneath the tuxedo jacket she’s wearing to slide along her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He’s staring at her mouth again. 

“You know,” she says before he can kiss her, “if this was an actual first date, we’d say goodnight out here.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Would we?”

“Mhmm. I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.”

“I don’t suppose you’d make concessions for a Devil who spent years pining over you?”

She purses her lips and hums like she’s considering the question. “Depends.”

“On?”

“On how good the good night kiss is.”

He smiles. “Be careful what you wish for, Detective.” 

And then he leans forward and kisses her, his lips gentle but purposeful against hers. Desire flickers to life in her body and heat starts to coil. This might be the most romantic night of her life, but it’s all felt like foreplay since the bar. She wants him. She wants him bad.

She arches toward him, her hand on the back of his head to hold his lips against hers. The kiss gets deeper, less gentle and more insistent. A moment passes, and then she hears the telltale rattle of keys. Lucifer holds her against his chest with a palm on the small of her back and reaches past her with his other hand, fumbling to get the keys in the front door lock without breaking their kiss. He manages it eventually and shoves the door open, and they stagger over the threshold and into the dark house. 

He’s got her backed against the wall just inside the door a second later. 

“Get the keys,” she murmurs against his lips before they both get too distracted and forget.

He turns away from her, yanks the keys out of the lock and kicks the door shut, and then tosses them over his shoulder carelessly and reaches for her again. She meets him halfway, grasping at his torso as he buries his hands in her hair and kisses her. He tastes like whiskey. She leans into him, pushing him back a step before he can pin her to the wall, and then pulls him back into the house. 

They stumble through the darkened entryway, their mouths fused together. He pushes his tuxedo jacket off her shoulders and it drops to the floor behind her. Her heels get caught in the fabric, but his hands tighten on her waist and she shakes her heel free and then kicks the jacket to the side. He pushes her backward again once she’s free, his mouth hot on hers. She tugs his bow tie loose and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, desperate for skin to touch, and then her lower back collides with the edge of the kitchen island. 

Lucifer presses into her immediately. His mouth leaves hers and traces the line of her jaw. She tips her head back and exhales a breath and he takes advantage of her exposed throat. He fists a hand in the skirt of her dress as he sucks on her neck, and she feels the fabric slide against her legs a moment before his hand slips through the slit of her dress and onto her thigh. She’s not sure if he lifts her leg or if she does, but it ends up wrapped around his hip. His palm is warm on her skin and sliding toward her ass. 

She’s trying to decide if she cares that she’ll end up with bruises on her back from the edge of the counter if she lets him take her right here when he snaps his head up.

“Oh,” he breathes. “I nearly forgot.” He grins at her. “I have one more surprise for you, Detective.”

He drops her leg unceremoniously and turns away from her, and her high heeled foot smacks down onto the floor. She blinks after him, confused and kiss-dazed. 

He doesn’t seem to notice her bewilderment. He strides across the house and turns a floor lamp on, and then bends forward to rifle through a basket on the coffee table while he mutters under his breath. When he finally straightens, he has a small black remote in his hand.  

“I made a 90s sex jams playlist for us,” he declares. 

Chloe stares at him, still trying to understand why he’s all the way over there when she wants him here. “You did what?”

“90s sex jams,” he repeats. “I found a few that don’t make me want to throw myself off a bridge so I made a playlist for our sextivities this evening.”

He grins at her, clearly proud of himself, and then points the remote toward the sound bar beneath the TV. 

A moment later, the opening strains of Pony by Ginuwine erupt through the house.

Chloe stares at him, stunned. Lucifer smirks at her like he’s just done something extremely sexy, and Ginuwine growls at her through the speaker, and it takes a second for Chloe’s brain to register what’s happening. 

When it finally does, she has to cover her mouth with her hand so she won’t laugh.

Lucifer frowns. “Are you laughing? ”

She waits a beat until she’s sure she can control herself, and then drops her hand. “Lucifer, I am not having sex with you while this song plays.”

His frown deepens. “What? Why not?”

“Because it’s Pony.”

“Yes, and Google says it’s one of the sexiest songs of the 90s.” He grins at her. “Also, you’re quite the cowgirl when you want to be.”

“No,” Chloe says, shaking her head even as her face flushes. “I’m not...no.” She crosses the house and holds out her hand. “Give me the remote.”

He holds the remote out to her, frowning again. She takes it and presses the skip button. There’s a brief silence, and then a violin starts to play a familiar tune that Chloe recognizes immediately.

“Thong Song ?” she says incredulously. “Really? You thought this was sexy?”

“Well mostly I was thinking about you in a thong,” Lucifer says with a shrug. He smirks. “It was a very pleasant daydream.”

Chloe rolls her eyes and presses the skip button. She thinks she recognizes the beginning of the next song too, but she’s not sure. She holds the fast forward button down for a few seconds and then releases it. 

I like ya little sexy style

Love it when you gettin wild

Girl in the club with me

She narrows her eyes at Lucifer. “I can’t believe you put B2K on this list.”

“I believe this is the song where he says that she makes him want to stand like a pool stick,” Lucifer replies. “And seeing as I have, on more than one occasion, imagined bending you over a pool table, I thought—”

“Okay, next song,” Chloe cuts him off.

Freak me, baby, a chorus of voices sing as soon as she presses the skip button. Freak me, baby.

Chloe rubs her forehead. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“This was number one on several of the lists I read!” Lucifer exclaims. “And the lyrics are very explicit.”

Let me lick you up and down until you say stop, the voices continue. Let me play with your body, baby, make you real hot.

Chloe sighs and shakes her head and presses the skip button again, and Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On immediately echoes from the speaker. 

“Oh my god, Lucifer,” Chloe groans, tipping her head back briefly. “This isn’t even from the 90s!”

“But it’s sexy,” he insists.

“You think this is sexy?”

“Well it would be if you’d take your dress off. Do you need help reaching the zipper?” 

He reaches toward her and she smacks his hand away. “No.”

He pouts. 

Chloe skips to the next song, and the first few chords of I’ll Make Love to You filter through the speakers. 

“Boy band,” Lucifer says, brandishing his finger at her. “You love boy bands.”

“Okay,” she admits. “This is better.”

He grins. “Excellent.”

He starts toward her, but Chloe holds her hand out to stop him. “I meant it’s better, like, it doesn’t make me want to burst out laughing or roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my skull. But it’s not...I can’t have sex with you while this is on.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because it’s cheesy. You’re going to pull my hair and say something filthy, and they’re going to be singing about making love, and the contrast is just...I can’t. My brain will short circuit.”

Lucifer lifts his eyebrows at her. 

Chloe frowns. “What?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t aware that pulling your hair was such a turn on for you.”

Chloe feels like her entire body is blushing. “That’s…not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to say it, darling.”

She gapes at him for a second, trying and failing to come up with a response. The look in his eyes is...

She clears her throat and presses the skip button because if he’s going to look at her like that then Boys II Men is definitely not going to do it for her.

For a second, she can’t tell what the next song is. She can hear a drum, but it’s faint. There’s a pause. And then the rest of the instruments kick in, and she recognizes it immediately. 

Heat roars through her veins, though she’s not sure if it’s because she knows this song and likes it, or because Lucifer is still staring at her with that look in his eyes. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his first few buttons are undone. The broadness of his shoulders is ridiculous, and the way his body cuts down into his hips in an absurd V shape is even more ridiculous, and her body is aching.  

“You like this one,” he observes.

She licks her lips and nods because she can’t seem to find her voice. 

He smiles, and then closes the distance between them. She swallows. She’s pretty sure that even though he’s the one with all the light and heat flowing through his veins, she’s the one who’s about to spontaneously combust. He takes the remote from her hand, presses the repeat button with a smile, and then tosses it onto a nearby armchair. 

Girl it’s only you, D’Angelo’s voice croons from the speaker as Lucifer lifts his hand to trace his fingertips over the necklace around her neck. Have it your way. 

His fingertips pause on the diamond nestled in the hollow of her throat. She thinks of earlier, when he told her that he wanted her to leave the necklace on when everything else was off, and the ache between her legs intensifies. 

He watches her, his eyes dark. His hand curls around her neck, and he draws her face closer to his, but he stops short of kissing her. She gazes up at him, her head tipped back, waiting. His thumb strokes along the jut of her jaw. The moment stretches, and the tension between them builds as D’Angelo continues to croon in the background. She wonders how long he’ll wait, and if he’s waiting for her, and she wants to kiss him so bad she feels like her body’s shaking, but she doesn’t. 

He smiles a little, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, and then he finally leans forward and kisses her. His thumb caresses the swell of her cheek. She tilts closer to him, sliding her hands over his torso to his back where she can feel the muscles framing his spine. His hands ghost over her shoulders, and goosebumps rise over her skin. He’s touching her like all he wants to do for the rest of eternity is her, and if he asked her if he could, she doesn’t think she’d be able to get the word yes out fast enough. 

She feels a slight tug on the back of her dress, and he starts to lower the zipper painstakingly slow. It isn’t until he’s got it halfway down her back that she remembers what she’s wearing beneath her dress.

“Wait,” she murmurs, leaning back from his mouth. 

He frowns, his hand freezing on her zipper. “What is it?”

“I have something for you.”

He gives her a sly smile. “Well, I have something for you too, darling.”

“No,” she says with a laugh. “Not that. I mean, yes, that. But I…” She presses her hands to his chest. “Just stay right here, okay?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Alright.”

She takes a few steps back from him so that there’s a few feet of space between them. He watches her, curious, his hands at his sides. She pulls all her hair forward over one shoulder, and then she reaches behind herself and lowers the zipper on her dress the rest of the way. Her heart is racing, but she doesn’t hesitate. She shimmies her now unzipped dress down over her hips and then lets it go, and it drops to the floor at her feet with a soft whoosh. She steps out of it, kicks it to the side with the toe of her high heel, and then looks up at Lucifer. 

He’s staring. Which is what she expected. He stares no matter what she’s wearing. But the look on his face…

He looks stunned. 

She glances down at herself, just to check if she looks okay. The metallic silver of her heels gleams beneath the light of the nearby lamp. The lingerie she picked is nothing elaborate. It’s just a red satin set, with a bustier that’s strapless to match the cut of her dress. It ties in the back like a corset. She has a feeling Lucifer is going to take his time unlacing her. 

She glances up at him again. His eyes are roving over her body, from her high heels up the length of her legs to the bustier and then the necklace she’s still wearing. When their eyes finally meet, the desire she sees there makes her breath catch. 

He holds her gaze as he closes the distance between them. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and tilts her head back when he stops before her. His eyes flicker briefly down to her mouth, and then he reaches out and traces his fingertips slowly along her skin above the top edge of the bustier. 

How does it feel? D’Angelo croons into the silence between them. How does it feel?  

Lucifer tilts toward her. “Say it again.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Say what?”

“That you’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice makes her shiver. She grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him flush against her. His hands slide over her waist, around to her back, and she knows when he finds the ties of the bustier because his gaze darkens. 

“I’m yours,” she whispers.