Chapter 11: Again and Again
The drip of the faucet was a faint, metronome tick in the dark. Robert’s breathing had evened out, his body a loose weight against Lucifer’s side on the hard floor. Lucifer stared at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the cold linoleum seep into his bones, the tacky drying sweat on his skin.
“We can’t sleep here,” Robert mumbled into his chest, his voice thick. “I’m twenty-six, not a college freshman. My back is already composing a strongly worded letter of resignation.”
Lucifer’s chest rumbled with a silent laugh. He shifted, muscles protesting, and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. Before Robert could complain further, Lucifer bent and scooped him up, one arm under his knees, the other cradling his back.
Robert let out a yelp, then a genuine chuckle, looping his arms around Lucifer’s neck. “Okay, Prince Charming. The pumpkin is that way.” He nodded toward the hallway.
The bedroom was a capsule of curated chaos. The bare bulb from a cheap lamp painted everything in harsh, warm light and deep shadows. Movie posters for films that, to Lucifer, were decades-old classics, but here were current or yet-to-be-released, curled at the edges. The air was different here—older dust, faded cologne, the ghost of incense.
Lucifer laid him on the unmade bed. The sheets were a tangled nest, smelling of Robert and sleep and something faintly sweet, like marijuana. Robert stretched, a languid, feline movement that made the muscles in his abdomen play under the skin. The scratches on Lucifer’s back, raised and tender, caught the light as he moved.
A slow, mischief-filled grin spread across Robert’s face. His eyes, still hazy from their earlier fucking, now gleamed with renewed heat. He let his legs fall open in a blatant invitation, his softening cock beginning to stir again against his thigh.
“Y’know,” Robert drawled, his finger tracing a lazy circle on his own stomach, just below his navel. “I think the lesson might be wearing off. Could use a refresher.”
Lucifer stood at the foot of the bed, watching him. The gentle giant was gone, replaced by something more primal, focused. The want was a physical ache, a pull deep in his gut. He unbuckled his jeans, shoved them and his briefs down, and kicked them aside. His cock, half-hard, thickened under Robert’s hungry gaze.
“No preamble,” Lucifer stated, his voice low. It wasn’t a question.
“Did I ask for any?” Robert retorted, spreading his legs wider, arching his back to present himself. The evidence of their earlier coupling glistened between his thighs. “C’mon. I’m still open for business.”
Lucifer climbed onto the bed, the frame groaning in protest under his weight. He didn’t kiss him, didn’t caress him. He grabbed Robert’s hips, his large hands almost spanning them completely, and yanked him downward. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against that slick, used hole.
Robert’s breath hitched, his bravado flickering for a second, replaced by raw anticipation. He bit his lip, his eyes locked on Lucifer’s.
Lucifer pushed in. It was easier now, wet with his own spend and Robert’s willing looseness, but still a tight, burning stretch. He buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, punching a choked “Fuck!” from Robert’s throat.
He didn’t wait, didn’t build a rhythm. He just fucked him. Hard, deep, piston-like strokes that shook the bed, each impact slamming the headboard into the wall with a rhythmic, cracking thud. The sound was obscene, loud, a proclamation. Robert’s cries were stripped of words, reduced to guttural sounds of pleasure-pain. He grabbed fistfuls of the tangled sheets, then reached up to claw at Lucifer’s shoulders again, his nails finding and reopening the fresh trails from the kitchen floor.
“Is this… the refresher?” Robert gasped, his head thrashing side to side on the pillow.
“Yes,” Lucifer grunted, his own control fraying. The sight of Robert laid bare, taken, claiming him in return with every scratch, was obliterating. He felt the delicious, tightening coil in his groin. “You’re… mine… like this. Not theirs.”
Robert’s eyes flew open, wide and vulnerable. “Yours,” he panted, a desperate agreement. “Christ, Luc, right there, don’t stop, I’m gonna—!”
His body bowed, tightening like a drawn bowstring. His cock, untouched and dripping between them, jerked and spilled pulses of come onto his own stomach and chest with a ragged shout. The convulsive clenching of his ass was the final, exquisite torture. Lucifer drove into him three more times, a brutal, stuttering rhythm, and came with a deep, shuddering groan, emptying himself inside that clenching heat.
He collapsed forward, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of Robert’s head. Their breath mingled, hot and ragged. The headboard gave one final, complaining creak.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The buzz of the lamp. A siren somewhere far below. The smell of sex, thick and animal in the small room.
Lucifer eased out of him and rolled onto his side, facing Robert. They lay in silence for long minutes, listening to their hearts slow. Robert’s hand crept across the space between them, his fingers coming to rest gently on Lucifer’s sternum.
Then Robert’s breath caught. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his eyes scanning Lucifer’s shoulder and back. In the stark light, the wounds were vivid: four parallel lines, deep and angry, beading with fresh blood where Robert’s nails had torn through the skin anew.
“Shit,” Robert whispered, all the bravado gone. He swung his legs off the bed and padded, naked, out of the room.
Lucifer heard the bathroom cabinet open and close. Robert returned with a small, white box, a washcloth, and a bottle of water. He knelt on the mattress behind Lucifer, his touch hesitant.
“This might sting,” Robert said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
The cool, wet cloth dabbed at the wounds, cleaning away the blood. Lucifer sucked in a breath through his teeth. Then came the sharper, medicinal bite of the antiseptic. Robert’s movements were surprisingly meticulous, gentle. He dabbed the liquid on carefully, his breath a warm whisper on Lucifer’s skin.
“I’m a fucking animal,” Robert muttered, more to himself.
“You’re not.”
“I marked you up like a fucking alley cat.”
Lucifer glanced over his shoulder. “I gave as good as I got. The floor wasn’t kind to your back, either.”
Robert managed a small, strained smile. “Touche.” He finished his ministrations and tossed the cotton ball toward a wastebasket. He missed. It landed softly on a pile of dirty laundry. He didn’t move from his perch behind Lucifer. His fingers, now clean and cool, traced the uninjured skin of Lucifer’s back, following the lines of muscle.
“My dealer’s gonna call tomorrow,” Robert said, the words dropping into the quiet like stones. “The one with the folded paper.”
Lucifer didn’t move. “I know.”
“I don’t want to answer.”
“Then don’t.”
Robert sighed, a shaky exhale. “It’s not that simple.”
“It can be.” Lucifer finally turned, capturing Robert’s wandering hand. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles, to the fingers that had just tended his wounds. “For one day. Just tomorrow. Let it be that simple.”
Robert looked at their joined hands, then up at Lucifer’s face. The fear was still there, lurking in the depths of his brown eyes, but so was a fragile, stubborn hope. He nodded, once.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Tomorrow.”
He slid down beside Lucifer, molding his body against him, seeking warmth and solidity. Lucifer pulled the ragged sheet over them, flicked off the lamp, and plunged them into a darkness broken only by the faint neon glow from the window. Robert’s breathing deepened into sleep quickly, an exhausted surrender.
Lucifer lay awake, feeling the sting on his back, the weight of the man in his arms, the ticking clock of 1990 moving relentlessly forward. He had bought them a day. Just one. It would have to be enough.