Chapter 9: Kitchen Seduction
The phone’s silence after Robert’s words felt louder than the ringing. Lucifer held him, feeling the frantic rabbit-quick pulse at Robert’s throat, the slight tremor in his shoulders he was trying to hide. The smell of burnt coffee began to overlay the scent of their shared shower.
“I’m not reading obituaries,” Lucifer finally said, his voice a low rumble against Robert’s hair. “I’m reading the script. And I don’t like the second act.”
Robert pulled back, the vulnerability shuttered, replaced by a glittering, defensive charm. “Who does? The second act is always a slog. It’s the third act redemption people remember.” He turned, grabbed his mug, and drained the cold coffee in a grimacing gulp. “I’m gonna be late.”
He moved through the apartment with a kinetic, scattered energy, pulling on rumpled jeans, a black shirt, searching for one specific boot. Lucifer watched, a silent monument in the chaotic stream. This was the other side of him. The man running toward the cliff because the wind felt good.
“Your read-through. The indie script,” Lucifer said. “Is it good for you?”
Robert paused, one boot on. “It’s a part. Lines on a page. It pays.” He wouldn’t meet Lucifer’s eyes. He found the other boot under the couch. “I gotta go. You’ll be here?”
“My shift ends at four.”
A ghost of the real smile returned. “I’ll be back by six. We’ll… I’ll cook. Or order. Something.” He was at the door, a hand on the knob. He looked like a painting—beautiful, poised for flight. “Don’t answer the phone.”
Then he was gone.
The apartment settled into a profound silence. Lucifer cleaned the kitchen with a methodical focus, washing the mugs, wiping the counters. He made the bed, the sheets still smelling of them. He did it all to quiet the rising alarm in his mind. The phone rang twice more. Each time, it felt like a physical pull in the room. He ignored it.
At the auto shop in Burbank, the world made a blunt, straightforward sense. Engines had problems with logical solutions. Bolts tightened to a specific torque. His size, which drew stares everywhere else, was an asset here. He could lift what others couldn’t. He worked in quiet focus, the grease under his nails a tangible anchor to this fabricated now.
He returned to the apartment just after four. The silence was different—charged with absence. He showered, changed into a clean t-shirt, and found Robert’s stash of groceries. There was a lump of hamburger meat, a box of noodles, a jar of Ragu. He began to make a spaghetti sauce, chopping an onion he found sprouting in a cupboard, the rhythmic thunk of the knife a meditation.
The timer on the oven dinged, a cheap metal buzz, just as the front door opened.
Robert looked wrung out. His sharp eyes were dull, the effortless charm replaced by a wired, jittery exhaustion. He smelled of stale cigarette smoke and someone else’s perfume. He dropped his keys on the counter, the sound too loud in the quiet kitchen. His gaze traveled over Lucifer—the apron tied around his waist, the wooden spoon in his hand.
A slow, weary smile spread across his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Domestic goddess,” he murmured. He loosened his tie, pulling the silk free with a long, sighing drag.
“How was the read-through?” Lucifer asked, stirring the sauce.
“It was a thing that happened in a room.” Robert’s voice was flat. He walked around the counter, not stopping until he was inside Lucifer’s space. He looked up, his brown eyes searching Lucifer’s golden ones. “I need to not think about it. About any of it.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His fingers went to Lucifer’s belt buckle, deft and sure. The click of the release was obscenely loud.
“Robert, the food…”
“Dinner can wait,” Robert said, his voice dropping to a husk. He pushed the denim and cotton down Lucifer’s hips, freeing his cock, which was already half-hard from the proximity, the intent. Robert didn’t hesitate. He sank to his knees on the peeling linoleum.
He took the head into his mouth, his tongue a hot, wet circuit around the crown, licking away the bead of moisture that had already gathered. Lucifer hissed, his hand gripping the edge of the counter. This wasn’t like before. There was a desperate, frantic quality to it.
“Fuck, Robert…”
Robert took him deeper, his jaw stretching, his lips forming a tight, wet seal. He pushed forward, his nose pressing into Lucifer’s pubic hair, his throat working around the intrusion. He gagged, a wet, choked sound, but didn’t pull back. He forced himself deeper, his eyes watering, his fingers digging into Lucifer’s thighs. He began to move, a brutal, punishing rhythm of suction and release, his head bobbing fiercely.
Lucifer watched, torn between blinding pleasure and a deep, unsettled worry. This was a consummation, but it was also an erasure. Robert was trying to swallow the day, to choke it down. Saliva dripped down Lucifer’s shaft, onto his balls, a slick, messy trail. The sounds were filthy—wet gulps, ragged breathing, the soft thump of Robert’s head against Lucifer’s stomach.
“Slow down,” Lucifer gritted out, tangling a hand in Robert’s hair, not to force, but to soothe.
Robert ignored him. He redoubled his efforts, his hand coming up to work the base of Lucifer’s cock in tandem with his mouth. He looked up, tears from the strain cutting tracks through the day’s grime on his face. The eye contact was devastating—a raw plea and a defiant challenge.
Lucifer’s orgasm built like a storm surge, unstoppable. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice rough.
Robert’s eyes flashed. He took him impossibly deeper, until Lucifer felt the head nudge the back of his throat. He held there, gagging violently, but refusing to retreat.
That was all it took. Lucifer came with a broken shout, his hips jerking forward as he emptied himself down Robert’s throat. Robert swallowed convulsively, each pulse milking Lucifer dry, until he finally pulled off, gasping, strings of spit and come connecting his lips to Lucifer’s spent cock.
He slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, breathing raggedly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up, a hollow triumph in his eyes. “See? All gone.”
Lucifer pulled his jeans up, his hands trembling. He reached down, not for his own satisfaction, but to touch Robert’s face. “What happened today?”
Robert let his head fall back against the cabinet with a dull thud. He closed his eyes. “They offered me the part. The director passed me a note after. It had a phone number and a little folded piece of paper. Like a fucking cartoon.” He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “The part’s mine if I want it. The other thing… is also mine if I want it.”
The ice Lucifer had been fearing settled in his gut. “What was in the paper?”
“What do you think?” Robert opened his eyes. They were flat, resigned. “It’s how this works. A little taste to grease the wheels. Makes everything more… creative.”
Lucifer pulled him up from the floor, his grip firm. “You didn’t.”
“Not yet.” Robert leaned into him, his body pliant. “I came home instead. To you. To this.” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at Lucifer, at the cooled sauce on the stove. “So you tell me, prophet. Is this the part where you save me?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the scent of burnt garlic from the forgotten pan. Lucifer had no answer. Saving him might mean letting him fall. The timer on the oven began to beep again, a relentless, shrill alarm for the lasagna that was now certainly burnt. Neither of them moved to turn it off.