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Pierce threw the baking tray back in the sink with a clunk. “I’m too tired for this shit,” he mumbled. “I’ll finish it in the morning.”
Lucifer, having just ended his call to the Detective, slid off the island counter in the middle of the kitchen and rounded on him. “Do I have to repeat myself? We agreed—I cook, you tidy.”
“Yeah, yeah. And I say I’ll do it tomorrow.” Pierce sounded more forceful this time, though his sloppy stance—those massive arms loosely folded and his shoulders sloped—suggested this was a fight he couldn’t really be arsed with. “In fact, I seriously need some space.” He brushed past Lucifer, avoiding Lucifer’s gaze. Despite Lucifer’s irritation, this stoked his burgeoning interest in Pierce’s absurdly downbeat manner.
Even by Pierce’s standards, his reticence this evening, and toward the whole marriage thing in general, was a tad over-the-top. Even the straightest guy in history—and Pierce had seen enough centuries to have swung every way possible merely to pass the eons—ought to show a little more interest in playing married with somebody as irresistible as Lucifer.
The oaf doth protest too much, me thinks…
Besides, Lucifer was in no way intending to go to bed this early, and he didn’t have many other choices for entertainment right now.
“Fine! I expect your standards of housekeeping are slovenly anyway.” Lucifer casually admired Pierce’s stupidly massive shoulders—it was a decent view—as Pierce retreated toward the bathroom. “There’ll be a list of chores waiting in the morning, I’ll have you know. You’ll owe me another favour.”
Lucifer heard Pierce murmur, “I hope that’s not the same as a fucking deal,” just before the bathroom door slammed.
Lucifer smiled. He had Pierce exactly where he wanted him, in order to test his theory that Pierce was being extra grumpy because he didn’t hate the idea of marriage to Lucifer—or, more pertinently, sex with Lucifer—as much as he wished he did. Pierce would have to pass through the main living space and kitchen again to get to the bedroom, so it was all too easy to set a trap. Lucifer now dashed to said bedroom. He grabbed the appropriate garb for a spot of cleaning from his recently unpacked belongings, which he’d spread neatly in a bottom drawer.
He figured he’d best hurry. He could hear the shower running, and Pierce’s standards of male grooming were far from immaculate. He probably cut corners in the ablutions department too… although this didn’t spoil the image that now popped into Lucifer’s mind of Pierce’s buff body, every muscular ridge and furrow delineated with glistening rivulets of running water. Fortunately, there weren’t too many components of Lucifer’s favourite I’m-in-the-mood-to-be-a-bit-subby cleaning outfit to actually get on.
Following an outrageously brief sortie in the shower, Pierce emerged from the bathroom. He arrived on cue to receive an eyeful of Lucifer leant over the kitchen counter, clad in a chainmail skirt—the fringes of which scarce covered his bare arse and all held up with superfluous braces—a tiny white frilly apron, and an extra-large pair of marigold rubber gloves.
“What the heck?” Pierce sighed loudly. Lucifer didn’t look up from his scrubbing. From the corner of his eye he watched Pierce, who was waering a black flannel bathrobe, stop in his tracks and pinch the bridge of his nose. He sank down heavily onto the sofa, which protested with a loud creak.
Pierce rubbed his face wearily, covering his eyes, but he didn’t fool Lucifer. He peeped at Lucifer between his fingers. Specifically, and quite naturally, he was ogling Lucifer’s arse. He also squirmed enough to eke further creaking sounds from the sofa.
Ah, so the other immortal was only human after all. Lucifer bit back a smirk. He’d won. Of course, he had.
“Why?” asked Pierce quietly. He would have sounded pathetic if it wasn’t for the growly undertone of irrepressible lust.
“Why what? Oh… my cleaning outfit? I suppose somebody who dresses as thoughtlessly as you wouldn’t understand. It’s important to look the part and feel the part.”
Plus, I’m pretty damn sure there’s parts of me you’d like to feel right now, otherwise you’d have scurried straight into that bedroom and be cowering beneath the duvet by now.
Lucifer strained a little farther over the counter, reaching for stains he could have easily removed by walking around the other side. But that wouldn’t have afforded Pierce an even more delicious view of his rear.
“I just want a hot drink before bed, Lucifer.” Pierce had emerged from behind his hands to stare at the wall. “Can I please get to the kettle without you jumping my bones?”
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort,” said Lucifer tartly, which was the gospel truth. If he was in the mood for anything other than having his bones jumped he wouldn’t have put on one of his sub outfits, would he? Pierce’s wits were as thick as his biceps. “Come into the kitchen and do whatever takes your fancy.”
Pierce loped over, skirting passed Lucifer towards the kettle. To be honest, Lucifer had got the counter cleaner than it’d probably been when new. It proved an effort not to scrub off the veneer and land the LAPD with a bill for property damage. Nevertheless, he’d saved back a dried-on patch of egg as a gift for his erstwhile husband.
He now pointed toward it with a marigold-clad finger. “While you’re here, you could at least apply some of your over-pumped elbow grease to that.”
Pierce switched on the kettle, muttered an expletive, and grabbed a spare scouring sponge. Lucifer whipped off his gloves and made his rather-less-elegant-than-usual move. He shimmied between Pierce and the counter with his back to Pierce, grabbed Pierce’s wrist, and pinned him in place. Pierce was thus bent over Lucifer with Lucifer’s arse nestling neatly against Pierce’s rock-hard—Ha! No denying it now!—cock.
The litany of expletives Pierce muttered in Lucifer’s ears were heartfelt, and Pierce strained half-heartedly to pull away. Lucifer wasn’t going to let him go. He manipulated Pierce’s hand and the sponge in small, circular scrubbing motions.
“It’s so much better when we work together. My Dad-given powers and your legendary arms should be more than a match for a bit of yoke.” Yanking Pierce crushingly close, he purred, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you, Lieutenant.”
“God, I hate you.” Pierce’s panted breaths were hot and damp against Lucifer’s neck.
“We really are two hearts that beat as one. I hate him too, sweetie.”
“Shut the fuck up, Lucifer.” Pierce twisted his wrist free, manhandled Lucifer about, then grabbed the back of Lucifer’s hair, pulling him in for an exquisitely mauling kiss, all clashing teeth and tongues jabbing like red-hot pokers. Lucifer, going with the flow, reeled a moment, drinking in the bitter after-taste of coffee and wine, the scent of scandalously cheap shower gel, and a heady, masculine musk that was uniquely and intoxicatingly Pierce.
It was… unexpectedly intimate.
He’d not pegged Pierce as the “kissing-first” type. Then, more predictably, Pierce broke off, manoeuvred Lucifer back around, and shoved him back, face-first, over the counter. He must’ve snapped Lucifer’s braces with brute force, because the next thing Lucifer knew, his skirt and apron had been unceremoniously ripped down to the level of garters. Cold air licked his backside for a brief second before he felt Pierce’s substantial cock pressing into the cleft of his arse.
“At last a bit of wedding-night action. I only wish you’d done as I asked and carried me over the thresh—”
Pierce thrust into him, and Lucifer’s gasp cut off his words. Lube-free and given Pierce’s size, it was merciless. Lucifer bit his lip to suppress a cry of actual pain, sure sign that the Detective was still sitting outside in the car, keeping an eye on things.
Briefly, he wondered what would happen if she got an eyeful of this. A shadow of awkward emotion chased across his soul, as it so often had during meaningless… no, fun… sex these last couple of years. Then Pierce, having given Lucifer a moment to adjust—or more likely, given himself a chance to get used to the incomparably powerful clench of Lucifer’s butt, which Lucifer has been told was so exquisite that he’d many times wished he could fuck himself—dragged outward and pushed in again, even harder this time. Lucifer whimpered, not caring that he sounded weak and choked. It hurt so good, and by now, Lucifer was every bit as turned on as his “husband” for the night.
Pierce proved not to be as knackered as he’d claimed. He fucked Lucifer like the relentless cliché of the mile-long freight train. The girth of his cock was definitely in proportion to his notorious arms, and he struck Lucifer’s sweet spot with the best kind of violence. Lucifer squeezed and bucked back against him, finding he wanted to indulge Pierce, but it seemed Pierce—controlling bastard—didn’t enjoy a two-way street and just slammed into Lucifer all the harder. Lucifer found himself with his face mashed into his folded arms, his own erection crushed uncomfortably into the furniture.
Just as he reached down to see to himself, Pierce growled, “No you fucking don’t.” He grabbed Lucifer’s wrist, wrenching Lucifer’s arm back onto the kitchen surface. For good measure, Pierce then grabbed Lucifer’s other wrist, so he’d got both of Lucifer’s arms splayed front of him, as spread as Lucifer’s legs now were.
Lucifer considered tugging his hands free, but he had hooked the poor sod with his sub get-up. It seemed Pierce was in a dominant mood; the predictable thug probably couldn’t play any other role. Lucifer surrendered, revelling in the stretch, the burn, the bruising assault on his insides; the exciting, bordering-on-agony, teeth-rattling sensation of being fucked brutally in just the best way. Pierce kept hammering him so long that it ought to have got boring, but he kept striking strong and deep and Lucifer felt his own climax building and building… and shit, no! Panic jack-knifed through Lucifer. He wasn’t handing Pierce the triumph of having made Lucifer Morningstar come first, without even touching himself.
Oh, bugger. Yes, he was.
Lucifer moaned pitifully, climaxing from the sheer seismic impact of Pierce’s fucking. Smashed into the counter with his eyes screwed tight, he let his mild humiliation be swamped beneath the riptide of pleasure and pain, which washed over him and utterly consumed him for a satisfyingly long time before it faded. Another couple of increasingly sore minutes later, Pierce finished inside of him with a series of mighty, juddering thrusts, gripping so tight about Lucifer’s wrists that he’d have ground any mortal’s bones to dust.
He added a final indignity by collapsing on top of Lucifer, who’d only just remembered, post-orgasm, that he needed to breathe. It suddenly became an interesting challenge for Lucifer to do so. He basked for a second in the weight bearing down on him, the heat and solidity of Pierce, who was panting like man who’d run a marathon… well, like a man who’d just performed a marathon sex session.
Lucifer, nevertheless, had to draw in air eventually, and right then… whoops, he still couldn’t get enough. His brain went fuzzy, white dots dancing behind his still tightly-closed eyes, as iron bands tightened about his chest. He rocked back against Pierce, and the pressure abated, enough to let Lucifer breathe, but not enough for him to wriggle away without a small effort… even if he’d wanted to. Pierce’s hands were still clasped about Lucifer’s wrists, Pierce’s palms as moist with sweat as his face, which was pressed into the curve of Lucifer’s neck, sort of… nuzzling him? And then Pierce nibbled Lucifer’s ear. Interesting. Lucifer hadn’t anticipated post-coital snuggling.
He couldn’t help smirking as he gathered the wherewithal to speak. “I’m afraid there’s going to be some new dried-on stains to clean off this kitchen in the morning, honey.”
“Don’t call me that,” murmured Pierce, though something approaching humour underpinned his tone. “Or should I say, don’t call me that, sweetie.”
Lucifer smiled, lay still, and breathed shallowly, enjoying the man-duvet still smothering him. Pierce’s small capacity for tenderness, however, had clearly been reached. He unwrapped himself from Lucifer and withdrew his softening cock as abruptly as he’d entered. Having shrugged off his bathrobe at some unknown stage during their encounter, he stomped off butt-naked toward the bathroom for another, much-needed shower.
Lucifer pushed himself up shakily from the kitchen counter, feeling bereft and slightly used, which made no sense at all. After all, he’d initiated everything and had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He might as well get good use out that bastard Caine before he killed him, as promised. And yet…
Opting to focus on something more productive and less stupid than this trail of thought, Lucifer kicked off the remnants of his ruined clothed, slipped on Pierce’s discarded robe, and grabbed a bottle of rose wine—the sweet crap was the nearest booze to hand. He sat down on the sofa and started to drink.
Between gulps, he nearly yelled, “Marriage consummation with Candy was way better!” He only didn’t because simply couldn’t lie. Honestly, he didn’t even recall sex with Candy, it’d been so like countless other nights, but sex with Pierce?
It’d been memorable, plus he might even still feel the pleasant ache of it in the morning. After the next few gulps of wine, he felt even better: getting fucked by Caine somehow felt like a fantastic middle-finger salute to dear old dad.
On that satisfying rumination, Lucifer downed a second bottle of vino. Then, regrettably given the other option available, he fell asleep on the bloody couch.