[ He follows at a distance, respectful, if you must. Through the living room, past the piano, past his left-behind pile of clothes that he'll probably only wear until he can get to his spare in the locker downstairs. Lucifer leads the way into a huge walk-in closet, bigger and more elaborate than anything James has ever seen before, sensor-activated lights glowing warmly above his head and leaving the shadows to flee to the corners, dark, soft velvet around the edges.

The frosty door leading to the bathroom, judging by the sound of running water, has been left open and he walks in, gingerly, every step a bit measured, because his ass still hurts and will hurt for a while to come yet. Outside the shower cabin, huge, elaborate like everything else in the apartment, he pauses for a moment and watches Lucifer soaping off, head tilted back, hair sticking to his skin, hands working mindlessly. Oh. Well. Okay, yes. ]

I like the way you're always showing off. Not just for me, but in general. [ This place, right? Or, as he's witnessed a few times, when the man performs at the club. The way he carries himself. The way they talk about him. Stepping inside, the waterfall showerhead making the transition from cool air to hot water very abrupt and leaving him gasping slightly, James moves up in front of the other man, looks up at him. And up. And up. Even his height is attention-seeking. ] You make it look natural.

[ The water drenches his hair, making it fall into his eyes in heavy bangs that he doesn't care to brush away immediately, just glances up at Lucifer, blinking against the spray. There's heat, between them, still. He wants to suck his cock, pretty much. He wants to get on his knees and suck him dry. He's heard it takes a few tries. ]

That's a compliment, by the way.