Chapter 1 #2
Lincoln’s breath caught in his throat. He stared down at Malik’s hand.
The dark skin against the white cotton of his sleeve, the blunt, clean nails.
Malik’s thumb began to move, pressing lightly over the blue vein at Lincoln’s wrist. The touch was warm, a steady, rhythmic pressure that made Lincoln’s skin prickle.
Lincoln’s lungs felt tight. He lifted his gaze, searching Malik’s face for the usual mockery or professional distance, but he found only a quiet, burning patience. Malik waited, his hand steady on Lincoln’s arm.
Lincoln leaned in. It was a marginal movement, a fraction of an inch, but it was an invitation.
Malik’s other hand came up to Lincoln’s waist. His palm was flat against Lincoln’s side, the heat of it seeping through the shirt and the undershirt, marking the skin beneath.
Lincoln’s muscles tensed, a brief, instinctive resistance, before they eased into the touch.
He reached out, his own hand covering Malik’s where it rested on his forearm.
Their fingers curled together, a tangle of bone and skin.
Malik tugged, a slow, deliberate pull that brought Lincoln forward until their chests touched. The contact was startling. The solid weight of Malik, the rhythm of his heart echoing Lincoln’s own. Lincoln inhaled sharp, the scent of citrus and sandalwood filling his head.
Malik’s breath fanned across Lincoln’s cheek, a warm, moist ghost of a sensation. Lincoln turned his face, his movements guided by a hunger he had spent years trying to categorize as something else. Their lips brushed once, a soft, tentative friction that tasted of salt and coffee.
Lincoln didn’t pull back. He pressed forward, his mouth seeking Malik’s with a sudden, desperate gravity.
Malik met him. The kiss deepened slow, a gradual unfolding of pressure and intent.
Lincoln’s free hand found Malik’s back, his fingers spreading wide across the broad muscles beneath the sweater.
Malik’s grip tightened on Lincoln’s waist, pulling him flush against the counter.
Lincoln felt the stir in his groin, a sharp, insistent hardening behind the fabric of his slacks.
He shifted his hips, an involuntary search for more contact, and Malik responded with a small, rhythmic roll forward that made Lincoln’s head light.
Lincoln broke the kiss first, his lungs burning. He didn’t move away, instead resting his forehead against Malik’s. Their breath mingled, hot and jagged, in the small space between their faces.
Malik’s hand slid up Lincoln’s side, his fingers hooking under the hem of the shirt.
It was skin on skin now. The calloused tips of Malik’s fingers tracing the sensitive line of Lincoln’s ribs.
Lincoln shivered, a long, low tremor that started at the base of his spine.
He held on tighter to Malik’s back, his nails digging slightly into the wool, grounding himself in the reality of the touch.
The sound of a door closing upstairs acted as a sudden, cold boundary. Malik eased his hand out from under Lincoln’s shirt, the absence of the heat leaving a cold trail on Lincoln’s skin. He stepped back half a pace, giving Lincoln room to breathe, though he didn’t break the visual connection.
Lincoln stayed leaning against the counter, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow cycles. His lips were tingling, the skin feeling swollen and hypersensitive. He tried to compose his face into something professional, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
He adjusted his stance, painfully aware of the way his erection pressed against the fly of his trousers. Malik glanced down once. A quick, dark look that acknowledged the physical reality of what had just happened before his eyes returned to Lincoln’s.
Lincoln swallowed, his throat feeling tight and dry.
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched Malik’s wrist again.
He found the same vein Malik had been tracing earlier and ran his thumb over it.
Malik let him, his own breath beginning to steady, though his pulse was still a rapid thrum under Lincoln’s touch.
Lincoln exhaled a long, slow breath. He felt the tension that had lived in his shoulders for the last three years finally begin to loosen, replaced by a heavy, grounded heat. He looked at Malik. Not as a colleague, but as the only person who had ever truly looked at him.
The guilt was there, hovering at the edges of his mind. Along with thoughts of Emmy’s expectations, of the lie they were telling Betty, of the professional risks. But as Malik covered Lincoln’s hand with his own, the warmth of the skin-to-skin contact pushed the abstractions aside.
Malik squeezed Lincoln’s hand once, a firm, reassuring pressure. Lincoln squeezed back. He leaned his head forward until their foreheads touched again, their breathing finally syncing into a single, shared rhythm. The contact silencing the internal monologue that usually dictated his every move.
Malik’s presence filled the small, outdated kitchen in a way it never had before. It wasn’t an intrusion anymore. It was an expansion. Lincoln accepted it. He opened his eyes and found Malik watching him with a small, knowing smile.
Lincoln managed a nod.
Malik released Lincoln’s hand and turned back to the groceries, his movements returning to a semblance of normalcy as he folded the empty plastic bags.
He watched the way Malik’s large, steady hands handled the mundane groceries with the same dedication he used for ancient manuscripts.
There was a warmth to Malik that Lincoln felt he could never quite replicate.
A physical density and a vibrancy in the dark, intelligent depths of his eyes that made Lincoln feel suddenly, sharply aware of his own paleness, his own brittle edges.
Malik looked like a man made of earth and sun, a striking counterpoint to the sterile, academic world they both inhabited.
In this small, quiet space between them, the contrast was more than just aesthetic; it was a reminder of every unspoken reason Lincoln remained so stubbornly, fearfully in his own shadow.
Lincoln pushed off the counter, his legs feeling a little unsteady.
He walked to the sink and ran the cold water, the pipes rattling in the wall.
He cupped his hands and splashed his face, the shock of the temperature snapping him back into the present.
Cold drops ran down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
He dried his face with a rough linen towel, the fabric smelling of lavender and age. Malik closed the fridge, the magnetic seal snapping shut with a soft thud.
Lincoln turned to face him, leaning back against the sink. “The reception is in a few hours,” he said. His voice came out rough, a low rasp that he didn’t try to correct.
Malik nodded. He stepped close again, but this time there was no hesitation. His hand brushed against Lincoln’s lower back, a light, guiding pressure that felt like a claim. “I should go home and get changed. I’ll meet you back here.”
“I walk you to the door,” Lincoln offered.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He reached out and turned the knob. The door swung open, and cold air rushed in.
“I’ll see you back here in a bit,” Malik promised.
Lincoln nodded, then watched as Malik walked to his car before shutting the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
He lost track of how long he stood there. The tension coiled fresh in his gut. A want that was sharper and more focused than it should be. The pretense was still there, but for the next forty-eight hours, there was no turning away.