Chapter 2 #2
The first contact wasn’t a kiss. Malik leaned in, but his lips found the hollow of Lincoln’s neck, the spot just above the collar.
He opened his mouth, let breath and tongue and teeth all communicate what words couldn’t.
The salt of old sweat, the scratch of beard, the way Lincoln’s Adam’s apple bobbed under his tongue.
It all combined to erase the library, the plaques, the years of choreography.
Lincoln’s hand abandoned Malik’s wrist, slid up to the back of his head.
The grip was rough, nothing delicate about it, and Malik almost lost his footing when Lincoln shoved him tighter.
Another hand crept under Malik’s jacket, fingertips biting through the cotton of his shirt.
There would be marks, the kind visible only in certain light, and Malik hoped they’d last.
He let his own hands wander, mapping the curve of Lincoln’s spine, the sharp protrusion of shoulder blade, the tension in the small of his back. Malik pulled Lincoln closer, until their belts clinked and there was no safe space left between them.
“You’re shaking,” Lincoln muttered, the words vibrating against Malik’s cheek.
Malik didn’t deny it. “So are you.”
They stood that way for a long moment, sharing air, absorbing the fact of each other. Malik sensed the danger. Anyone could walk by, anyone could see. The risk was electric.
Lincoln tilted his head, exposing more throat, a move so vulnerable Malik almost stepped back. He didn’t. He pressed his mouth harder, teeth scraping against stubble. Lincoln’s breath stuttered, then steadied, every exhale synchronizing with Malik’s own.
A shuffling sound echoed from the far end of the row—a cart, maybe, or a student shifting in a carrel.
Lincoln froze, but Malik didn’t let go. If they were going to be discovered, so be it.
He’d spent too long pretending nothing existed here, that the past was locked away with the thesis drafts and committee reports.
Lincoln’s hand slid lower, gripping Malik’s waist, fingers flexing against bone. Malik moved in response, hips rolling forward, testing the boundary. Lincoln matched the pressure, the friction growing urgent, neither of them pretending anymore.
“I shouldn’t,” Lincoln said, but the words came out fractured, as if he’d already surrendered.
Malik pressed his forehead to Lincoln’s. “Neither should I.”
He felt the shift then. Something fundamental, the transfer of power from theory to action. Lincoln’s lips brushed the line of Malik’s jaw, hesitant but landing. Malik turned into it, catching Lincoln’s mouth with his own.
The kiss was hard, teeth clicking, a clash more than a merge. Malik let himself sink into the kiss, let the noise of the world fade out. Every sense tunneled to the heat of Lincoln’s breath, the grind of their bodies, the way Lincoln’s fingers clawed at his side.
Malik wanted more. He slid his hand down to Lincoln’s ass, palm flattening against muscle. Lincoln gasped into his mouth, a sound Malik would replay later, in the dark, alone or not. He squeezed, pulling Lincoln even closer.
A book fell off a shelf somewhere, the thud distant but a reminder. They broke apart, but only slightly, both panting, both unwilling to reset to the men they were before.
Lincoln stared at Malik, eyes glassy, mouth wet. “If you start this, you better be ready to finish it.”
Malik nodded, unable to speak.
He was ready.
Without another word, Lincoln backed Malik against the wall, hands roaming now with abandon. Malik let himself be manhandled, let Lincoln set the pace. It was a new dynamic, a reversal from the script Malik had imagined, but it worked. He wanted to be taken, wanted to be shown.
Lincoln pinned Malik’s wrists above his head, holding them with one hand while the other worked its way up under Malik’s shirt.
The fingers were cold, but the touch burned.
Lincoln’s mouth found the line of Malik’s throat, sucking hard enough to mark.
Malik moaned, louder than intended. He didn’t care.
He pulled against Lincoln’s grip, testing the strength, then gave in, letting himself be held in place.
Lincoln’s hand slipped down, unbuckling Malik’s belt with practiced efficiency. The sound of the metal was louder than expected, echoing in the empty library. Lincoln’s breath was hot against Malik’s ear. “Tell me to stop.”
Malik shook his head, dizzy. “Don’t you dare.”
Lincoln’s mouth crashed into his again, rougher this time, tongue demanding entrance.
Malik opened for him, gave as good as he got.
He bit Lincoln’s lip, drew another gasp.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Malik catalogued the sensory details.
The scrape of the wall at his back, the slide of wool against his forearms, the ache in his wrists from being held so tight.
He wanted to be marked, wanted to leave this place with evidence.
Lincoln’s hand dropped lower, cupping Malik through his pants.
Malik arched into the touch, desperate. Lincoln squeezed, then began a slow rhythm, never breaking the kiss.
Malik broke first, groaning into Lincoln’s mouth, hips thrusting forward.
The friction was everything, all the years of denial compressed into one point of contact.
Lincoln finally released his wrists, hands moving to Malik’s shoulders, gripping hard.
Malik grabbed Lincoln’s face, holding him in place, refusing to let him go.
They stayed locked together, moving in tandem, the line between aggression and affection blurred beyond recognition.
Neither spoke, but every touch was a statement, every kiss an argument with no counterpoint.
The heat built, fast and reckless, like neither trusted it would last. Malik lost track of time, of place, of anything but the man in front of him and the fire in his veins.
When the world snapped back into focus, Malik realized he was gasping, clutching Lincoln’s jacket like a lifeline. Lincoln’s face was flushed, lips swollen, hair mussed where Malik had gripped it. They were both wrecked, and neither seemed to mind.
Lincoln leaned in, resting his forehead against Malik’s. “This is a terrible idea.”
Malik laughed, breathless. “Probably.”
But neither pulled away.
Lincoln’s hands slammed into Malik’s chest, pinning him to the metal shelving.
The jolt rocked the stack, making the books rattle a warning.
Lincoln’s mouth crashed into his, teeth scraping hard enough to threaten blood.
Malik’s head spun. Not from pain, but from the vertigo of finally having all the barriers fall away.
He grabbed at Lincoln’s belt, fumbling with the buckle in the heat of the moment. The leather unlooped, the metal clinking as it dangled. Lincoln’s hands weren’t idle. He yanked Malik’s shirt from his waistband, bunching the fabric until fingers grazed bare skin.
Malik got Lincoln’s pants open, the zipper a harsh sound in the hush of the library. He pushed them down just enough to reach inside, hand finding Lincoln’s cock already hard, hot to the touch. He stroked, slow at first, savoring the way Lincoln’s whole body stiffened at the contact.
“God,” Lincoln whispered, voice guttural. He kissed Malik again, sloppier this time, tongue invading deep. Malik tasted the salt of sweat and the faint tang of the black coffee Lincoln drank all day.
Lincoln’s hips bucked against his fist, but after a few strokes, Lincoln disengaged, breathless, and dropped to his knees in a single, decisive motion.
The shift in position sent a surge of dominance through Malik.
He braced himself, back flat against the shelf, as Lincoln unfastened his pants and tugged them down just enough.
Malik’s cock sprang free, flushed dark with need.
Lincoln didn’t hesitate. He took Malik deep, the heat and suction making Malik’s knees buckle.
Lincoln set a rhythm, one hand at the base, the other gripping Malik’s thigh hard enough to bruise.
The slide was relentless, tongue pressing the underside, every swallow an affirmation.
Malik let his head fall back, the edge of a shelf digging into his skull.
He reached for Lincoln’s hair, threading his fingers through the thick, sweat-damp strands, urging him deeper.
Lincoln didn’t resist. If anything, he pushed the boundary, taking Malik to the root until Malik’s vision blurred at the edges.
He wanted to let go, to surrender right then, but he wasn’t finished. He tugged Lincoln’s head up, pulling him to his feet. Lincoln’s lips were raw, face flushed, a streak of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
Malik spat into his palm, the sound sharp in the quiet of the stacks, and reached between them. He didn’t just touch Lincoln. He gathered both of them together, his large hand slicking the heat where their bodies collided.
Lincoln’s eyes widened, his back slamming against the metal shelving as Malik gripped them both. The jolt rocked the stack, books rattling behind Lincoln’s head, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Malik held his gaze, forcing Lincoln to witness the collapse of his own restraint.
Malik set a relentless, heavy pace. He watched the way his own dark fingers moved over Lincoln’s pale, flushed skin. The contrast was staggering, a visual reminder of the two worlds finally crashing together in the dark.
“Look at me,” Malik commanded, his voice a low, rough vibration.
Lincoln let out a tortured sound, his knuckles turning pale as he gripped the edges of the shelves for leverage.
He met Malik’s rhythm, his hips bucking forward into Malik’s hand, seeking the friction.
The air between them was thick with the scent of cinnamon coffee, old paper, and the salt of their mutual skin.