Chapter 2 #3
The heat built with a terrifying speed. Lincoln’s breath hitched, his eyes glazing over as he reached the edge. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that he didn’t even try to stifle, and came hard. A hot, heavy spatter between them that slicked Malik’s hand even further.
The feeling of Lincoln’s release triggered the end of Malik’s control. He followed a heartbeat later, a pulsing, violent finish that left him gasping for air, his forehead dropping to rest against Lincoln’s shoulder.
The silence that followed was thick, the sterile library air suddenly heavy.
Lincoln looked down at the mess between them, his chest still hitching, his eyes fixed on the front of his own trousers with a look of stunned realization.
Then he fumbled with his blazer pocket and pulled out a folded linen handkerchief.
It was white, crisp, and absurdly dignified.
Precisely the kind of thing a man like Lincoln would carry.
Malik took it from him before he could drop it.
He didn’t say a word, his own breathing still ragged as he used the fine fabric to wipe the cum from Lincoln’s pale, trembling skin.
The contrast was vivid. The white linen, Malik’s dark hand, and the evidence of their heated tryst now staining the cloth.
Malik then wiped himself and finally his own hand.
Instead of handing the ruined thing back, Malik balled the damp handkerchief into a tight knot and shoved it deep into his own trouser pocket.
He wasn’t going to let Lincoln carry that evidence back to the reception, and he certainly wasn’t going to let him throw it in a library trash can for a student to find.
It was his now. A heavy, damp weight against his thigh that felt more like a trophy than a secret.
He glanced at Lincoln, waiting for the inevitable regret, the words that would reestablish the old boundaries. But Lincoln just looked at him, expression unreadable.
Malik braced for anger or self-loathing. What he got was a hand, reaching out, pulling him close for another kiss. Softer this time, but no less urgent.
When he pulled back, Malik leaned into Lincoln, pressing his lips to the curve where neck met shoulder.
Lincoln’s breath raked in, muscles shivering beneath the sweat-slick skin.
For a long moment, neither moved. Malik kept his arms around Lincoln, steadying both of them.
The cold metal of the shelves seeped into his hands, but he didn’t care.
He wanted to stay there, just like that, forever or at least until the world demanded otherwise.
But that wasn’t an option. Malik opened his eyes.
Lincoln’s were already watching him, searching for something Malik couldn’t name.
Without thinking, Malik pressed his forehead to Lincoln’s.
Their noses bumped, a clumsy collision that made them both smile.
Lincoln’s hand slid from Malik’s face down to his chest, resting flat over his heart. Malik felt his pulse hammering, wild and obvious. He covered Lincoln’s hand with his own, holding it in place.
They stood like that, cocooned in the library stacks, until the sweat on their skin started to chill. Lincoln exhaled, a long, steady release. Malik recognized the sound A lifetime’s worth of tension draining in one breath.
No more games. No more distance. Lincoln’s eyes opened. Malik nodded, once. Lincoln nodded back. The understanding between them was absolute.
Malik stepped away first, running both hands down his shirt, flattening creases and tucking the hem back in. Lincoln followed suit, smoothing his hair, then reaching up to adjust his collar. They said nothing. The mutual effort at composure was itself an admission.
The sound of footsteps filtered through the stacks. Malik and Lincoln froze, then each bent toward a different row, pretending to scan book spines. The footfalls receded. A voice called out, sing-song, echoing in the hush.
“Closing up in ten, stragglers!”
Malik caught Lincoln’s eye. Lincoln’s lips curled upward, almost a smile, before his gaze flicked to the floor. Then Lincoln did something unexpected. He reached for Malik’s hand, squeezed hard, then let go before either could process it.
They left through different aisles, reconvening at the lobby. Malik’s phone buzzed in his pocket; he fished it out, thumbed the lock screen. A text from Tyrus, his brother.
Tyrus: Details on the job offer attached, call when you’re free.
Malik stared at the screen, felt the aftershock of the evening settle in. He looked up. Lincoln had already reached the doors, holding one open with a steady hand. Malik pocketed the phone, walked brisk to catch up.
Outside, the night air was icy. Malik inhaled deep, lungs aching from the contrast. The cold did nothing to dull the want still firing through his body. He wondered if Lincoln felt the same, or if the man had already built a new compartment for it, filed and locked away.
They started down the path together, silence companionable now.
Lincoln’s gait was measured, but every so often his shoulder grazed Malik’s, a contact neither man apologized for.
Halfway across the quad, Lincoln stopped.
He looked at Malik, searching again. Malik shook his head, barely a movement. Not now, the gesture said.
Lincoln seemed to accept that. He started walking again, more slowly this time. Malik matched his pace. When they reached the edge of the quad, Lincoln’s hand brushed Malik’s. This time, Malik took it, entwining their fingers.
They walked the rest of the way like that. Two men, side by side, no more distance between them. Tomorrow would bring questions, consequences, maybe even regret.
But for tonight, Malik allowed himself this. The heat of Lincoln’s palm, steady and real, the certainty that whatever else happened, neither of them would ever be alone in the archives again.