Chapter 6
Malik
Malik felt like a physical weight had been lifted from him as they made their way over to Emmy. Lincoln walked half a pace ahead, his silhouette sharp against the winter sun refracting off the brushed metal stacks. He expected Lincoln to falter at any moment.
A glance at Lincoln revealed a man mentally bracing for a siege. The set of his jaw, the slight tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his cufflinks. It was the look of a man about to set fire to his own bridge while still standing on it.
Malik reached out, his fingers grazing the inside of Lincoln’s wrist. He slid his hand down until their fingers locked. Lincoln’s palm was dry, his grip deliberate and bruising. Malik squeezed, a slow, sustained pulse of reassurance.
“I can’t believe we’re about to do this,” Lincoln said, his voice pitched low, echoing slightly against the glass and the silent, leather-bound histories.
“We already did,” Malik replied, his voice a low, resonant rumble. “This is just making it official. After this morning, there is no way either of us can pretend this is fake anymore. The ruse is dead, Lincoln. We’re just admitting it now.”
The echo of footsteps sounded from the hallway. He looked up. Emmy. Malik exhaled, his thumb tracing the blue vein on the inside of Lincoln’s wrist one last time before letting go. They squared themselves, buttons aligned, masks replaced.
When she looked pointedly at them before indicating for them to follow her. As they turned the corner into the main corridor, the professional ruse felt like a suit that had shrunk in the wash—too tight, too restrictive, and utterly transparent.
They followed Emmy into the Rare Books Reading Room, a semi-private sanctuary lined with dark mahogany and the heavy scent of vellum. She was alone, pacing the length of the long oak table. When she heard them, she spun around, her eyes darting between them with a frantic, searching intensity.
She stepped toward them, her gaze lingering on the way he stood beside Lincoln, their shoulders nearly brushing.
She stopped a foot away from Lincoln, her voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. “You two look different.” She looked at Malik, her eyes wide. “What’s going on?”
The room felt twenty degrees colder as the silence stretched. Emmy’s fork-tongued efficiency was gone, replaced by a raw, unvarnished fear. Malik placed his hand on the small of Lincoln’s back.
“Emmy,” Lincoln said, his voice softer than Malik had ever heard it. “This isn’t a performance for mom anymore.”
Emmy froze. She looked at Malik, her jaw working as if she were trying to swallow a jagged piece of glass.
“What have you done?” she breathed. “I only asked you to help me give her a peaceful weekend. I didn’t ask you to...to actually do this.”
“This has nothing to do with mom,” Malik said, his voice flat and final. “In the process of pretending we realized we weren’t.”
Emmy looked at her brother, her expression warring between shock and a sudden, devastating guilt. “You’re not pretending,” she whispered. “God, Lincoln. All this time? How could I have been so blind?”
“You weren’t blind, Lena,” Lincoln said. “Malik and I didn’t even know ourselves. I’m still getting uses to it if I’m being honest.”
Emmy’s hand trembled as she gripped the edge of the oak table. “This is dangerous. While there aren’t any rules against colleagues dating, we all know we’re surrounded by cutthroats. I wanted to help Mother, not ruin your lives.”
“The only thing that was ruining my life was having a man like Lincoln in front of me and being oblivious,” Malik said. He stepped closer to Lincoln. “If people want to talk, let them. They will do that anyway. It hasn’t stopped you and Shelly from finding your way, it won’t stop us.”
Emmy flinched at the mention of Shelly, her protective wall finally cracking. She looked from Malik to her brother’s face.
Her eyes welled up, and she let out a shaky, frustrated laugh. “You’re both idiots,” she whispered, wiping a stray tear with the back of her hand. “I can’t believe this has turned into something real.”
“We’re just as shocked as you are,” Lincoln said, stepping toward her. “I never thought we’d be here like this.”
Emmy shook her head, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her concern.
She reached out and took Lincoln’s hand, then Malik’s, pulling them together for a brief, fierce moment.
“I’m terrified for you,” she admitted. “But god...I’ve never seen either of you look this happy.
If you’re going to do this, then do it. Don’t let anything stop you. ”
She squeezed their hands before letting go, her professional mask sliding back into place, though her eyes remained soft.
Then her eyes widened. “This is your first Valentine’s Day together.
You should celebrate. I’ll call Mary and see if she is okay with staying with mom for an extra hour.
Shelly and I just have dinner plans. We can stay with mom afterward. ”
Lincoln stepped forward to embrace Emmy. “Thank you.”
* * *
By the time they escaped back to his home, the night had turned viciously cold. The snow had begun to fall again, a fine, dry powder that danced in the headlights. The embers of the symposium felt like a distant dream.
“Let’s go out back and relax a little,” he suggested.
“Can you light the fire?” Lincoln asked as they reached the porch, his voice barely a whisper against the wind.
Malik stacked the logs in the old metal pit in the backyard.
The wood caught with a hiss, the flames licking at the dry bark until the orange glow pushed back the shadows of the snow-laden trees.
They sat in the Adirondack chairs, draped in heavy wool blankets, but the space between them was still charged with the residue of the day’s defiance.
Lincoln stood, his movement jagged and restless. He turned to Malik, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face, making him look like a figure from the very myths they studied.
“I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at Emmy,” Lincoln whispered. “Like you were daring her to take it away. Like you were daring the whole world to try.”
“She can’t,” Malik said, standing and letting his blanket fall to the snow as he walked over to put out the fire. “No one can.”
Lincoln reached out, his hand trembling as he gripped Malik’s collar, pulling him toward the house with a desperate, silent urgency. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the couch in the living room.
Lincoln straddled Malik’s lap. He didn’t wait. He shoved Malik’s shirt up, his mouth finding the bare skin of Malik’s shoulder, biting down with a possessive ferocity. Malik growled, his hands digging into Lincoln’s thighs, feeling the tremor in the muscle.
Malik’s hands found Lincoln’s face, holding him still.
He didn’t want the frantic scramble of a hidden tryst. He wanted the slow, agonizing recognition of the man who had stood beside him in silence for half a lifetime.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just inches from Lincoln’s. “Look at me,” Malik commanded.
Lincoln’s eyes were dark, his pupils wide with hunger. When Malik finally pressed his lips to Lincoln’s, the kiss was a cataclysm. It wasn’t the tentative touch of the morning. It was a deep, wet, and invasive claim.
Their tongues tangled with a desperate familiarity, the taste of wine and adrenaline passing between them. Malik’s hands slid into Lincoln’s hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until Lincoln was whimpering into his mouth, his body vibrating against Malik’s hardness.
Malik pulled back just an inch, their breaths hot and ragged in the dim living room. “I want to taste you,” he rasped. “Every bit of you that you’ve been hiding.”
He moved Lincoln off his lap, pushing him back against the cushions. Malik knelt between Lincoln’s legs, his eyes never leaving Lincoln’s as he unzipped Lincoln’s slacks.
He pulled them down along with his shorts, exposing Lincoln’s erection to the flickering light of the fireplace through the window. Lincoln’s cock was thick, a dark vein pulsing along the length of it, weeping with the anticipation of a touch he had never permitted himself to imagine.
Malik didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head, catching the bead of pre-cum before taking Lincoln fully into his mouth.
Lincoln let out a choked cry, his hips bucking off the couch.
Malik’s throat worked, his hand wrapping around the base of Lincoln’s cock to provide extra pressure as he sucked him with a rhythmic, wet intensity.
“Malik...oh god,” Lincoln gasped, his hands tangling in Malik’s hair, fingers clenching at the scalp. Malik responded by swiping his tongue along the underside, the frenulum, sending Lincoln into a fit of trembling that threatened to unseat him from the sofa.
After a long, unhurried minute, Malik pulled away, Lincoln’s skin glistening.
He moved back up the couch, Lincoln already reaching for Malik’s belt.
Lincoln’s fingers were frantic, fumbling with the buckle until he freed Malik.
He didn’t say a word. He simply sank to his knees on the floor between Malik’s legs.
Lincoln was slower, more worshipful. He took Malik in, his tongue exploring every ridge, his eyes looking up to watch the way Malik’s head fell back against the sofa.
Lincoln used his hands to stroke Malik’s balls while his mouth worked, a slow, deep suction that made Malik’s vision swim.
The sound of Lincoln’s wet, rhythmic swallowing filled the quiet room, punctuated by Malik’s low, guttural moans.
“Enough,” Malik growled, his hands pulling Lincoln up by the shoulders. “I need to be inside you. Not here. Not on the couch. I want you in my bed.”