Chapter 20 Malik
MALIK
“Fuck, you feel so good.”
The words scrape out of me, raw and unfiltered, because that’s the only language that makes sense when I’m buried inside him.
Every nerve in my body is alight, every thought reduced to the slick, scorching heat of Julian’s body gripping me, pulling me deeper.
His back arches as I drive into him, the cold glass a stark contrast to the heat of his skin beneath my hands.
His fingers splay wide, knuckles whitening as he presses them flat, as if he’s trying to anchor himself to something, anything, while I take him apart.
“Goddamn, Malik.”
His voice is wrecked, broken, and the sound of it sends a jolt straight through me.
He drops his head, but I’m not having that.
Not now. Not when I need him to see what I see.
The city stretches out beneath us, indifferent and vast, while up here, in this gilded cage of a penthouse, I’m unraveling him.
“Look up,” I growl, my voice rough with the effort of holding back, of making this last. “Or I’ll stop.
Let all of Paris witness me taking you apart.
Piece.” I snap my hips forward, the wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
Thrust. “By.” Another thrust, deeper this time, angled just right to make him gasp. Thrust. “Piece.”
Outside, the city sprawls beneath us, gray rooftops, the skeletal iron of the Eiffel Tower stabbing into the pale, watercolor sky, the distant hum of traffic a white noise that fades into nothing.
It’s not romantic. Not right now. Right now, it’s just a backdrop, a silent witness to the way Julian’s body trembles against mine, to the way his breath fogs the glass in ragged, uneven patterns.
No one down there has any idea what’s happening up here, in this tower of glass and steel.
The thrill of that, of being watched without being seen, only makes him scream louder, his voice bouncing off the walls.
“Don’t stop. . .” His plea is a broken thing, torn from him as I drag my dick out achingly slow, teasing him, torturing us both. Then I snap my hips forward, hard enough to make his face kiss the glass, his breath hitches as the cold surface meets his flushed skin.
“Never.” The word is a vow, a promise, a desperate plea all in one.
I grind my hips against him, my fingers dig into the lean muscle of his sides, marking him.
I feel wild, crazed, like an animal that’s finally been set free after years of being caged.
We’ve been insatiable for each other, like we’re trying to cram seventeen years of separation into the handful of weeks left on this tour.
Like if we don’t, we’ll lose each other all over again.
Julian’s body tightens around me, his muscles coil like a spring, and I know he’s close.
His dark eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted, his breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps.
For once, he’s not holding back. He’s not wearing that carefully constructed mask of control, the one that’s kept him safe for so long.
He’s just him, open, mine. God, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
After everything, after the years of hating me, the misunderstandings, the pain, he’s letting me see him like this.
It’s a privilege, one I don’t take lightly.
The realization settles in my chest like a weight I’ve been carrying for years, finally finding its place.
I drag my hands down his sides, his muscles tense and release beneath my touch, his skin pebbles under my fingertips.
He’s leaner than me, all controlled elegance, but right now, he’s breaking apart.
I’m the one doing it to him. His pleasure is mine to control, to shape, to own.
The thought sends a jolt of possessiveness through me, sharp and sweet, like the first hit of a drug I never want to quit.
Julian turns his head just enough to meet my gaze, his lips curling into something that’s almost a smirk, but not quite. It’s too primal for that, too real. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I huff out a laugh, my hips stuttering forward before I can stop them. “You’re one to talk.”
He groans, pushing his hips back against me, as if he’s afraid I’ll break this connection between us. As if I could. “Shut up and fuck me, my Symphony.”
The nickname hits me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs.
Only he calls me that. Only ever him. It was the only thing I carried with me after the rift between us, the first tattoo I ever had inked across my skin, a permanent reminder of what I’d lost. Now, hearing it again, in this moment, it’s like coming home.
I grip his hips harder, my fingers digging in, marking him, claiming him.
The thought excites me, sends a dark thrill racing down my spine.
I tilt my hips, angling myself to hit his prostate, making his breath catch, his fingers curl into fists against the window.
The sound of his pleasure, broken, desperate, mine, is enough to make my vision blur at the edges. I want to memorize this. The way his body moves with mine, the way his breath hitches, the way his skin flushes under my touch.
Then the world intrudes. A car horn blares from the street below, sharp and jarring, slicing through the haze of lust and need.
A phone buzzes on the nightstand, mine or his, it doesn’t matter.
It’s probably Eli or Renee, reminding us about another rehearsal, the performance tonight, the endless list of responsibilities waiting for us outside this room.
Julian tenses, just for a second, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.
He’s getting in his head, overthinking, worrying about how reckless this is.
About how the world doesn’t have space for what we’re doing.
I don’t pull out. If I could live inside of him, I would. I don’t want to burst this bubble, not yet. Not when we’re finally here, finally together.
I lean forward, pressing my chest to his back, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.
His skin is hot, feverish, and his pulse jumps under my touch.
“Ignore it,” I murmur, my voice rough. Reaching around, I wrap my hand around his dick, gripping him tight, stroking him in time with my thrusts.
His body jerks against mine, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
Julian grunts, his hips stuttering as he tries to form words. “We can’t. . .we can’t stay like this forever.”
“Why not?” I demand, picking up the pace, not giving him a chance to answer. I work him over, my hand slick with pre-cum, my own body coiled tight with need. He’s getting closer, his ass grips me like a vice, pulling me deeper, pulling me under.
“Cum for me, Miles.”
He tenses, his body going rigid, and then he’s shouting, his voice ragged and broken as he sprays his release across the window.
The sight of it, of him, undone and unraveling, sends me over the edge.
I pound into him, losing myself in the heat of his body, in the way he clings to me, one hand digging into the back of my neck as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I don’t give anything else a second thought.
Not the phone, not the city below, not the responsibilities waiting for us.
I cum hard, my release tearing through me like a storm, his name a prayer on my lips. “God, Miles.”
For a moment, just a moment, everything else fades away. There’s only us. Only this. Only the way he feels in front of me, around me, with me.
After, we don’t move for a long time, allowing ourselves only enough energy to clean up hastily before collapsing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and satisfaction.
Julian stays pressed against me, his back flush to my chest, his breathing slow and measured in that deliberate way of his.
I trace idle patterns on his skin, my fingers mapping the constellation of dark freckles across his shoulder blades, memorizing the way his body fits against mine like we were designed for this.
The smooth planes of his chest rise and fall beneath my palm, his heartbeat steady and strong against my fingertips.
He’s not pulling away. Not retreating behind those carefully constructed walls.
Not yet, and that’s new, achingly, devastatingly new.
Usually after we’ve exhausted each other completely, he’s gone before I can even catch my breath.
Back into himself, back into the rigid control he wraps around himself like expensive armor.
He’s had his guard up for so long, the behavior seems hardwired into his DNA, an automatic response to vulnerability.
Right now, he’s still here. Still with me, still allowing himself to exist in this space between worlds where nothing matters except the heat of our bodies and the weight of seventeen years finally finding their way home.
I press my lips to his shoulder, tasting salt and something indefinably him. “The tour’s almost over.”
Julian stiffens, just for a second, a barely perceptible tension that ripples through his muscles before he forces himself to relax. The careful composure slides back into place like a mask he’s worn so long it’s become part of his face. “Yeah.”
“We’ve got what, a few weeks left?” I keep my voice casual, like we’re discussing the weather instead of the approaching end of everything that’s brought us back together.
“A little over a month.” His voice is measured, clinical, like he’s reading tour dates from a schedule rather than counting down the days until our borrowed time runs out.
I hum against his skin, my fingers stilling their wandering. The weight of that timeline settles between us, over thirty-something days to figure out what the hell we’re doing, what this means, where it goes when the lights come up and the real world crashes back in. “And then what?”