Epilogue
Malik
The city blurs past the tinted windows of the limousine.
The skyscrapers lean in close, their windows reflecting our headlights back at us in scattered fragments, and for a moment it feels like we’re floating through some fever dream I conjured up in a practice room years ago.
The leather seats beneath us are butter-soft and expensive, the kind of luxury that still catches me off guard sometimes, even after all these years in the industry.
Julian sits beside me in a tux that looks like it was cut directly onto his body by someone who understood exactly what they were working with.
The black fabric hugs the lean lines of his frame, accentuating the elegant slope of his shoulders, the precise taper of his waist. His bow tie is perfectly straight, of course it is, but there’s something almost vulnerable about how carefully he’s put together tonight.
Like armor that’s beautiful enough to make you forget its protection.
His knee bounces in a steady rhythm, hands smoothing down his thighs over and over in that restless way he gets when his mind is spinning faster than he can catch it.
The motion is hypnotic, fingers pressing against the expensive fabric like the pressure might somehow steady the storm brewing underneath.
I’ve seen this dance before, Julian trying to control what can’t be controlled through sheer force of will and repetition.
I watch him instead of the city, cataloging the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing isn’t quite even. There’s something magnetic about seeing him like this, polished and perfect on the surface while electricity crackles just beneath his skin.
He’s been nominated for Best Jazz Album.
Independently produced. Independently released.
Built from nothing but stubborn talent, sleepless nights, and the kind of courage that doesn’t always feel brave while you’re living it.
The album that almost didn’t happen because he was terrified of putting that much of himself out into the world.
The one he recorded in our home at three in the morning.
Now it’s up for a Grammy, and he’s pretending he’s calm about it. He’s not fooling me for a second.
I lean in, letting my mouth brush the warm skin just beneath his ear, that spot that always makes him melt. His cologne is subtle and expensive, mixing with the scent that’s purely him underneath. “Success looks sexy on you,” I murmur against his skin, feeling the way he shivers despite himself.
He huffs a breath, eyes closing for half a second like he’s trying to center himself. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m helping exactly how you need.” My hand slides over his knee, fingers spreading wide, grounding him with touch that’s possessive and familiar and exactly what he craves when his world feels too big.
He exhales again, slower this time, and some of that coiled tension eases just a fraction under my palm.
“You’re not even thinking about your own nomination, are you?” he asks, turning slightly toward me, those beautiful browns searching my face like he’s looking for something specific.
I shrug, thumb tracing a small circle against his leg through the fabric. “I’m thinking about you.”
That gets his attention completely. He turns his head, finally meeting my eyes directly, and something soft and overwhelmed flickers there in the dim light of the limo.
It’s the look he gets when he’s struggling to believe this is real, us, this moment, the fact that someone sees him completely and chooses to stay.
Pride does something dangerous to my chest, unfurling warm and fierce.
Love does worse, hitting me like a physical force that makes it hard to breathe properly.
I lean closer, letting my voice drop to that register that’s just for him, low and unapologetic and certain. “Relax, Miles. Let me remind you how proud I am.”
His laugh is breathless and disbelieving, caught somewhere between nervousness and anticipation. “Malik, now?”
I kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate, tasting the hint of whiskey from the drink he had at the hotel. “Now.”
I don’t let him finish. My fingers are already tracing the sharp line of his collarbone, dipping beneath the crisp fabric of his tuxedo, mapping the heat of his skin like I’m memorizing him all over again.
Lower, until the heel of my palm presses against the unmistakable swell of him, thick and insistent beneath his slacks.
Julian’s breath stutters, a sharp inhale that sounds like my name even though he hasn’t said it yet.
“Malik—”
“We’re not out there yet,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intend, but I don’t care.
The words scrape against my throat, raw with want.
My free hand finds his, fingers lacing together, squeezing once, before I guide his palm to my own chest, letting him feel the way my heart hammers.
Not from nerves. From him. Always from him.
“And I’d rather have the taste of your cum on my tongue the whole night than listen to you spiral into your own head. ”
His pupils swallow the brown of his irises, dark and hungry. “You’re insane.”
I grin, slow and deliberate, as I unbuckle my belt with a metallic whisper. The sound is obscene in the quiet of the limo, the leather slipping through the loops like a promise. “You love it.”
The air between us is thick, heavy with the scent of leather and Julian’s cologne.
I shift onto the floor between his legs, my knees pressing into the plush carpet, the fabric of my trousers straining as I settle in.
My hands slide up his thighs, fingers digging into the muscle there, feeling the way he trembles beneath my touch.
He resists for half a second, just long enough to make me smirk, before his legs fall open, surrendering to me.
“You’re gonna ruin both of our tuxes,” he mutters, but his voice is breathless, his chest rising and falling too fast for the words to hold any real weight.
“Nah,” I say, my fingers deft as they work the button of his slacks, the zipper hissing as I drag it down. The sound is like a starting gun, and my pulse kicks up in response. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
His dick springs free, already hard, the tip flushed dark and glistening.
I don’t give him time to react before I wrap my hand around him, my thumb swiping over the slit, spreading the bead of precum there.
Julian’s head falls back against the seat with a thud, his lips parting on a silent gasp.
I stroke him once, slow and deliberate, watching the way his throat works, the way his fingers flex against the leather seat like he’s fighting the urge to grab me.
Then I lean in, my breath hot against his skin before my tongue flicks out, tasting him.
Salty. Warm. Mine. The thought settles in my chest like a brand, and I take him deeper, my lips sealing around him as I hollow my cheeks.
Julian’s hands fly to the back of my head, his fingers gripping my nape, not pulling, not guiding, just holding on.
Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I hum around him, the vibration making his hips jerk, his length twitching against my tongue.
He’s thick, heavy, filling my mouth in a way that makes my own dick ache behind my zipper.
I ignore it, focusing instead on the way his thighs tense beneath my palms, the way his breath hitches every time I swallow around him.
I know his body like I know the back of my hand, know the exact moment his control starts to fray, the way his grip tightens in my hair just before he’s about to lose it.
“Malik, shit.” His voice is wrecked, broken, and the sound of it goes straight to my dick. “I’m close.”
I pull back just enough to smirk up at him, my lips swollen, my chin damp. “Good.” My voice is rough, gravelly with want. “I want you to remember this when you’re up there on that stage. Remember who’s waiting for you when it’s over.”
Then I take him again, deeper this time, my throat relaxing around him as I swallow him whole.
Julian groans, a guttural sound that vibrates through me, his hips stuttering as he cums, his release spilling down my throat in hot, thick pulses.
I don’t pull back until I’ve taken every last drop, until his dick softens against my tongue, until his breath is nothing more than ragged gasps.
I lick him clean before pulling back, my lips curling into a satisfied grin as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Julian slumps against the seat, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed and unfocused. “You’re trying to kill me.”
I chuckle, low and dark, as I shift back onto the seat beside him. “Just making sure you don’t forget who you belong to, Mr. Big Time.”
He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him as he tucks himself back into his slacks, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. “Like I ever could.” His eyes flick to me, dark and hungry despite the post-orgasm haze. “What about you?”
I shake my head, my own erection straining against my trousers, but I ignore it.
The ache is a small price to pay for the way Julian’s looking at me right now, like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Later,” I promise, my voice rough. “When we get home, I’m gonna bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.
But right now?” I lean in, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, “Right now, I just want to watch you shine.”
Julian shivers, his breath hitching, and I know he’s imagining it, my hands on his hips, my dick buried inside him, the way I’ll make him feel when we’re finally alone. For now, he just nods, his fingers finding mine, squeezing tight. “Later,” he agrees, his voice barely above a whisper.