“Don’t muffle your sounds,” Malik growled, his thrusts becoming relentless and heavy. “Let me hear it. Give me all of it.”
Lincoln couldn’t answer. He could only feel the way Malik was filling him, the way the possession was total. He felt the climax building again, that unbearable pressure at the base of his spine that threatened to undo him completely. He reached down instinctively, his fingers brushing against his own slick skin, but he hesitated, his mind still trying to cling to a shred of the old, practiced restraint.
Malik saw the hesitation. He gripped Lincoln’s wrists, pinning them briefly to the mattress before releasing one.
“Don’t wait, Lincoln. Take yourself while I’m inside you,” Malik commanded, his breath hot and jagged. “Stroke yourself for me. I want to watch you come while I’m filling you.”
Lincoln’s hand moved, his fingers wrapping around his own cock in a frantic, rhythmic sync with Malik’s heavy lunges. The double friction was too much. The gray morning light of the bedroom fractured into sparks. Lincoln’s back arched, as he followed the instruction, his pace quickening as the heat in his gut turned into a localized explosion.
Malik’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of jagged grunts. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his balls smacking against Lincoln’s ass, and he came with a long moan. Lincoln followed a heartbeat later, his body stiffening, his vision whiting out as the pleasure turned into a localized explosion.
They stayed that way for a long time, the only sound the frantic thud of their hearts and the wind rattling the windowpane. Malik didn’t pull out. He stayed slumped over Lincoln, his face buried in Lincoln’s neck, his weight a comforting, crushing reality.
Lincoln felt a single tear escape, sliding down his temple and disappearing into the pillow. It wasn’t sadness. It was the sheer, terrifying relief of finally being known.
Slowly, Malik pulled away. He tucked Lincoln back into the blankets, his movements slow and clinical, but his eyes weresoft. He didn’t speak. He looked at the room, at the compass, at the gray light that was finally starting to brighten into morning.
The fear was still there. The knowledge of what this would do to their careers, to Emmy, to the delicate balance of their lives. But as Malik reached out and took Lincoln’s hand, the doubt was gone.
“Shower,” Malik said, his voice finally steady. “We have a symposium to finish up.”
“We have to face Emmy today,” Lincoln finally whispered. “And the department. The ruse ends today, Malik. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Malik said. He sat up and offered Lincoln a hand. “But first, we need to get a move on.”
The bathroom was at the end of the narrow hallway, a space of white subway tile and a massive, clawfoot tub that Lincoln’s father had repaired a dozen times.
They stepped into the tub together. The porcelain was freezing against their feet, a sharp shock that made Lincoln gasp, until Malik turned the heavy brass handles. The water groaned through the pipes before it turned hot, steam rising in thick, white plumes that quickly turned the room into a humid sanctuary.
Malik stood under the spray first. He looked like a statue carved from mahogany. He pulled Lincoln under the stream with him. The intimacy of the shower felt, in many ways, more profound than the sex. There was nowhere to hide in the bright, clinical light of the bathroom.
Malik took the bar of soap and began to lather Lincoln’s shoulders. His hands were large and calloused from a lifetime of handling heavy volumes, but his touch was light. He moved the soap over Lincoln’s ribs, mapping the slight softening of age with a reverence that made Lincoln’s throat ache.
“My father used to say this house had ears,” Lincoln said, leaning his forehead against Malik’s damp chest. The water sluiced over them both, a warm, constant pressure. “He used to say you couldn’t keep a secret from the wood and the stone.”
“Then the house is finally satisfied,” Malik replied. He rinsed the soap from Lincoln’s skin, his hands lingering on Lincoln’s hips. “Because there’s no secret left to keep.”
When they finally emerged, dressed in the sharp, armor-like attire of the academic elite, the house felt different. Lincoln adjusted his tie in the steamed-up mirror, catching Malik’s reflection behind him. They looked like the men they had always been...poised, intellectual, formidable. But there was a new softness in the set of Malik’s shoulders.
Downstairs, the smell of bacon and Earl Grey tea met them. Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, a woman of infinite patience and very few questions.
“Morning, Mr. Armstrong. Mr. Okonkwo,” she greeted. “Your mother is having a good morning. She’s in the sunroom.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Lincoln said. He felt the brass compass in his pocket, a secret weight. “We’ll go see her before we leave.”
They entered the sunroom, a space of faded chintz and pale winter light. She sat in her high-backed chair, a knitted throw over her knees. Lincoln leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek. She smelled of the rosewater she’d used for forty years.
“We’re heading to the symposium, Mother,” Lincoln said softly. Her eyes drifted to him, then past him to Malik. For a second, the fog in her gaze seemed to lift.
“You’re both going?” she asked, her voice thin but steady.
“Yes,” Malik stepped forward, his presence filling the small room. “We have a long day ahead.”
He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box tied with a silk ribbon. “But before we head out, we wanted to bring you this. Happy Valentine’s Day, Betty.”
Lincoln froze, watching as Malik knelt slightly beside his mother’s chair. Betty took the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a silk scarf, deep plum and gold, the fabric shimmering even in the dull morning light.
“It’s beautiful,” Betty whispered, her hand hovering over the silk. She looked at Malik, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “You were always thoughtful. That’s why I’m so glad Lincoln chose you.”
