“For forty-eight hours,” Lincoln said, his throat tight, his pulse a frantic rhythm in his ears. “We fake it. We give Emmy the domestic peace she’s already promised our mother. We perform the role of the devoted couple. If we don’t, mom becomes the centerpiece of a scene Emmy will never forgive us for. This is just for mom, we don’t have to act unless we are in her presence.”
Malik’s gaze dropped to Lincoln’s mouth, his expression shifting from frustration to something far more dangerous. “A tactical performance, then. For Emmy’s sake.”
“Precisely,” Lincoln lied, his skin tingling where Malik’s warmth radiated through his shirt. “A strategy. Nothing more.”
Malik reached past him for a glass, his chest pressing momentarily against Lincoln’s arm. A contact that felt less like a brush and more like a brand.
“Fine,” Malik murmured, his breath ghosting over Lincoln’s ear. “But if we’re doing this, Linc, we have to make it look real. No half-measures. Valentine’s Day is for the believers, after all.”
He set the glass down with a softclink. The agreement was a contract signed in the heavy, heated air of the kitchen.
Lincoln’s pulse quickened, a rapid drumming in his ears. He stayed still, even as Malik reached past him to grab a glass from the upper cabinet. Malik’s arm grazed Lincoln’s shoulder. A heavy, intentional pressure that sent a jolt of heat through the fabric of Lincoln’s shirt.
Malik didn’t move away. He stayed there, his chest inches from Lincoln’s arm, while he filled the glass at the sink. The sound of the rushing water was the only thing filling the room. Lincoln watched the movement of Malik’s throat as he drank, the rhythmic swallow, the way the light caught the moisture on his lower lip.
Malik moved with a fluid, unhurried grace that Lincoln had always envied. The deep, rich mahogany of Malik’s skin seemed to glow against the stark white of his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the dark fabric of his vest hugging the broad, solid lines of his shoulders.
As Malik reached for the upper cabinets, the muscles in his forearms flexed. Heavy, corded strength that spoke of a vitality Lincoln often felt he was losing to the dust of the archives.Malik’s dark features were composed in that look of thoughtful concentration that Lincoln had never been able to decipher.
Malik set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink. Their eyes met again, and this time, Lincoln didn’t look away. He shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against the wood of the cabinet, trapped between the counter and the man standing in his space.
The silence in the kitchen became heavy, a physical pressure that seemed to push the oxygen out of the room. Malik moved first, closing the remaining few inches. He didn’t hesitate. His hand rose and settled on Lincoln’s forearm, his fingers wrapping around the limb.
Lincoln’s breath caught in his throat. He stared down at Malik’s hand. The dark skin against the white cotton of his sleeve, the blunt, clean nails. Malik’s thumb began to move, pressing lightly over the blue vein at Lincoln’s wrist. The touch was warm, a steady, rhythmic pressure that made Lincoln’s skin prickle.
Lincoln’s lungs felt tight. He lifted his gaze, searching Malik’s face for the usual mockery or professional distance, but he found only a quiet, burning patience. Malik waited, his hand steady on Lincoln’s arm.
Lincoln leaned in. It was a marginal movement, a fraction of an inch, but it was an invitation.
Malik’s other hand came up to Lincoln’s waist. His palm was flat against Lincoln’s side, the heat of it seeping through the shirt and the undershirt, marking the skin beneath. Lincoln’s muscles tensed, a brief, instinctive resistance, before they eased into the touch. He reached out, his own hand covering Malik’s where it rested on his forearm. Their fingers curled together, a tangle of bone and skin.
Malik tugged, a slow, deliberate pull that brought Lincoln forward until their chests touched. The contact was startling.The solid weight of Malik, the rhythm of his heart echoing Lincoln’s own. Lincoln inhaled sharp, the scent of citrus and sandalwood filling his head.
Malik’s breath fanned across Lincoln’s cheek, a warm, moist ghost of a sensation. Lincoln turned his face, his movements guided by a hunger he had spent years trying to categorize as something else. Their lips brushed once, a soft, tentative friction that tasted of salt and coffee.
Lincoln didn’t pull back. He pressed forward, his mouth seeking Malik’s with a sudden, desperate gravity. Malik met him. The kiss deepened slow, a gradual unfolding of pressure and intent. Lincoln’s free hand found Malik’s back, his fingers spreading wide across the broad muscles beneath the sweater.
Malik’s grip tightened on Lincoln’s waist, pulling him flush against the counter. Lincoln felt the stir in his groin, a sharp, insistent hardening behind the fabric of his slacks. He shifted his hips, an involuntary search for more contact, and Malik responded with a small, rhythmic roll forward that made Lincoln’s head light.
Lincoln broke the kiss first, his lungs burning. He didn’t move away, instead resting his forehead against Malik’s. Their breath mingled, hot and jagged, in the small space between their faces.
Malik’s hand slid up Lincoln’s side, his fingers hooking under the hem of the shirt. It was skin on skin now. The calloused tips of Malik’s fingers tracing the sensitive line of Lincoln’s ribs. Lincoln shivered, a long, low tremor that started at the base of his spine. He held on tighter to Malik’s back, his nails digging slightly into the wool, grounding himself in the reality of the touch.
The sound of a door closing upstairs acted as a sudden, cold boundary. Malik eased his hand out from under Lincoln’s shirt, the absence of the heat leaving a cold trail on Lincoln’s skin. Hestepped back half a pace, giving Lincoln room to breathe, though he didn’t break the visual connection.
Lincoln stayed leaning against the counter, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow cycles. His lips were tingling, the skin feeling swollen and hypersensitive. He tried to compose his face into something professional, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
He adjusted his stance, painfully aware of the way his erection pressed against the fly of his trousers. Malik glanced down once. A quick, dark look that acknowledged the physical reality of what had just happened before his eyes returned to Lincoln’s.
Lincoln swallowed, his throat feeling tight and dry. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched Malik’s wrist again. He found the same vein Malik had been tracing earlier and ran his thumb over it. Malik let him, his own breath beginning to steady, though his pulse was still a rapid thrum under Lincoln’s touch.
Lincoln exhaled a long, slow breath. He felt the tension that had lived in his shoulders for the last three years finally begin to loosen, replaced by a heavy, grounded heat. He looked at Malik. Not as a colleague, but as the only person who had ever truly looked at him.
The guilt was there, hovering at the edges of his mind. Along with thoughts of Emmy’s expectations, of the lie they were telling Betty, of the professional risks. But as Malik covered Lincoln’s hand with his own, the warmth of the skin-to-skin contact pushed the abstractions aside.
Malik squeezed Lincoln’s hand once, a firm, reassuring pressure. Lincoln squeezed back. He leaned his head forward until their foreheads touched again, their breathing finally syncing into a single, shared rhythm. The contact silencing the internal monologue that usually dictated his every move.
Malik’s presence filled the small, outdated kitchen in a way it never had before. It wasn’t an intrusion anymore. It was an expansion. Lincoln accepted it. He opened his eyes and found Malik watching him with a small, knowing smile.
