“You’re not making this easier,” Lincoln said, barely above a whisper.
Malik’s lips curled. “Not my job.”
The grip tightened, then loosened, as if Lincoln debated whether to push Malik away or drag him closer. Malik settled the question, using his free hand to catch Lincoln at the elbow and pull. He expected resistance, maybe even a scene. A shove, a curse, the kind of public outburst that would let them both pretend it was an aberration.
Instead, Lincoln resisted for half a second, enough to maintain the fiction of reluctance, then closed the last gap. Their chests pressed together. Malik felt the heat instantly. Every line of tension, every muscle gone rigid to keep from trembling. Lincoln’s breath cut short, and Malik’s heart kicked into a sprint, a deep throb in his sternum.
The first contact wasn’t a kiss. Malik leaned in, but his lips found the hollow of Lincoln’s neck, the spot just above the collar. He opened his mouth, let breath and tongue and teeth all communicate what words couldn’t. The salt of old sweat, the scratch of beard, the way Lincoln’s Adam’s apple bobbed under his tongue. It all combined to erase the library, the plaques, the years of choreography.
Lincoln’s hand abandoned Malik’s wrist, slid up to the back of his head. The grip was rough, nothing delicate about it, and Malik almost lost his footing when Lincoln shoved him tighter. Another hand crept under Malik’s jacket, fingertips bitingthrough the cotton of his shirt. There would be marks, the kind visible only in certain light, and Malik hoped they’d last.
He let his own hands wander, mapping the curve of Lincoln’s spine, the sharp protrusion of shoulder blade, the tension in the small of his back. Malik pulled Lincoln closer, until their belts clinked and there was no safe space left between them.
“You’re shaking,” Lincoln muttered, the words vibrating against Malik’s cheek.
Malik didn’t deny it. “So are you.”
They stood that way for a long moment, sharing air, absorbing the fact of each other. Malik sensed the danger. Anyone could walk by, anyone could see. The risk was electric.
Lincoln tilted his head, exposing more throat, a move so vulnerable Malik almost stepped back. He didn’t. He pressed his mouth harder, teeth scraping against stubble. Lincoln’s breath stuttered, then steadied, every exhale synchronizing with Malik’s own.
A shuffling sound echoed from the far end of the row—a cart, maybe, or a student shifting in a carrel. Lincoln froze, but Malik didn’t let go. If they were going to be discovered, so be it. He’d spent too long pretending nothing existed here, that the past was locked away with the thesis drafts and committee reports.
Lincoln’s hand slid lower, gripping Malik’s waist, fingers flexing against bone. Malik moved in response, hips rolling forward, testing the boundary. Lincoln matched the pressure, the friction growing urgent, neither of them pretending anymore.
“I shouldn’t,” Lincoln said, but the words came out fractured, as if he’d already surrendered.
Malik pressed his forehead to Lincoln’s. “Neither should I.”
He felt the shift then. Something fundamental, the transfer of power from theory to action. Lincoln’s lips brushed the line ofMalik’s jaw, hesitant but landing. Malik turned into it, catching Lincoln’s mouth with his own.
The kiss was hard, teeth clicking, a clash more than a merge. Malik let himself sink into the kiss, let the noise of the world fade out. Every sense tunneled to the heat of Lincoln’s breath, the grind of their bodies, the way Lincoln’s fingers clawed at his side.
Malik wanted more. He slid his hand down to Lincoln’s ass, palm flattening against muscle. Lincoln gasped into his mouth, a sound Malik would replay later, in the dark, alone or not. He squeezed, pulling Lincoln even closer.
A book fell off a shelf somewhere, the thud distant but a reminder. They broke apart, but only slightly, both panting, both unwilling to reset to the men they were before.
Lincoln stared at Malik, eyes glassy, mouth wet. “If you start this, you better be ready to finish it.”
Malik nodded, unable to speak.
He was ready.
Without another word, Lincoln backed Malik against the wall, hands roaming now with abandon. Malik let himself be manhandled, let Lincoln set the pace. It was a new dynamic, a reversal from the script Malik had imagined, but it worked. He wanted to be taken, wanted to be shown.
Lincoln pinned Malik’s wrists above his head, holding them with one hand while the other worked its way up under Malik’s shirt. The fingers were cold, but the touch burned. Lincoln’s mouth found the line of Malik’s throat, sucking hard enough to mark. Malik moaned, louder than intended. He didn’t care. He pulled against Lincoln’s grip, testing the strength, then gave in, letting himself be held in place.
Lincoln’s hand slipped down, unbuckling Malik’s belt with practiced efficiency. The sound of the metal was louder than expected, echoing in the empty library. Lincoln’s breath was hot against Malik’s ear. “Tell me to stop.”
Malik shook his head, dizzy. “Don’t you dare.”
Lincoln’s mouth crashed into his again, rougher this time, tongue demanding entrance. Malik opened for him, gave as good as he got. He bit Lincoln’s lip, drew another gasp. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Malik catalogued the sensory details. The scrape of the wall at his back, the slide of wool against his forearms, the ache in his wrists from being held so tight. He wanted to be marked, wanted to leave this place with evidence.
Lincoln’s hand dropped lower, cupping Malik through his pants. Malik arched into the touch, desperate. Lincoln squeezed, then began a slow rhythm, never breaking the kiss. Malik broke first, groaning into Lincoln’s mouth, hips thrusting forward. The friction was everything, all the years of denial compressed into one point of contact.
Lincoln finally released his wrists, hands moving to Malik’s shoulders, gripping hard. Malik grabbed Lincoln’s face, holding him in place, refusing to let him go. They stayed locked together, moving in tandem, the line between aggression and affection blurred beyond recognition. Neither spoke, but every touch was a statement, every kiss an argument with no counterpoint.
The heat built, fast and reckless, like neither trusted it would last. Malik lost track of time, of place, of anything but the man in front of him and the fire in his veins.
