Page 16 of Mutual Desire

Craig’s words replayed in his mind, each one a thorn pressing deeper into his already conflicted heart. Why was it so hard to find balance? To give enough without giving too much? To love without suffocating?

And then there was Nabokov. The thought of him—his piercing gray eyes, his commanding presence—interrupted Damien’s spiraling reflections. He didn’t know what to make of the man. Was he genuine, or was this all some elaborate game? And why couldn’t Damien stop wondering about him?

His gaze shifted to the horizon, where the sun began its slow descent. The shifting colors of the sky mirrored the tumult inside him—vivid and intense, refusing to settle.

Time slipped by faster than Damien had anticipated. He had stayed at the window far longer than he’d meant to—long enough that Nick was probably wondering where he was. Surprisingly, there was no text or call from his friend demanding to know his whereabouts, a fact that left Damien both relieved and slightly guilty.

He glanced at his phone, half-expecting a missed notification, but the screen was blank save for the time. Thirty minutes. Had it really been that long? It felt as though he’d been frozen in place, trapped between the magnetic pull of the view and the maelstrom of thoughts swirling inside him.

With a soft sigh, Damien adjusted his tie, straightening his posture. His reflection in the glass was sharper now, his expression more composed. The city beyond him continued its steady rhythm, a stark contrast to his disarray. Nick would be waiting. And so would Nabokov. It was time to face the reception.

SEVEN

Unsettling Gaze

Damien stood at the end of the corridor, staring at the sleek directory mounted beside the elevators. The polished silver lettering gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but his eyes quickly found what he was looking for: Lounge—17thFloor. Of course, it had to be upstairs. He pressed the call button, the faint hum of the approaching elevator filling the quiet space. As the doors slid open, Damien stepped inside, staring at the numbered buttons for a moment before pressing 17. The ride was mercifully quick, leaving little time for second thoughts.

The elevator opened to a much livelier floor. Muted chatter spilled into the hallway, mingled with the clinking of glasses and the soft notes of a piano playing somewhere nearby. A sign reading ‘Welcome Reception’ in sleek, minimalist font directed him toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

Taking a deep breath, Damien pushed them open, stepping into an opulent lounge bathed in warm, golden light. The space was sprawling yet intimate, with plush seating areas arranged around low tables adorned with floral centerpieces. Waitstaff moved gracefully between clusters of people, balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres and sparkling drinks.

And there, near the bar at the far end of the room, stood Nabokov. Even in a sea of impeccably dressed professionals, Nabokov stood out effortlessly—commanding the room without a single word.

Damien’s chest tightened at the sight, his earlier resolve wavering. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to avoid stepping any further into the lion's den. But he squared his shoulders, taking a steadying breath before stepping inside, determined to face whatever the night had in store. He weaved his way through the crowd in search of Nick.

Damien’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on his best friend, who was standing near a high-top table, nursing a glass of wine. Relief washed over him at the sight of his friend, a familiar anchor in a sea of uncertainty. He made his way over, weaving through clusters of people engrossed in quiet conversation.

“I thought you ran away, D,” Nick said with a grin as Damien approached.

“And miss the free food? Nah,” Damien replied, managing a wry smile.

Nick chuckled, gesturing toward the far end of the lounge where the buffet stretched out like a decadent feast from a palace. “Go grab a plate. The buffet is crazy, man.”

Damien nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape the momentary pressure. He made his way toward the buffet, the aromas of truffle, roasted meats, and freshly baked bread growing stronger with each step. Picking up a plate, he surveyed the offerings, his attention divided between the food and his swirling thoughts.

Just as he reached for a delicate tartlet, an arm extended in front of him, brushing his shoulder lightly. The sudden movement made him freeze. The arm, clad in an impeccably tailored navy-blue sleeve, belonged to none other than Nabokov. A subtle yet intoxicating fragrance—familiar now, undoubtedly expensive—lingered in the air between them. Damien’s pulse quickened.

As he turned his head, their faces came startlingly close, and Damien barely pulled back in time to avoid a full-on collision.

“Sorr…sorry,” he stammered, his voice unsteady.

Nabokov’s gray eyes locked onto Damien’s, holding him captive in a gaze that felt both piercing and intimate. The tension between them was palpable, as if the world had shrunk to the space between their bodies. Nabokov’s gaze lingered for just a second longer than necessary, his lips curling into a subtle, knowing smile.

“Food selection isn’t hard to make,” Nabokov said, his voice low, teasing, but with a deliberate weight behind it. His gaze slid over the food, then back to Damien. “Go for the salmon,” he added, his tone so smooth it almost felt like an intimate suggestion.

Damien’s throat went dry as Nabokov’s hand hovered briefly over the platter, selecting a perfectly sliced piece and placing it on his plate with unhurried precision. Without breaking eye contact, Nabokov picked up a fork, speared the salmon, and brought it to his mouth. The way Nabokov ate—careful, measured—felt like another subtle way he was maintaining control, as though every action, every movement, had been choreographed.

Damien stood still, his attention locked on Nabokov as the man savored the bite, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. The way he ate it—deliberate, sensual—felt like a calculated act of seduction. Damien couldn’t look away, his own plate momentarily forgotten.

It was an almost maddeningly sensual moment, and Damien felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He didn’t want to acknowledge how Nabokov’s presence pulled at him like a magnet. But there was no denying it; the intensity between them had only deepened in the past few hours. The tension between them thickened, the room fading into an indistinct blur. For a brief moment, it was as though they were the only two people in the lounge, boundby an unspoken connection neither fully understood.

The spell broke when a familiar voice interrupted, warm but commanding. “Mr. Nabokov, I didn’t expect you to still be here. Figured you already left since these sorts of things aren’t usually your cup of tea.”

Damien’s gaze shifted reluctantly to the newcomer. It was one of the executives from the presentations earlier—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and exuding a mix of authority and approachability.

Nabokov turned slightly, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Bettman,” he greeted with a nod, his voice calm yet carrying its usual weight. “Well, the presentations were, for the most part, solid,” Nabokov said, his voice calm yet deliberate.

His gray eyes shifted, locking onto Damien with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through him. “But it’s the presenters—some of them, at least—who truly caught my attention.”

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