Page 20 of Mutual Desire

For a brief second, something flickered in Nabokov’s eyes—something dangerously close to amusement. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Damien saw it. The spark of a challenge accepted.

“This type ofaccident… it must happen frequently, right?If you deemed it necessary to have a wardrobe here somewhere in the building.”

Nabokov didn’t miss a beat, his voice laced with calm menace. “And the second time the coffee spilled on me? Also, frequent?”

Damien’s throat tightened, but he didn’t relent. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Absolutely. I’m very clumsy.”

The lie slipped out smoothly, but there was no missing the tension straining beneath the surface. They were toeing a line neither seemed willing to cross—yet. The exchange had become a battle, each man pushing, testing, without ever fully giving in.

Nabokov’s lips curved just slightly, a near-smile that was more unnerving than reassuring. “For someone so clumsy, you handled yourself quite well at the presentation. Impressive.”

Damien’s heart skipped. The compliment didn’t soothe him. If anything, it felt like a trap, a way to drag him deeper into this bizarre game of psychological warfare.

“The best out of the bunch,” Damien fired back, his voice dripping with mock arrogance.

Nabokov’s eyes glittered with something darker now—something that made Damien’s skin hum with awareness. He could feel Nabokov’s gaze trailing over him, as if the man was memorizing every twitch, every shift of his body language.

“You seem very sure of yourself,” Nabokov said, the amusement in his voice sharp as a blade.

“I am,” Damien retorted, his words practically daring Nabokov to challenge him further. He didn’t know why he was doing this—why he was pushing so hard—but he couldn’t stop.Nabokov took a step closer, just barely, his gaze steady and predatory.

“I like people who are confident… as long as they can back it up,” he murmured, letting the implication hang between them like smoke. “So far, you seem to be making a strong case.”

Damien felt the words like a low-voltage current sliding under his skin. It was the kind of comment that was supposed to feel flattering, but coming from Nabokov, it landed like a challenge—intimate, invasive, and far too calculated. He hated how his body responded—how his pulse spiked and his stomach gave that humiliating little swoop.

It was just a sentence. Just words.

But something in the way Nabokov delivered them—measured, languid, like he already knew exactly how Damien would react—made it impossible to ignore.

They stood there, the silence between them now almost suffocating. The tension felt ready to snap. Nabokov’s eyes locked onto Damien’s, and in that moment, it was as if nothing else existed. The hallway had faded away, leaving only them and the storm brewing beneath their thinly veiled words.

And then, just as Damien’s nerves were about to fray, Nabokov’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, “Your scent… it’s exquisite.”

Damien’s breath caught in his throat.

The words sent a jolt of electricity through Damien’s veins, making his heart stutter. He barely had time to process the shock before Nabokov leaned in, his breath brushing against Damien’s ear as he murmured, “I love the cologne you’re wearing… Damien.”

The sound of his name on Nabokov’s lips left Damien breathless. He froze, every inch of him hyper-aware of the heat radiating from Nabokov’s body, the proximity between them suddenly unbearable and intoxicating all at once.

By the time he gathered his thoughts, Nabokov was already gone, leaving Damien standing there, reeling from the strange, intense encounter. His mind raced, trying to grasp what the hell had just happened.

This wasn’t normal. None of it was. Damien had faced arrogant bosses, difficult parents, and high-stakes environments before, but Nabokov was on an entirely different level. There was something dangerous about the man—something that both repelled and pulled Damien in at the same time.

And worse, Nabokov knew it.

Damien stood frozen for a moment after Nabokov turned and walked away, his long strides disappearing down the hallway. The collision had left him rattled—Nabokov’s intense presence lingered in the air long after he was gone.

Damien ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky exhale. “Get it together,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at his phone for Nick’s message. Right. Nick’s office. He needed to find it.

The maze of hallways didn’t make it easy. Damien doubled back twice, growing increasingly frustrated as each door he tried either led to a conference room or a supply closet. The lingering tension from his encounter with Nabokov didn’t help. His thoughts kept drifting back to the way the man had looked at him—intense, deliberate, as if he could see straight through him.It wasn’t until he passed the same potted plant for the third time that it hit him.

Wait.

Damien stopped dead in his tracks, stomach dropping.

He wasn’t even on the right floor.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples as the realization settled in. He had been so rattled by Nabokov that he hadn’t even noticed he needed to take the elevator to get to Nick’s office—he was still on the 17thfloor, wandering aimlessly, when Nick was nowhere near here. No wonder none of the damn doors led to Nick’s office. With an aggravated sigh, he spun on his heel and made his way back to the elevator, stabbing at the button with more force than necessary. He could already hear Nick’s teasing once he found him—something along the lines ofwhat, did you get lost in the supply closet?

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