Page 35 of Mutual Desire

“But I will take your suggestion into consideration,” Nabokov added, his tone softening slightly.

Damien looked up, trying to gauge whether Nabokov was being sincere or just placating him. “Thank you.”

A tense silence filled the space between them, and after a moment, Damien’s gaze faltered, dropping to the floor. He felt pinned under the weight of Nabokov’s eyes.

“Come here,” Nabokov’s voice was soft, but it carried an authority Damien couldn’t ignore.

Damien’s head snapped up. He blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Why?”

Nabokov’s eyes darkened, his expression cooling. “Come here, Damien.”

“I’m not a dog, Alexander,” Damien shot back, his tone calm despite the tension thickening in the air. His own response surprised him—sharp, unfiltered, as if his body had spoken before his mind could catch up. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to push Nabokov away or daring him to come closer.

Nabokov’s expression softened, just a touch. “Please,” he whispered, and the tenderness in his voice caught Damien off guard. He felt a pull but resisted.

Damien hesitated, then murmured, “You come here.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. A knee-jerk reaction. An instinct he didn’t quite understand. The moment they left his lips, his stomach twisted, because—why the hell had he said that?

It wasn’t like he wanted Nabokov closer. That would be ridiculous. And yet, something about the way the man commanded a room, the way his presence filled every inch of space, had Damien responding before his brain could catch up.

He forced himself to remain still, to keep his face neutral, as if he hadn’t just invited a man who had no business being near him to step closer. Maybe it was defiance, maybe just a need to keep control of the moment.

But as soon as the words hung between them, Damien knew—he had just made a mistake. Oh yes, he knew he shouldn’t have said it. Knew he should have pushed back, refused, anything but this. But resisting Nabokov felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with bare hands. Nabokov wasn’t supposed to have this effect on him, and yet, here he was, pulling him in without even touching him.

As soon as the words hung between them, Damien braced himself, watching as Nabokov’s expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough for Damien to feel the shift in the air between them.

A flicker of amusement crossed Nabokov’s face. He didn’t move at first, as if waiting to see how far Damien would go.

Damien swallowed, his pulse a little too fast. He should take it back. Laugh it off. But instead, something in him—some inexplicable, reckless impulse—made him whisper, “Please.”

The moment the word left his mouth, regret coiled tight in his gut. What the hell was that? He wasn’t supposed to be asking for anything from this man.

But it was too late.

Nabokov set his laptop aside and leaned in, his movements slow, deliberate—like a predator indulging a chase. The moment stretched, expanding into something almost tangible. The space between them shrank until their faces were mere inches apart, their noses almost brushed. His hand lifted, gentle yet firm, cupping Damien’s cheek. Damien inhaled sharply, taking in the rich, sophisticated scent clinging to Nabokov, and stared, his heart pounding in his chest.

The world outside the car faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a silent, charged exchange. Nabokov's thumb stroked his flushed skin, the sensation both tender and electrifying. Damien’s heart raced as their noses brushed, the proximity so close their lips threatened to touch if either of them moved a fraction. The closeness between them—too intimate, too intense—made Damien’s pulse race. His mind buzzed with questions, but none of them came with answers. What was this? Was it intimidation? Attraction? Power play? Maybe all three.

“Nicolas is lucky,” Nabokov’s voice was barely above a whisper, “to have a friend like you. One who’s willing to do anything to see his software succeed.”

The comment broke the silence, and Damien blinked for the first time in what felt like minutes. “I don’t have much of a choice,” he replied, his tone hardening. “It’s my fault, after all.”

Nabokov smiled faintly. “You think I’m punishing you?”

“Yes,” Damien replied without hesitation. “Isn’t that what this is all about?”

Nabokov’s smile widened, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because you love provoking me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Damien said, a half-smile curling on his lips, “but I can’t blame you. I enjoy provoking you, too.”

The honesty in his voice startled him, and he wished he could take the words back. But it was too late.

Nabokov chuckled softly. “And what do you gain by provoking me?”

“The pleasure of it, I guess,” Damien admitted before lowering his gaze.

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