Page 37 of Mutual Desire

“Smells amazing,” Damien replied, offering a smile, though it felt a little strained, like his own face didn’t quite fit his mood. He hadn't spent enough time with Craig lately, and he knew this evening was meant to be another chance to reconnect. To be present, to enjoy the simple things together. But his mind kept drifting elsewhere. The minutes in the limo, the words left unsaid, the kiss on his cheek—it all felt like a different life now.

Craig set the towel aside and gestured to the table. Craig had cooked a simple, comforting meal. Spaghetti with pan-seared shrimp. A side of garlic bread and a light salad completed the meal. But what really caught Damien’s attention was the special spicy sauce Craig had whipped up—rich, smoky, with just the right amount of heat. In their early days of dating, Damien had asked for the recipe, and Craig had only smirked and said, “Some secrets are worth keeping”. Knowing his man well, he had no doubt there would be a delicious dessert as well.

As they sat down to eat, the comforting clink of cutlery against plates filled the space between them. The spaghetti, perfectly al dente, the garlic bread crisp but not too dry—it was simple, but everything Craig made had this quiet care to it, as though each dish was a little piece of him, carefully prepared. They talked, casually. Craig was always easy to talk to, his voice steady and grounding.

But Damien’s thoughts kept drifting, like a boat caught in a slow current, too far from shore. He tried to focus on what Craig was saying, about a difficult case he recently had at the hospital regarding a young patient. But every time he blinked, he saw Nabokov’s eyes, those piercing, unrelenting eyes, as if they were imprinted behind his eyelids.

Craig’s voice brought him back, and Damien forced himself to listen, to really listen. “You okay?” Craig asked, glancing up from his plate, eyes searching Damien’s face. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Yeah, just tired,” Damien said, offering a shrug, though he could feel the lie sitting heavy on his chest. Craig didn’t seem convinced but nodded and didn’t press. They went back to their meal in comfortable silence, the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scrape of silverware the only sounds. Craig’s voice broke through his thoughts as he asked, “So, what’d you do today? Spent it at the garage?”

Damien froze for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. His heart skipped. “Yeah,” he said quickly, forcing a casual tone into his voice. “The car needed some fixing, so I was there most of the day.” He glanced up, meeting Craig’s eyes, but there was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It felt wrong. “Nothing exciting, really. The car is still at the garage.” The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

Craig raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he took a bite of his food, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Must’ve been a long day. You look like you could use some time to unwind.”

Damien nodded, trying to relax. “Yeah, I guess we both do. It's been a while since we had a night like this, huh?” He tried to steer the conversation away from the garage, away from anything that felt like a lie.

Craig smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Work had been crazy for both of us. You with school and me with my hectic schedule at the hospital. Wanting to open a clinic probably wasn’t the right timing, huh?”

Damien’s interest piqued, and he leaned in slightly, eager to change the subject. “How’s that going, by the way? The clinic?”

“It’s a lot of paperwork, a lot of red tape,” Craig said with a slight chuckle. “But it’s coming together. Luckily, I’m not alone otherwise I’d go completely bananas. We’re hoping to get the location finalized soon. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Being my own boss while making a difference, you know?”

Damien nodded, trying to focus on Craig’s words. It was clear how much this meant to him, how passionate he was about it. Craig always had that drive—he was always so focused, so certain of his path. It was something Damien admired, something he felt like he’d been lacking lately, floating in a sea of confusion.

They continued eating, the conversation flowing more naturally now. But even as Damien smiled and nodded along, his mind kept drifting. He kept picturing Nabokov—his cold eyes, the sharp edge of his presence. Every time he blinked, he could see him again, as though he’d never really left. Dinner passed, and for a brief moment, Damien felt like himself again, like he was right where he needed to be. Craig was kind, attentive, all the things Damien had always wanted in a partner. It was in the way Craig laughed at a stupid joke Damien made, in the way his hand rested on Damien’s thigh as they watched the end of a movie, in the way he asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?” when Damien had stayed quiet for too long.

But even in these moments, as good as it was—Damien’s chest tightened, and it wasn’t from the food. It was because even as Craig’s hand settled on his, he felt the ghost of Nabokov, the intensity of the man’s touch on his cheek, and the inexplicable ache of something darker, something he couldn’t explain or deny.

The evening passed slowly, the hours stretching out in the quiet, comfortable way that only Craig’s company could offer. They shared a bottle of wine, talked about trivial things—friends, family, their schedule for the upcoming weeks— and finished off with a plate of fresh strawberries drizzled with honey and mascarpone, but in the back of Damien’s mind, there was always that pull. A pull he couldn’t explain, couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Later, after dinner and after Damien’s quick shower, they found themselves in the bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows around them. It was easy to slip into the familiar rhythm of their closeness, to let the warmth of Craig’s touch pull him in.

Craig undressed, his movements casual, as if they were both so used to this. It was easy. There was no pretense, no games. Just Craig and Damien, two people who fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Come here,” Craig murmured, voice low, inviting.

Damien took a deep breath, then climbed onto the bed, straddling Craig’s hips. He leaned down, capturing Craig’s lips in a kiss, but even as their mouths met, the taste of Nabokov’s cologne lingered on his tongue. His hand shook as it slid down Craig’s chest, and for a split second, he imagined it was Nabokov beneath him instead, imagined the cold, commanding touch of the Russian billionaire, his hands as possessive as they were intoxicating.

Craig kissed him back, his hands sliding to Damien’s back, pulling him closer. But it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be. Damien closed his eyes, hoping it would help, but it didn’t. As Craig’s lips moved to his neck, Damien saw Nabokov instead—his piercing gaze, the hunger in his expression, the dangerous pull that Damien could neither resist nor understand.

Craig’s hands moved to his hips, guiding him in a rhythm that should have felt natural. It did, in a way. But the deeper Damien sank into the pleasure his man gave him, the more Damien’s mind betrayed him. He couldn’t stop the images of Nabokov, couldn’t escape the way the billionaire had looked at him, the way his body had ached to be touched by someone so far beyond his reach.

Damien’s breath quickened, and he couldn’t tell if it was Craig’s touch, or the phantom touch of Nabokov that had him so aroused. He felt the pressure building, felt his body responding to the familiar motions, but his mind—his mind was somewhere else entirely.

When Craig pulled him down onto the bed, it was as though his body obeyed instinct, but his mind… his mind was somewhere else. He kissed Craig, felt his lips press against his, warm and familiar, but even as they moved together, Damien couldn’t stop the image of Nabokov from seeping in. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there, like a shadow just at the edge of his consciousness. He saw the way Nabokov had looked at him, that inscrutable, almost dangerous gaze.

Craig’s touch was steady, familiar, the press of his lips warm as he eased Damien back onto the bed. There was nothing rushed about it—Craig never was. His fingers traced slow, deliberate paths down Damien’s body, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, peeling away the layers between them. Damien let himself sink into the feeling, let Craig’s hands and mouth guide him, his body responding instinctively to the attention. Craig slowly removed his pajama pants, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the quiet between them.

But the moment Damien closed his eyes, another touch invaded his mind. Not Craig’s. Nabokov’s.

The thought came unbidden, an unwelcome intrusion, yet it sent a jolt through him. He tried to focus on Craig—the way his lips moved down his chest, how his hands gripped Damien’s hips, urging him closer—but it wasn’t enough to silence the images creeping into his head. Nabokov’s gaze, dark and unreadable. His lips, inches from his own. The ghost of that kiss against his cheek.

Damien let out a shuddering breath as Craig slid lower, his mouth trailing heat down his stomach before taking him in. His head fell back against the pillow, a soft curse slipping from his lips. It felt good. It always did with Craig. But his body was betraying him, his mind painting over reality, twisting pleasure into something else—someone else.

Nabokov.

The way he looked at him, as if he already knew Damien would crumble. As if he was waiting for it.

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