Page 38 of Mutual Desire

Craig’s grip tightened as he moved, his pace quickening, pulling Damien closer to the edge. Damien’s breath hitched, his fingers tangling in Craig’s hair, but when his eyes slipped shut again, it wasn’t Craig between his legs anymore. It was Nabokov’s mouth that was swallowing his cock, slow and teasing, his expression unreadable but knowing.

Craig shifted suddenly, rising over him. Damien barely had time to catch his breath before Craig slicked himself and pressed in.The stretch was immediate, familiar—intimate—but Damien’s mind was still tangled in the fantasy. Craig thrust deep, firm and steady, but it wasn’t Craig’s rhythm he felt. It was Nabokov’s weight, Nabokov’s hips, Nabokov’s breath on his skin. He gripped the sheets, breath ragged, body betraying him. Heat coiled unbearably tight in his stomach, and then—

He came with a sharp gasp, his muscles locking as pleasure ripped through him like a jolt. But as the last waves of it faded, a sick realization settled in his chest.It wasn’t Craig’s name that had been on his tongue. It was Nabokov’s.

He lay there afterward, his body still humming, his breath slowing as Craig crawled back up beside him, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder.

“You okay?” Craig murmured, his voice low and sated.

Damien forced a nod, swallowing the dryness in his throat. “Yeah,” he lied.

Craig wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The warmth should have been grounding, should have anchored him in the moment. But even as he let Craig hold him, Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere darker.

Somewhere he shouldn’t want to be.

Sleep had been elusive, broken by memories of the Russian man’s lips on Damien’s skin and the tangled thoughts they provoked. When he finally drifted off, it wasn’t restful. His dreams bled into the waking guilt that had settled in his chest hours ago.

Nabokov’s lips found his, their tongues tangling in a frenzied, consuming kiss. The intensity surged until Damien was straddling him, pressing closer, devouring his mouth with a raw passion that bordered on reckless. His hands roamed, gripping, tugging, as if compelled by some force beyond him. The air crackled with something dark, something forbidden. It felt inevitable. It felt dangerous.

The dream ended abruptly—just as his fingers reached Nabokov’s belt, as if his subconscious slammed the brakes before crossing an unforgivable line.

Damien woke with a sharp inhale, his body painfully hard, the pulse of arousal undeniable. But it wasn’t just the remnants of a dream fueling it. He knew better. It had started hours ago, buried in the way his body had betrayed him last night.

With Craig.

He exhaled, relief washing over him when he realized the bed was empty—Craig was already up. He dragged a hand over his face, frustration brewing beneath his skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not after last night. Not after he had been with Craig, touched him, kissed him, let himself drown in his affection.

And yet, even in the height of pleasure, it hadn’t been Craig’s name on his lips.

The weight of it drove him out of bed, straight to the bathroom, where he turned the faucet and let cold water fill the sink. He splashed his face, as if it could wash away the unwanted thoughts. It didn’t.

Brushing his teeth with unnecessary force, he caught his reflection in the mirror, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable even to himself.

He turned on the shower, stepping in before the water had fully cooled. The icy cascade made him shiver, but he welcomed it. Maybe it would ground him. Maybe it would drown out the heat simmering beneath his skin.

His hand drifted lower, fingers wrapping around his aching cock, moving instinctively, desperately. He tried to think of Craig—the warmth of his skin, the way he touched him, the way he whispered his name in the dark. But nothing came. The images wouldn’t stick.

Instead, there was only Nabokov.

Damien bit his lip, stifling a curse as his strokes quickened. He hated himself for it. Hated the way the Russian man’s face dominated his thoughts, the way his mind twisted and replayed that kiss, that lingering touch.

It shouldn’t feel this good.

His orgasm tore through him, violent and consuming, the remnants of the dream still clinging to him as he braced himself against the tile. But as the pleasure faded, all that remained was guilt—thick and suffocating.

He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, chest heaving, the water rushing over him like a quiet accusation.

Craig had been inside him just hours ago. And now he was here, trembling from the aftershocks of a fantasy that should have never taken root in the first place.

Was this a betrayal?

The question echoed, gnawed at him.

Dreams were uncontrollable, sure. But his thoughts? His choices?

Those were supposed to be his.

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