Page 46 of Mutual Desire

“You do,” Nabokov cut in smoothly, his voice calm yet certain. “And you hate that you do.”

The air between them thickened, and Damien’s heart pounded so loudly it felt as though the sound would betray him. He downed another sip of wine, trying to mask his discomfort.

“You’re delusional,” Damien said quietly, but the words lacked conviction.

Nabokov leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening as if he had already won whatever game they were playing. “You can tell yourself that as many times as you want, Damien.” He paused for effect. “It won’t change the truth.”

Damien’s chest tightened, and the lingering question—What is the truth?—hovered unspoken in the air between them. He hated this. Hated how Nabokov unraveled him piece by piece with just a few words, leaving him exposed in ways no one else had managed before.

“You’re toying with me,” Damien said finally, his voice low, an attempt to make sense of the swirling confusion within him. “And for what? Am I just… a distraction?”

Nabokov’s expression shifted slightly, something almost like irritation flickering in his eyes. “Is that what you think this is?” he asked, his tone sharp, cutting through the tension. “That I’m bored and you’re here to amuse me?”

Damien held his gaze, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “Isn’t it?”

A brief silence settled between them, the weight of it almost suffocating. Then, Nabokov leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying an undeniable intensity. “You’re not a game to me, Damien.”

The words struck Damien with a force he hadn’t expected. He wanted to believe him—god, he wanted to—but there was that nagging voice in his head, reminding him that this was a man who could say whatever he wanted to get his way.

“Then what am I?” Damien asked, his voice coming out more vulnerable than he’d intended.

Nabokov’s gaze softened, his hand reaching across the table, resting inches from Damien’s. “I don’t know yet,” he said quietly. “But I’d like to find out.”

Damien’s breath caught, his heart racing. He could feel the sincerity in Nabokov’s words, feel the unguarded honesty that seemed to slip through the cracks in the man’s usual controlled demeanor. But just as he felt himself softening, letting that warmth seep into him, he reminded himself of his reality—his boyfriend, his life outside of this strange, magnetic connection.

With a shaky breath, Damien pulled his hand back, forcing a small smile. “I… I don’t know what you want from me, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes darkened, a flicker of frustration passing over his face. “Maybe,” he said, his voice low, “I want to make you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time... the way you make me feel something I haven't felt in a long time.”

Damien’s pulse quickened, the truth of those words piercing through his defenses. He refused to give in. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let Nabokov see how deeply his words had hit him. The man seemed to know exactly where to press to unearth parts of him he’d buried long ago. But Damien wasn’t about to let himself unravel—not here, not now.

“Whatever you think I’m missing,” Damien said carefully, his voice a bit steadier than he felt, “you’re wrong. I’m not looking for… whatever this is.” He waved his hand dismissively, though it felt hollow even to him.

Nabokov studied him, his gaze unyielding. “You might not be looking for it,” he replied, his tone as smooth as velvet, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”

Damien’s stomach tightened. He hated how Nabokov could turn his walls to dust with a single look, a single phrase. It was as if the man could see right through him, past all his careful denials and deflections. Damien had spent years building a life that was safe, secure—and this… whatever this thing with Nabokov was, threatened to tear it apart.

“You know nothing about what I need,” Damien replied, his voice sharper than he intended.

Nabokov’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that seemed to hold both understanding and amusement.“Maybe not yet,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But I know there’s something here, something you can’t ignore.”

Damien’s heart pounded. He wanted to push Nabokov away, to tell him he was wrong.He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The words wouldn’t come. He searched for them, but they were lost somewhere in the rapid thrum of his pulse, in the undeniable pull that Nabokov had on him.Damien pushed his plate aside, suddenly losing his appetite. “This is pointless,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

“You’ve already lost,” Nabokov said softly, not even bothering to look up.

Damien froze mid-step, heat rushing to his face. “Lost what?”

Nabokov finally met Damien’s gaze again, his eyes glimmering with quiet triumph. “Your resistance.”

The words hit Damien like a blow, and his pulse quickened, but he refused to let Nabokov see the effect they had on him.He scoffed. “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, Alexander, but I’m not a cheater. I would never cheat on Craig,”Damien spat.

His voice lacked its usual conviction, cracking just slightly, betraying the thin veneer of confidence he was desperately trying to hold onto. His eyes flicked down to Nabokov’s lips, before snapping away, an involuntary spark of desire coursing through him. He shifted as if to leave but his feet refused to move, as if the simple act of walking away felt heavier than the entire conversation.

Nabokov’s gaze never wavered, as though he could see right through him. “Are you sure about that?”

Damien's breath caught in his throat, the question hanging between them like an invisible thread drawing them closer. He wanted to leave, to escape, but his body felt rooted in place. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight of Nabokov’s presence, the power in his stillness, in the quiet way he controlled everything around him.

Damien swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure. “I don’t know what sort of power you think you have but you’re not going to break me, Alexander.”

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