Page 49 of Mutual Desire

Damien tried to focus, but every time Nabokov’s eyes met his, his heartbeat quickened. He needed to regain control—of himself, of this strange pull between them.

“Would you like a drink?”Nabokov’s voice echoed softly across the room, jolting Damien out of his thoughts. His pulse quickened, and he looked toward the Russian man, who was already by the bar, casually holding a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac, the crystal decanter glinting under the dim office lights.

“Uh… yeah, why not? Thanks,” Damien answered, though the words felt clumsy on his tongue. He turned his attention toward the bookshelf again, running his fingers along the spines of unfamiliar titles. He flipped a book open, pretending to read, though his thoughts refused to stay focused on the page.

The sound of Nabokov’s approaching footsteps made Damien’s breath hitch. He forced himself to place the book back on the shelf and face the Russian head-on. Nabokov stood inches away, holding two glasses, each half-filled with amber liquid.

Damien accepted his drink, murmuring a thank you. They both took a sip in silence, neither willing to look away from the other. Their proximity was charged—every breath they shared seemed heavy with unspoken meaning. Damien’s heart raced uncomfortably, but the subtle allure of Nabokov’s cologne intoxicated him, drawing him further into this unsettling closeness. Their gazes locked, as if engaged in a silent game neither was ready to lose. Damien knew he couldn’t hold out for long; his eyes would inevitably find the floor.

Luckily, Nabokov broke the tension first.“How long have you known Nicolas?”

The unexpected question caught Damien off-guard, and he blinked, taking a moment to gather himself. He envied how effortlessly Nabokov steered conversations, always one step ahead while Damien struggled to keep up.

“Since… middle school,” Damien finally answered, his voice a little hoarse.

Nabokov took another slow sip of his drink, his sharp eyes never leaving Damien’s face.“That’s impressive,” Nabokov remarked with genuine ease, as though they were discussing the weather.

Damien gave a weak, nervous laugh. “Yeah, I’ve known him for far too long, unfortunately.” He tried to lighten the conversation, but it fell flat, leaving awkwardness lingering between them.

“But if you hadn’t stayed in touch with him,” Nabokov said softly, “I probably never would’ve met you.”

The weight of those words pressed down on Damien, confusing him. He opened his mouth before he could stop himself. “And is…is that a bad thing?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so cold. The sharpness in his voice surprised even him, and regret settled in immediately. For once, Nabokov hadn’t deserved the bite. But instead of irritation, Nabokov’s eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous—amusement.

And that was when Damien realized something unsettling: Nabokov enjoyed it.

The Russian took pleasure in Damien’s sharp retorts and insolent demeanor. That glimmer in his eye wasn’t annoyance—it was satisfaction, as if Damien’s resistance fed into some deeper part of him. But before Damien could fully process this realization, Nabokov leaned in slightly, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You’re right,” Nabokov murmured. “Not meeting you would’ve saved me from… conflicting feelings.”

The words hit Damien like a punch, knocking the air out of his lungs. Conflicting feelings? His mind scrambled to make sense of what Nabokov meant, but no explanation came. The statement felt like a trap—a riddle with no solution—and the subtle ache it left in Damien's chest was worse than he cared to admit.

Nabokov gently took the glass from Damien’s hand, setting both drinks aside with the same precision he brought to every movement. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Damien tried to mask the tension swirling between them. “So… uh, what’s that thing you mentioned? The thing that’s more exciting than dessert?”

Nabokov’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile as he reached for a cue stick. He twirled it between his fingers with practiced ease, his movements unhurried.

“Do you play pool, Damien?” Nabokov asked, the question casual, but the look in his eyes anything but.

Damien arched a brow. “What?”

“Pool,” Nabokov repeated, gesturing toward the sleek pool table in the corner of the room. “One game. Seven rounds. Winner gets a wish.”

Suspicion flickered across Damien’s face. “A wish?”

Nabokov’s smile deepened, just enough to make Damien’s stomach twist in anticipation. “One request. No limits.”

Damien knew he should walk away—end this bizarre exchange before it spiraled further into dangerous territory. But instead, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, driven by equal parts frustration and curiosity.

“Fine,” Damien said, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt. “But don’t cry when I win.”

Nabokov chuckled, the sound low and velvety, sending an involuntary shiver down Damien’s spine. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They moved toward the pool table, the tension coiling tighter with every step. Damien knew this wasn’t just a game—nothing with Nabokov ever was. And he had the unsettling sense that losing would come with consequences he wasn’t ready to face. But the thrill, the undeniable thrill, was impossible to resist.

They took their positions at opposite ends of the table, with the crackling fireplace behind them casting warm light over the polished surface. Damien chalked his cue, stealing a glance at Nabokov, whose eyes remained fixed on him.

“Shall we begin?” Nabokov asked smoothly, his voice dripping with quiet confidence.

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