Page 50 of Mutual Desire

Damien returned the gaze, a flicker of provocation sparking in his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Nabokov’s faint grin deepened, and Damien felt it like a current running down his spine.“After you, Damien,” Nabokov said softly, gesturing toward the table.

The first round went overwhelmingly in Damien’s favor. He hadn’t expected to win so decisively, but the points stacked up effortlessly. His nerves settled somewhat, and his confidence grew with each successful shot. By the end of the second round—also his victory—Damien was more relaxed than he’d been all evening.

The atmosphere shifted. They teased each other about their misses, laughed about strategies, and for the first time, Damien felt at ease in Nabokov’s presence. Their interactions became playful; Damien even gave Nabokov light taps on his thigh with his cue stick whenever the Russian tried to distract him. It felt natural—comfortable, even—like they’d known each other for years.

But when the third round ended in Damien’s favor once again, Nabokov’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, it sharpened with quiet intent.

“Wow. You really suck at this,” Damien said, grinning broadly.

Nabokov arched a brow, stepping closer. “Or maybe you’re just too good,” he countered, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“That’s what losers say,” Damien quipped, leaning casually against the edge of the table.

Nabokov stopped just inches away, his presence overwhelming. “I compliment you, and you go and insult me,” he said with mock offense.

Damien rested his chin on the end of his cue, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Truth hurts. If I were you, I’d put this table on eBay. It’s just taking unnecessary space and rotting here anyway.”

Nabokov chuckled, a warm sound that sent heat curling through Damien’s chest. “Harsh.”

“I don’t think a fourth round is necessary,” Damien added smugly.

But Nabokov leaned in, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Let’s play one more,” he murmured.

Damien arched a brow, tapping the cue stick against the floor. “Same rules as before?” he asked, though his heart raced with anticipation.

Nabokov’s grin deepened. “Of course. Whoever wins this last round gets a wish.”

Damien exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. He knew Nabokov’s confidence had a dangerous edge—one that made him second-guess how this final game would play out. But there was no turning back now.

“Alright then,” Damien said with a sly grin. “But just so you know, I’ve been saving my best shots for last.”

Nabokov chuckled softly, stepping closer until their shoulders almost brushed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Damien swallowed hard, doing his best to keep his composure. There was no denying it now—this wasn’t just a game. And whatever was coming next would change the course of their strange, dangerous connection.

A sly smile tugged at Nabokov’s lips. “What do you want if you win?”

Damien tilted his head, pretending to think deeply, as he took a few steps away from his opponent. He wanted to push Nabokov's buttons, to say something eccentric and ridiculous—something that would make the Russian man regret proposing the game in the first place.“How about an island?” Damien teased with a mischievous grin.

Nabokov’s expression didn’t change. If the idea amused or fazed him, he gave no indication. Instead, he gave a small, thoughtful nod. “I can arrange that. Where exactly?”

Damien raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Antarctica,” he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s where the best islands are, right?”

Nabokov’s gaze sharpened as a quiet smile spread across his face. He stepped toward Damien, slow and deliberate, his gray eyes glinting with playful malice.

“You enjoy being impertinent with me, don’t you, Damien?” Nabokov’s voice was a low, seductive whisper. Damien’s pulse quickened as the Russian closed the distance between them. The air felt heavier with each step Nabokov took, but Damien didn’t flinch. He leaned casually on his cue stick, forcing his body to maintain a calm facade despite the nervous energy curling in his gut.

“Yes,” Damien admitted with more confidence than he felt. “And you like it when I am.”He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

Nabokov’s eyes warmed, his smile deepening into something that sent shivers through Damien’s spine.“Yes,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “I like it very much.”

The room fell silent as they locked eyes. Damien tried not to let the intensity in Nabokov's gaze unnerve him, but it was impossible to ignore the weight of the moment. A flicker of something dangerous passed between them—something unspoken, but undeniable.

Nabokov’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I usually punish this kind of cheeky behavior. It’s a shame that I can’t with you.”

A knot tightened in Damien's stomach. He knew the smart thing would be to drop the subject, to brush off the comment with a laugh. Instead, another question slipped out before he could stop himself.

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