Page 52 of Mutual Desire

Run now, Damien! His mind screamed.

Nabokov’s gaze locked onto his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. He tilted his head, inching closer, the space between them disappearing with agonizing slowness.

Run, Damien!

But Damien didn’t move. He couldn’t—not with the weight of Nabokov’s presence holding him in place.

And then, finally, Nabokov’s lips brushed against Damien’s—soft and purposeful, yet electric enough to send a jolt of heat through his entire body.

Run, Damien...

But instead of running, Damien closed his eyes and kissed him back.

SIXTEEN

Fulfilling the Wish

As soon as Nabokov’s lips brushed against his, Damien’s eyes closed instinctively, as if this was the most natural thing to do. The Russian’s lips were unexpectedly soft, almost disarming. What began as a tentative touch deepened into a languid kiss, Nabokov’s tongue demanding entry. To Damien’s shock, he parted his lips, allowing the wealthy man in without hesitation. Their tongues intertwined slowly, tasting, exploring, as though they were charting new, uncharted territory together.

For a fleeting moment, Damien felt alive—more alive than he had in years. Time unraveled, and the world outside ceased to exist. It was just him and Nabokov, suspended in this intimate exchange that felt surreal. His brain shut down completely, as though the kiss transported him into another realm where consequences didn’t matter.

When Nabokov finally pulled back, his thumb still caressed Damien’s flushed cheek, leaving behind a searing warmth. His gray eyes were unreadable, distant, as if analyzing something only he understood.

“It’s different,” Nabokov murmured, his voice thoughtful.

“Of course it’s different,” Damien replied, his tone sharper than intended, though he had no idea what Nabokov was referring to. He hated the vulnerability creeping in and fought against it by leaning into sarcasm.

Nabokov's gaze softened, and his thumb brushed against Damien’s lower lip. Damien felt his heart stumble under the weight of that gaze, and for a moment, his thoughts splintered. This was wrong—every bit of this was wrong. Yet here he stood, paralyzed, as if rooted by an unseen force.

Nabokov had just kissed him. Another man. His best friend's boss. And worse—he kissed him back. Damien’s mind whirled, trying to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. This wasn’t something he could write off as a meaningless slip. He had let it happen. Worse, he hadn’t wanted it to stop.

Before Damien could regain control, Nabokov leaned in again, his lips finding Damien’s with maddening ease. A soft moan slipped from Damien’s throat before he could swallow it down. The kiss was shorter this time but no less incendiary, and it sent a bolt of desire straight to Damien’s core.

“That’s enough, Alexander,” Damien whispered hoarsely when their lips finally parted, though he made no effort to move away.

“Enough?” Nabokov echoed, his tone velvety and amused. “Not for me.”

Damien’s heart raced, his breath shallow. This was spiraling out of control—far beyond what he could rationalize or excuse. He should have walked away after the first kiss, slapped Nabokov or told him off. But instead, here he was, rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with every heated second.

“I don’t think I’ve had enough of your lips just yet,” Nabokov whispered, his thumb tracing Damien’s mouth with maddening precision.

Damien snapped, his voice bitter and shaky. “It’s my mouth.”

The second the words left his lips, embarrassment and regret flooded in. That was the best he could come up with? A pitiful declaration of ownership, when what he really needed was to shove Nabokov away and leave? His heart churned with guilt—Craig would be devastated if he knew what had just happened. And yet, Nabokov's proximity clouded Damien’s mind, twisting logic into knots.

The Russian man smirked knowingly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. “It’s my wish,” Nabokov reminded him softly, as though the kisses were nothing more than the spoils of their game.

“If I knew what your wish was going to be, I’d never have agreed,” Damien muttered, glaring at Nabokov.

A playful smile tugged at Nabokov’s lips. “And yet here you are.”

Damien clenched his jaw. “I really don’t give a fuck if you don’t believe me.”

“Funny.” Nabokov’s grin widened. “Kissing you, I wouldn’t have guessed you had such a sharp tongue.”

The words struck Damien like a taunt, fueling the fire of his confusion and self-loathing. To Nabokov, this was just a game—a teasing challenge. But to Damien, it was something far more dangerous.

“I’m leaving,” Damien muttered, shifting forward in an attempt to escape.

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