Page 56 of Mutual Desire

What if I don’t come?

Nabokov’s response was immediate.

Then I’ll come to you.

Damien gritted his teeth, typing again:

If you can find me first.

He barely had a moment to feel smug before Nabokov’s next message wiped the smirk from his face.

Don’t worry about that.

Damien’s fingers hesitated over the screen.

What’s that supposed to mean?he sent back.

Two minutes later, Nabokov’s reply came:

That’s for me to know and you to find out. Good night, Damien. See you tomorrow.

Damien tossed the phone onto his bed and dropped his head into his hands. Tomorrow was going to be hell. Between Craig’s anger and Nabokov’s relentless pursuit, Damien didn’t know how he was going to survive it.

He ran a hand through his hair, overwhelmed by the mess he had created. He needed a plan, a way to smooth things over with Craig and somehow navigate his meeting with Nabokov. But the more he thought about it, the more tangled everything became.

He glanced at his phone one last time—no new messages from Craig. His chest tightened with regret. This was all his fault. He never should have let those kisses happen. But they had, and now he was paying the price.

With a sigh, Damien stripped off his clothes and ran a hot bath, sinking into the water in hopes of calming his racing mind. But the moment he closed his eyes, memories of Nabokov’s kiss came flooding back—his lips, his touch, the way his tongue had tasted... Damien groaned in frustration, sinking deeper into the water.

Later, as he lay in bed, phone clutched in his hand, he stared at the ceiling, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come. Not with tomorrow looming over him like a storm.

He typed one last message to Craig, hoping for some kind of resolution before the day ended.

I’m sorry, baby. I’ll explain everything tomorrow. I love you.

But there was no reply. Just silence.

Damien sighed, turning his phone face down on the bedside table. His thoughts drifted, not to Craig, but to Nabokov—and that infuriating smile that haunted his every thought.Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. And yet, he dreaded every second of it.

EIGHTEEN

The Second Try

Nabokov’s receptionist—or his secretary, or maybe just his latest sex friend—clearly belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Long red hair cascaded down her back, complementing eyes as green as emeralds, her appearance carefully curated for maximum effect. Damien didn’t doubt for a second that beneath the office desk, hidden from view, were a pair of perfectly sculpted legs on display under a short leather skirt.

His suspicions were confirmed when she stood up to escort him to the office. Each step caused her black skirt to ride higher on her thighs, a confident sway in her stride that felt more suited to a runway than an office hallway. Damien followed her down the familiar corridor, dreading the destination—Asshole of the Year’s office.

They stopped in front of the same door that had witnessed his walk of shame two days ago. His mind immediately betrayed him, flooding with images of heated kisses.Goddammit. His breath hitched, but he masked it with a blank expression.

The redhead opened the door, then stepped aside, allowing Damien to slip inside before she entered after him, positioning herself near the doorway. To Damien’s surprise, she strode toward the room where he and Nabokov had been playing pool. Reluctantly, Damien followed her.

“Mr. Nabokov will be with you shortly. Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, her tone polite but distant, like she was running on autopilot. “Would you like a drink, coffee, tea?”

Damien fought the urge to respond with sarcasm. Comfortable wasn’t in the cards today.“No, thank you,” he replied with the best fake smile he could muster, turning away from her toward the pool table that had witnessed far too much.

Her bright, commercial smile didn’t waver. “Perfect,” she chirped before closing the door behind her, leaving Damien alone.

He approached the pool table slowly, a strange compulsion guiding him. His fingers brushed over the felt, triggering a rush of memories from two nights before—memories he was desperate to forget. With an irritated sigh, he turned toward the fireplace, seeking distraction.

---