Page 59 of Mutual Desire

A low, involuntary sound escaped Damien’s throat—a mix of frustration and yearning—and it seemed to spur Nabokov further. The billionaire’s hand slid down Damien’s neck, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his ear, sending sparks down Damien’s spine. His other hand settled firmly on Damien’s waist, fingers pressing just hard enough to ground him in the moment, as if to saystay with me.

Damien’s heart pounded erratically, a traitor against his better judgment. He knew he should stop—pull away, now, before it’s too late—but Nabokov’s mouth was a tether, binding him to the here and now, making it impossible to think beyond the next breath, the next brush of lips.

Nabokov angled his head, coaxing Damien’s mouth open with a slow, sensual tease of his tongue. The kiss deepened with a heady urgency, their tongues tangling as if they recognized each other by taste alone. Damien gripped the front of Nabokov’s shirt—not to push him away, but to pull him closer, fingers curling into the soft, expensive fabric.

Nabokov’s cologne enveloped Damien, intoxicating him, making it difficult to tell where the man ended and his own desires began. His pulse thrummed wildly in his throat, and every nerve in his body responded to the way Nabokov kissed him: slow, deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. As if Damien belonged to him and always would.

Nabokov’s hand slipped lower, settling on Damien’s hip and pulling him closer with a possessive ease that made Damien’s stomach tighten. The pressure of Nabokov’s palm against his side sent a jolt of heat through him, and before he could think better of it, Damien’s hands roamed upward, sliding across Nabokov’s broad shoulders. His fingers trailed along the smooth planes beneath Nabokov’s finely tailored shirt, mapping the strength hidden there.

“Damien…” Nabokov whispered against his mouth, the sound barely audible, yet it vibrated through Damien as if it were a command.

Damien broke the kiss briefly, gasping for air, their foreheads pressing together as they both tried to catch their breath. His fingers remained fisted in Nabokov’s shirt, unwilling to let go even as his mind screamed at him to put distance between them. But the moment he saw the look in Nabokov’s eyes—those stormy, unguarded eyes—Damien knew he was lost.

The hunger between them hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown sharper, more urgent. Nabokov’s lips hovered a breath away, close enough for Damien to feel the heat radiating from them, but far enough to make him ache with want.

“Damien,” Nabokov whispered again, his voice a dark, velvety caress.

And just like that, Damien gave in.

As Damien shifted, his knees pressing into the cushions, his MacBook—his latest, ridiculously expensive MacBook—slipped from his lap. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but neither of them flinched. Neither of them cared. Nabokov’s hands were there instantly, guiding him, steadying him as Damien straddled him, his legs settling on either side of Nabokov’s hips.

Nabokov exhaled slowly, the breath fanning across Damien’s face like an unspoken promise. His hands slid up Damien’s back, pulling him flush against his chest, until there was no space left between them. Damien could feel the steady thrum of Nabokov’s heartbeat beneath his palm, matching the wild rhythm of his own.

The kiss resumed with a fiery intensity, their mouths colliding with reckless abandon. Damien arched into Nabokov’s touch as the man’s hands roamed freely now—up his back, across his sides, claiming every inch of him as if Damien were something precious to be possessed.

Heat pooled low in Damien’s stomach and groin, coiling tightly with every glide of Nabokov’s tongue against his. He groaned softly into the kiss, his hips shifting involuntarily against Nabokov’s—where their erections pressed together through too many layers of fabric, sparking an unbearable friction that made his pulse race. Nabokov’s hands tightened on Damien’s waist, grounding him and encouraging him all at once, as if sayingI have you—don't hold back. Damien responded without thinking, rolling his hips forward again, chasing that intoxicating friction, and earning a low, approving hum from Nabokov that sent shivers down Damien’s spine.

The fireplace crackled beside them, but the heat between their bodies burned hotter, threatening to consume them whole. Damien was vaguely aware that this was dangerous—that crossing this line was something he could never come back from—but in that moment, with Nabokov’s hands and mouth on him, none of it seemed to matter.

This wasn’t just a kiss. It was surrender. And as much as Damien hated himself for it, he knew he didn’t want it to stop.

NINETEEN

Unspoken Truths

The tension was electric, vibrating in the air between them like a storm building to its inevitable climax. Damien’s arousal, hard and undeniable, strained against the fabric of his jeans, ignored but ever-present, a constant reminder of his spiraling desires. Nabokov’s lips—deliberate and skilled—moved against his own with a confidence that felt practiced yet intimate, making Damien feel both possessed and powerless. The man’s tongue traced patterns in his mouth, demanding submission, and to Damien's horror, he found himself surrendering to every movement.

Nabokov’s hand drifted down Damien’s spine, his fingers skimming over the curve of his back, dangerously close to the edge of his jeans. Damien groaned against Nabokov’s mouth, both a protest and an invitation, as his knees began to ache from the position. Yet, the discomfort barely registered. His grip on Nabokov’s shirt tightened, as if holding on to the billionaire’s clothes might tether him to some semblance of control—control he was rapidly losing.

The kiss, relentless and deep, finally broke, leaving Damien gasping for air. Nabokov’s lips moved to his neck, a place Damien wished wasn’t so sensitive, so treacherously responsive. As Nabokov’s mouth pressed hotly to his skin, Damien knew he was doomed. His neck was his Achilles’ heel, and Nabokov seemed determined to exploit every weakness. Damien's moans, unguarded and shameless, escaped him in waves, encouraging the Russian's kisses to linger and deepen.

A slow shiver ran down Damien's spine when Nabokov caught his hand mid-air and guided it down, pressing it over the impressive bulge in his pants. Damien’s fingers instinctively flexed against the hard outline beneath the fabric, his mind reeling at the reality of the moment.

“I want to feel your lips here,” Nabokov murmured against Damien's neck, his voice thick with desire.

The words were a match to kindling. Damien’s pulse raced uncontrollably, and a chaotic battle waged inside him—desire against guilt, impulse against reason. But suddenly, clarity slashed through the haze. With a sharp intake of breath, Damien yanked himself back, ripping free from Nabokov’s touch as if the man's skin burned.Nabokov rose to his feet with deliberate ease.

For a moment, the two men stood in charged silence, Damien panting, his expression torn between anger and panic. Nabokov watched him with a gaze that was both unreadable and all-consuming, the weight of it suffocating.

Without a word, Damien stumbled backward, putting space between them, but it did little to extinguish the fire Nabokov had ignited.

Craig. His boyfriend. The man who had stood by him for three years. The thought of Craig, and all Damien stood to lose, slammed into him with brutal force. His hands trembled as he combed through his disheveled hair, as if trying to find a way to physically rearrange the chaos within him.

“Fuck. What the fuck am I even doing? Shit...” Damien muttered, more to himself than to Nabokov.

But before Damien could step away again, Nabokov’s presence closed in like a shadow. The man’s chest pressed against Damien’s back, his arm snaking possessively around Damien’s waist.

“Damien…” Nabokov’s lips brushed his pierced ear, his voice low and dangerously soothing.

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