Page 64 of Mutual Desire

But just as his hand hovered over the latch, Nabokov’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Did you tell him?”

The question froze Damien in place, his pulse accelerating. Shame washed over him, burning hot in his chest. The images of threenights ago resurfaced—Nabokov’s lips on his, the billionaire’s hand stroking him to release. The memory clung to him like a parasite.

“Tell him what?” Damien asked bitterly, turning back toward Nabokov.

He knew Nabokov had seen through the weak attempt at ignorance. Still, a part of Damien craved to hear Nabokov speak aloud about the transgression they had committed, as if the words would punish him in a way the memory alone couldn’t.

“You know what.” Nabokov’s voice was cool, composed. “Did you tell him what happened last time?”

Damien’s throat constricted, and his lips pressed into a hard line. No. Of course, he hadn’t told Craig. How could he? And yet, the question gnawed at him—why did Nabokov care? What was he hoping to gain?

“Why do you want to know?” Damien shot back sharply, frustration bubbling under the surface.

But Nabokov didn’t answer. He brushed the question aside, as if it were a trivial matter.“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” Nabokov stated, not as a question, but as a fact.

Damien glared, anger simmering beneath his skin.Not this time, Alexander. He wouldn’t let the Russian steer this conversation.

“Are you planning to tell him?” Nabokov pressed.

The question snapped something in Damien. Without thinking, he leaned forward, his words coming out like a growl.

“That’s none of your fucking business!”

His voice echoed in the quiet car, vibrating with barely contained rage. A tense silence followed, the kind that felt heavy, pressing down on Damien’s chest. He forced himself to take slow breaths, calming the storm inside him.

Nabokov didn’t flinch. He held Damien’s gaze with an almost clinical detachment, as if observing a fascinating creature under a microscope. Then, with infuriating nonchalance, Nabokov pulled his phone from his pocket, his attention shifting to the screen.

“You’re not going to tell him anything,” Nabokov murmured, his tone casual yet authoritative. “You’ll keep it secret.”

Damien’s anger surged again.“You don’t know anything about me, or my relationship with Craig! Don’t fucking tell me what I will or won’t do!” Damien snapped, his voice rough with fury.

Nabokov raised an eyebrow, studying Damien with the detached curiosity of someone examining a puzzle.“I don’t understand why you’d want to keep it secret,” Nabokov said, his tone even, as if he were discussing the weather.

Damien forced a fake smile onto his face. “That’s my problem, not yours,” he said sarcastically. But the grin vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a grim realization—he had just confirmed to Nabokov that he hadn’t confessed to Craig.

“Is it because you know he wouldn’t forgive you?” Nabokov asked smoothly.

Damien gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? If I told him?”

“Yes,” Nabokov admitted without hesitation. “He’d leave you. And then I could finally have you.”

The honesty in Nabokov’s words stunned Damien, leaving him momentarily speechless. A hollow laugh escaped his lips, though the situation was anything but amusing.

“You really are human garbage, Alexander,” Damien whispered, staring at Nabokov as if offering a twisted compliment.

“And you’re attracted to that garbage,” Nabokov replied smoothly, his voice cutting like a blade. “So, what does that say about you?”

The words landed with the force of a punch. Damien opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Nabokov watched him, waiting, his gaze sharp and relentless. Silence stretched between them, thick with tension.

At last, Damien forced a grin—a lifeless thing that didn’t reach his eyes.“I may have made mistakes,” Damien murmured, “but at least I’m not stupid enough to throw away a man like Craig.”

Nabokov shrugged, shifting slightly closer until their thighs touched.“I don’t doubt Craig is a good man. If he weren’t, I would’ve had you in my bed a long time ago.”

Damien let out a thin, humorless laugh, the sound tinged with bitterness. He met Nabokov’s gaze, unflinching.“So, this is what it’s all about?” Damien asked, his voice laced with sadness. “Just getting me in your bed?”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew he should have expected nothing more from Nabokov, yet the sting of disappointment lingered.

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