Page 76 of Mutual Desire

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Nabokov’s tall figure slipped inside. Damien’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

Their eyes met for a moment—then Damien looked away.

“Please,” he whispered, voice fragile. “Get out.”

Nabokovheaded toward a sink a few feet away. “I just came to clean up,” he replied, his tone maddeningly calm.

Damien turned his head away, trying to drown out the sound of running water and the quiet rustle of paper towels. Every second in the billionaire’s presence gnawed at him, threatening to undo what little composure he had left.

When the sound stopped, Nabokov moved closer, standing only a foot away. His gaze rested on Damien, unwavering.

“Can I drop you off?” Nabokov asked quietly.

Damien slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Can one of my men take you home?” Nabokov persisted, his voice soft but insistent.

“No,” Damien repeated, more forcefully this time.

Nabokov closed the distance between them, slipping between Damien’s legs. The space between them shrank to nothing, and Damien felt his breath hitch in his throat.

“Let me call you a cab,” Nabokov murmured, his voice brushing against Damien’s skin like a dangerous caress.

Damien pressed both hands to Nabokov’s chest, trying to push him away, but there was no strength behind the gesture. Nabokov wasn’t just standing before him—he was looming, suffocating.

“No. I just want you to leave,” Damien whispered, avoiding Nabokov’s gaze.

A hand, gentle and deliberate, touched Damien’s cheek, making him flinch.“Why?” Nabokov asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Damien’s eyes finally met his, wide and full of anguish. Tears clung to his lashes, trembling on the brink of falling.

“Is that really a question?” Damien whispered, voice cracking.

Nabokov leaned closer, his breath warm on Damien’s damp skin. “Yes,” he murmured. “You already know how this will end. So why resist?”

Damien’s chest heaved as he fought against the urge to collapse completely. He hated the pull Nabokov had on him—hated how his body betrayed him.

“Oh? And how is this going to end?” Damien whispered, desperation laced through his words.

Nabokov’s mouth hovered close to Damien’s ear, the words falling like a promise. “Me inside you and you coming for me.”

Damien’s cock stirred in response, and shame burned through him. He hated the desire—hated that it was still there, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“You say this with so much confidence,” Damien hissed, his voice shaking with rage. “As if you’ve ever fucked a man before. As if you were even attracted to them.” He pressed harder against Nabokov’s chest, his anger spilling out. “It’s not attraction—it’s just adrenaline. A thrill from chasing what you think you can’t have.”

Nabokov smiled—just a flicker of amusement—and slipped his arms around Damien’s waist. Damien turned his head away, trying to block out the intimacy, but Nabokov’s lips found his cheek, trailing kisses along his skin.

“So, you think I won’t get hard for you?” Nabokov whispered against Damien’s ear, his voice like silk. “Since I met you, every time I’ve jerked off, it’s been you I thought of. I haven’t touched anyone else, because my dick—” his breath hitched ever so slightly, “only wants you.”

Damien squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling freely as Nabokov’s words unraveled him. His body betrayed him, shivering under Nabokov’s touch, craving something he knew would only destroy him.His shame was blistering, but his body—his treacherous body—arched into the touch, into the voice, the presence. He wanted to disappear and be devoured all at once.

“When I take you, Damien…”Nabokov’s mouth ghosted over his cheek, his breath searing. “You won’t forget it. Not even with alcohol. You’ll remember every second—every inch of me inside you. The only thing you’ll forget…” His hand slid lower, not quite touching but close enough to burn. “…is your own name.”

A beat. A breath. And then, voice thick with hunger, “I can almost feel how tight you’re going to be around my cock. And I can almost see my cum leaking out of that tight, fucked hole.”

Damien let out a choked noise—part gasp, part sob. His entire body was on fire, his sanity fraying. He was going to break.

He jerked his head up, his gaze meeting Nabokov’s as their lips pressed together. His eyes filled with tears, ready to spill over. Nabokov’s words tore him apart, leaving nothing but raw nerves and broken pieces in their wake. He hated his own body for reacting to Nabokov’s promises—promises that stirred a fire inside him that no amount of shame could extinguish.

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