Page 77 of Mutual Desire

“So…you won’t stop until you get what you want?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

Nabokov’s answer was a soft, consuming kiss.“No. I won’t stop until I have you.”

Tears began slipping down Damien’s face. He lowered his head, gently pushing Nabokov’s chest as he slid off the counter. Nabokov let him go. Damien took a few steps away, his back to Nabokov, trembling. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, struggling to breathe around the ache in his throat. He could feel the weight of defeat settling over him.

“You know,” he began, voice unsteady, “whenever I lashed out, whenever I insulted you…it wasn’t you I was angry with. It was me. I’m the one to blame, the piece of garbage, the piece of shit in this whole mess. I hate myself for how much I want you. I hate that I’m too damn fucking weak to silence this…this obsession. I should be strong enough to walk away, to protect the man who’s been nothing but good to me. The man I love.”

His words fell into the silence, heavy with finality. Damien swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the floor. The fight had drained from him. He knew he’d lost. Even after admitting it all out loud, there was no relief, no redemption—only emptiness. He turned back to Nabokov, his eyes pleading as he took a few slow steps forward.

“So, since I can’t resist… I’m asking you, Alexander. Man to man. I’m begging you—drop this. Walk away.” His voice broke. “Forget whatever challenge this is for you. Craig doesn’t deserve any of this. He loves me…and I love him, too.”

And then, as though his heart gave out beneath the weight, Damien fell to his knees. Tears streaked his face as he looked up at Nabokov, raw and defeated.

He buried his face in his hands, the tears coming harder now.

“I can’t do this,” Damien whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I can’t fight you anymore.”

He felt Nabokov’s presence loom above him, but he didn’t move.

“I’m on my knees, begging you. I don’t want to hurt him anymore. He’s the last person who deserves this. Please… I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work for you, for free, all summer. I’ll take on any project, make you more money than you can imagine. Just…leave us alone.”

Their eyes met, and while Nabokov’s expression remained as impassive as ever, there was something flickering beneath the surface—a glint of raw vulnerability, fragile and unguarded. It was something Damien had never seen before, something almost haunting in its unexpected openness.

“Please,” Damien begged, his voice a desperate rasp. “Please… just let me go. Craig is a good man. He doesn’t deserve this. If you have any decency left—if there’s any part of you that’s human—please stop.”

“Damien.” Nabokov’s voice cut through the air, calm yet commanding.

Damien looked up, their eyes locking. He could feel Nabokov’s intense gaze on him, an emotion flickering across his face that Damien couldn’t quite place. Nabokov took a few steps closer, closing the distance between them, his features softened, though unreadable.

“Okay, that’s enough. I got it,” Nabokov said finally.

Damien couldn’t bring himself to look away. He knew how pathetic he must look, kneeling there, broken. He hadn’t planned to crumble like this, but his heart had betrayed him.

Nabokov extended a hand, his expression still indecipherable—some strange mixture of pride, resignation, and something else Damien couldn’t place.

“Get up,” Nabokov said, his voice gentler than Damien had ever heard it.

Damien hesitated before accepting the hand held out to him. He rose, leaning on Nabokov for support, their gazes locked.

“All right,” Nabokov murmured. “I’ll stop.”

“You’re lying,” Damien replied instinctively, the words slipping out before he could stop them.He didn’t know why he doubted him—maybe just force of habit.

“No,” Nabokov replied quietly. “I promise you. I’ll stop.”

He reached up, wiping the tear stains from Damien’s cheeks, his eyes searching Damien’s face. “I never wanted to hurt you. All I ever wanted was to make you feel good. I’ll stop now—I swear.”

The sincerity in his voice resonated with Damien, enough that he managed a faint nod, a small sign that he believed him.

“Kiss me…one last time,” Nabokov whispered, his hand resting gently on Damien’s cheek.

Damien stepped forward slowly, tears clinging to his lashes as if each one carried a secret he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. He reached up—hesitant, trembling—and cupped Nabokov’s face. His thumb brushed along the man’s cheekbone, a silent goodbye carved into skin.

Then, gently, he leaned in. Their lips met, soft at first—just the ghost of a kiss, too tender to be real. It was a question. A wound. A memory in the making.

The kiss was bittersweet, a mixture of passion and sorrow. Their mouths met, searching each other with an intensity born from knowing it would be their last. Their mouths crashed together, lips parting instantly, tongues tangling like they'd waited a lifetime for this exact moment. It wasn’t sweet—it was feral. Damien bit Nabokov’s bottom lip, tugged it, devoured it. Nabokov groaned, deep and broken, as if the sound had clawed its way from somewhere buried. Damien’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, needing more—needing everything. Their tongues slid together in perfect sync, tasting, claiming, memorizing.

Nabokov spun them around, pressing Damien against the wall, one hand cupping his jaw, the other already traveling downward, gripping Damien’s waist with an ache that felt almost reverent. Damien gasped, moaned, hips arching toward him instinctively, like his body knew this man, trusted this man, even if nothing else made sense.

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