Page 33 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov didn’t react, his neutral mask unbroken. The two men gazed at each other in silence, a thick tension hanging in the air. Damien could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. The intensity of Nabokov's stare was unsettling, but there was something in it he couldn’t pinpoint.

He cleared his throat, breaking the spell, and looked down. “Um… you know your way around a car?”

“I have some knowledge, yes.”

“All right, be my guest,” he said, stepping aside to let Nabokov inspect the car.

“I didn’t plan on helping you fixyour car. Contrary to what some people might think, I don’t hang out with spare shirts. I can’t allow myself to get dirty.”

Damien felt like letting out a condescending laugh but held it back. Instead, he opted for sarcasm. “That’s some valuable helpyou just gave me.”

Nabokov remained impassive, as if Damien’s words had no effect on him.“Let me drop you at your place. I’ll send someone to bring your car to the garage. You’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.”

Damien’s haughty smile vanished. This help felt too much, like an unwanted debt hanging over his head. Nabokov was the last man he wanted to owe anything to.

“No, you don’t need to do all this.”

Nabokov’s face twitched, and a cold gleam appeared in his eyes. “Damien, there’s nothing I hate more than when I offer my help and the person declines.”

Damien felt his annoyance bubble up.Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“Get in,” Nabokov ordered, his voice calm but firm.

Damien swallowed hard, his irritation flaring. He expressed his frustration on the hood of the car as he slammed it closed. He looked scornfully at the Russian man, their glares locking.

Despite every rational part of him screaming to refuse, he found himself walking toward the SUV, with Nabokov closely following. As he entered, he told himself it was purely for business, to discuss Nick’s software. But deep down, he knew that there was a more inexplicable reason behind his decision to step into the luxurious SUV.

Damien sat tensely on the leather seat, his eyes glued to the tinted window. Nabokov entered on the other side, and when he closed the door, the car started moving immediately. Karma really has it in for me, he thought. He was unprepared to stay in such a confined space with the last person in the world he wanted to be alone with.

He felt the heat creeping back up his neck, the anxiety mixed with something else he couldn't identify.This is going to be a long ride.

TWELVE

The Cheek

The atmosphere inside the SUV was stifling, heavy with unspoken tension. Though they had just left the underground parking lot, Damien felt as if he had been trapped in this confined space for hours. The plush, leather interior—complete with a minibar and soft, violet-hued lights—did little to soothe the discomfort gnawing at him. A dark privacy partition, opaque and soundproof, separated them from the chauffeur. It gave the unsettling impression that, despite being chauffeured through the city, they were entirely alone.

No prying eyes. No interruptions. Just the two of them, enclosed in an airless bubble where every glance and breath seemed amplified.

Being in such close proximity to those gray eyes was its own form of torture, one Damien was struggling to bear.When Damien had first gotten into the car, he fought the urge to bolt, forcing himself to sit still and regulate his breathing. He turned to the window, focusing on the passing city streets in an effort to calm down, hoping it would give him the illusion of solitude. But nothing—not even the soft strains of classical music playing through the limo’s speakers—could mask the weight of Nabokov’s presence. The last thing he wanted was for Nabokov to hear his heart pounding in his chest. Who would've thought that just sharing a car with another man could make him feel so on edge?

They had been driving for several minutes, and Nabokov hadn't uttered a single word. Damien hadn’t looked his way once, afraid that making eye contact would shatter whatever fragile calm he'd managed to maintain. The silence was deafening, almost unnatural.Why isn't he speaking? His mind raced as he suddenly realized he hadn’t given Nabokov his address—yet the car continued its journey, purposeful and uninterrupted. But where to?

Panic fluttered in his chest. Were they going where they were supposed to? Or was this something else—a sinister twist straight out of a thriller? Scenarios worthy of an action movie flooded his mind. Was he being kidnapped? Sold into trafficking? Or worse? Damien dared to glance in Nabokov’s direction, only to find the Russian man focused on his laptop, fingers gliding over the keyboard, completely absorbed.

“Yes?” Nabokov’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade, startling Damien. He hadn’t even looked up from his screen, but somehow, he had sensed Damien’s stare.

One word, and the oppressive silence was broken. Nabokov's attention remained on his computer, waiting. Damien hesitated, stuck between mentioning Nick’s software or simply giving his address. His mouth felt dry, and no sound came out.

“Is there something you wanted to say?” Nabokov asked, his tone weary, finally lifting his eyes to meet Damien’s. Those gray eyes, sharp and unreadable, made Damien’s pulse race faster.

“My—my address,” Damien stammered, feeling foolishly like a scolded child. He cleared his throat, trying again. “I don’t think I gave you my home address.”

Nabokov arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He tapped the screen briefly before handing it to Damien without looking away from his laptop. “Text it.”

Damien's fingers brushed against Nabokov's briefly as he took the phone, a fleeting contact that sent a jolt through him. He quickly typed out Craig’s address, willing his heart to settle down.Get it together. He offered the phone back, but Nabokov didn’t even bother to look up. “Did you send the message?” Nabokov asked calmly.

Damien clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and hit send. He set the phone back on the seat between them. Still, Nabokov didn’t take it, his attention fully absorbed by the glow of his laptop screen. The sheer indifference infuriated Damien. He should have been grateful for the silence—it allowed him to catch his breath and avoid more awkward conversation. But something about Nabokov's cool disregard gnawed at him.Why the hell do I care if he ignores me?

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