Page 42 of Mutual Desire

Damien’s stomach flipped, though he refused to break eye contact. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nabokov’s smirk widened. “Every time we meet, you stare at me like you’re trying to figure me out. Why is that?”

Because I need to believe you’re homophobic, Damien thought bitterly.If you’re not—if this tension between us is real—then what the hell does that make me? Damien stayed silent, not daring to admit the truth—to himself, let alone Nabokov. He held Nabokov’s gaze, his breath hitching. There was no safety in the truth. The only way to resist Nabokov was to convince himself there was nothing real between them.

“How much do I owe you?” Damien demanded again, sharper this time, clinging to the transactional nature of the conversation like a lifeline.

Nabokov paused, his expression unreadable again. “Consider it a gift.”

Damien gritted his teeth and shook his head, unwilling to let it slide. “I don’t want any gifts from you.”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened. “Since you insist…have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Damien blinked, stunned. Of course. Another twist in this maddening game. The words hit it like a punch. He couldn’t help but laugh nervously. “What?”

“Dinner,” Nabokov repeated smoothly. “Tomorrow night.”

There was no hesitation or doubt in his tone. Damien stared at him, trying to process the unexpected proposition, while a thousand thoughts scrambled through his head.

What the hell was this man’s game? One moment, Nabokov seemed homophobic, judging Damien for his relationship with Craig, and the next, he was asking him out to dinner. Damien couldn’t wrap his head around it. The tension between them was undeniable, and now this strange offer was adding a new layer to the confusing dynamic.

“Why?” Damien blurted out before he could stop himself. His voice carried a mix of incredulity and wariness.What the hell are you playing at?

Nabokov’s lips curled into a slight smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. “Why not?” Nabokov’s reply was smooth, effortless—as if his invitation wasn’t the most confusing thing in the world. He stepped closer to Damien, his gaze never wavering.

Damien’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the heat rising to his face as Nabokov’s presence loomed over him, making it hard to think straight. Everything about this man unsettled him, made him question what was real and what wasn’t. The man was a walking contradiction. Disgust one moment, an invitation the next.

“This... this is just weird,” Damien muttered, trying to regain control of the situation. “I don’t even know you.”

Nabokov raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “But I think you’d like to,” he said softly, his words wrapping around Damien like a challenge.

Damien clenched his jaw, the conflicting emotions surging inside him. He wanted to push Nabokov away, to reject his offer, yet a part of him—a darker, more curious part—was tempted. He hated the way this man seemed to effortlessly get under his skin, making him feel things he didn’t want to feel.

“How is eating with you considered paying you?” Damien asked dryly.

“Being in your company. That's the value,” Nabokov replied soothingly, his expression remaining nonetheless impassive.

Damien's hardened features relaxed instantly. His proud and haughty look abandoned him.

“I already have plans,” Damien said, his voice firm. He needed to shut this down, to distance himself from whatever this was.

“Alright then. When you're done, come by my office. I'll wait for you.”

Nabokov's answer did not surprise Damien. Nabokov gave the impression that when he wanted something, he undertook absolutely everything to obtain it. There weren't any nos with him, nor maybes.

“It…it might take the whole night and—”

“Even better, I'll have more time to get some paperwork done,” Nabokov reassured Damien.

Damien didn't know what to say. He had the feeling of being a newbie lawyer arguing in court against a senior fellow with over twenty years of experience under their belt. He was clearly not of the same caliber as Nabokov. No doubt the man was a cold-hearted, ruthless businessman.

“I…”

Damien’s mind raced, caught between the thrill of attraction and the fear of misinterpretation. A part of him wanted to resist, to remind himself of Craig and the life he’d built. But another part, the part that thrummed with desire and curiosity, whispered for him to say yes.

“Alright, fine,” he relented, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nabokov’s smile widened, a glimmer of triumph dancing in his eyes. “Text me at least an hour before, so I have time to make sure everything is set.”

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