Page 48 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov's lips curled into a subtle smile. “Apart from beauty, no.”

The compliment hit Damien with the force of a sudden breeze—unexpected and leaving him off-balance. He pressed his lips together, unsure whether to laugh or brush it off. They stood close but not touching, the hum of the elevator filling the silence between them. Damien forced himself to focus on the silver doors in front of them, but in the reflection, he could see Nabokov watching him, unblinking.

Damien let out a breath and, in a half-hearted attempt to cut through the tension, muttered, “You really enjoy messing with me, don’t you?”

Nabokov smirked, his voice low and dangerous. “What makes you think that?”

Damien turned toward him, leaning slightly against the elevator wall. “Just a guess.”

Nabokov took a deliberate step closer, closing the small distance between them until Damien felt the electric hum between their bodies. “You think I enjoy making you uncomfortable?”

Damien’s heart pounded, but he didn’t move away. He hated how easily Nabokov’s presence unsettled him, but he couldn’t deny it either. “I think you like having control.”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened, a glint of amusement flickering in his sharp gray eyes. “Is that a problem?”

Damien swallowed. “It is when you’re this good at it.”

Nabokov tilted his head, as if considering Damien’s words. “And yet, you haven’t stopped me.”

Damien knew he should have said something—should have shut this down right here—but the words stayed locked behind his clenched jaw. He stared at Nabokov’s reflection and Damien noticed how effortlessly he held himself—impeccably composed in his white shirt, dark blue tie, and tailored trousers. For a second, Damien could almost believe Nabokov had stepped out of some high-fashion campaign—impossibly refined, yet completely out of place in this moment.

To distract himself from the unsettling thought, Damien shifted a step to the side, creating a slight gap between them. It wasn’t much, but it gave him a fraction of space to breathe.

Nabokov’s gaze flicked toward him in the reflection. “Do I smell?” he asked, the question delivered with dry amusement.

Damien blinked, startled. “What?”

“You keep moving away from me.” Nabokov’s tone was neutral, but his eyes gleamed with teasing intent.

Damien let out an awkward laugh. “No, it’s not that.”

Nabokov arched a brow, his faint smile deepening. “So, I do smell, but that’s not the reason?”

The playful glint in Nabokov’s eyes only made Damien more flustered. “You know damn well how amazingly good you smell,” Damien muttered before he could stop himself. The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Nabokov’s grin widened, his gaze locking onto Damien’s in the mirrored reflection. “Amazingly good?”

Damien groaned internally, pinching the bridge of his nose.What the hell is wrong with me?

“Thank you,” Nabokov said, his voice low and smooth. “I think you smell amazingly good, too.”Damien rolled his eyes, trying to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. But the ease with which Nabokov teased him was unsettling, like the man knew exactly how to dismantle his defenses brick by brick.

The elevator chimed as they reached the floor, breaking the charged silence between them. Nabokov stepped out first, glancing over his shoulder with an amused expression. “Coming?”

Damien hesitated for a beat too long, caught in the strange web Nabokov had spun. Then, without another word, he followed.

Damien walked behind Nabokov through the lavish office, his eyes darting around to take in the luxurious furnishings. Nabokov’s office was as sleek and intimidating as the man himself—glass walls framed the city’s skyline, while low lighting gave the room an almost intimate feel. In the corner, a pristine glass table stood waiting, an unexpected centerpiece in the otherwise minimalist space.The space was larger than some apartments, equipped with a sleek bar, plush sofas, flat screens, and even a pool table gleaming under soft overhead lights. The room exuded decadence—like Nabokov himself.

“This way,” Nabokov said, leading Damien toward a smaller adjoining room that felt even more intimate.

As they entered, Damien’s gaze was drawn to the second pool table standing elegantly in the center of the room, illuminated by a warm pendant light overhead. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, and a fireplace flickered in the background, casting long shadows that danced along the edges of the room. It felt more like a private sanctuary than an office. Damien’s stomach churned with the realization that this was where Nabokov had been planning to lure him all along.

“Do you sleep here?” Damien asked, glancing around, half-expecting to find a hidden bedroom door.

“Do you see a bed?” Nabokov quipped, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Damien chuckled softly. “I figured you might have a secret door somewhere.”

“You just gave me an idea,” Nabokov replied, flashing a rare grin that sent an involuntary thrill down Damien’s spine.

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