Page 53 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov didn’t budge. “Not until I’ve taken full advantage of my wish.”

A chill ran down Damien’s spine. He knew what was coming, yet he felt powerless to stop it. “Let me go, Alexander,” Damien whispered, barely able to meet Nabokov’s gaze.

“You just need to give me what I earned,” Nabokov murmured, his hand trailing from Damien’s chin to his cheek, cupping it with quiet confidence. His eyes held that same smoldering intensity — not demanding, not pleading, just certain. Like this moment belonged to him.

When Nabokov kissed him again, Damien’s resolve crumbled. He leaned into the kiss, his body betraying him completely. His hands trembled as they brushed against Nabokov’s shirt, and all reason melted away. The kiss was fierce, demanding, and Damien responded in kind, lost in the moment.

He felt Nabokov’s hand tighten on his cheek, holding him in place, as if staking a claim. Damien's knees became weak, and he pressed back against the pool table for support. Every nerve in his body sparked with need. His cock stirred to life, making it impossible to deny the pull Nabokov had over him.

When the kiss finally broke, Damien gasped for air, his lips tingling from the intensity. Nabokov’s breath ghosted over his mouth. “I want to see you again,” he whispered, his voice low and full of promise.

“I can’t,” Damien mumbled, stepping back. Shame swelled within him, crashing over him like a tidal wave. What the hell had he done? He was in a relationship. A good one. He loved Craig—or at least he thought he did. What kind of man was he to let this happen?

Nabokov’s hand returned to Damien’s neck, his thumb grazing the pulse point just below his jaw. “Is it because of him?” Nabokov asked quietly, though the answer was already clear.

Damien nodded, a small, reluctant movement. His heart was heavy with guilt, and the weight of what he’d done pressed down on him, suffocating.

“So... the day after tomorrow then,” Nabokov said smoothly, as if it were already decided.

Damien’s head shot up. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “We’re not friends. I’m barelyan acquaintance. So why?”

Nabokov’s expression remained calm, though his eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. “Didn’t you ask me to give Nick’s project another chance?”

Damien’s frustration boiled over. “Then meet with Nick! This has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you,” Nabokov countered. “You gave me a reason to care. That makes you responsible.”

Damien’s pulse quickened, anger and confusion battling for control. “You’re using Nick to manipulate me. To get what you want.”

Nabokov smiled faintly. “I don’t need Nick to get what I want from you.”

Damien’s breath hitched as Nabokov leaned in, his voice a dangerous murmur. “And what is it that you think I want?”

Damien swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You already know,” he whispered bitterly.

Nabokov’s smile widened, his gaze burning into Damien’s. “I want your company, Damien. And I always get what I want.”

Damien lowered his gaze, shame pooling deep in his chest. “I can’t see you again,” he whispered, barely audible.

“And yet,” Nabokov replied softly, brushing his thumb over Damien’s lips, “I know you will.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Damien’s heart pounded, the conflict raging within him, tearing him apart. He wanted to walk away, to run far from this man and the dangerous allure he represented. But some part of him—some dark, unspoken part—knew he would see Nabokov again.

Nabokov exhaled, his fingers trailing down Damien’s jaw. “It’s getting late,” he murmured. “Go home. Get some rest.”

Before Damien could respond, Nabokov caught his lips again, this time with a fierce, consuming hunger. Damien melted into the kiss, his restraint unraveling as their mouths moved in sync, heat pooling low in his stomach. The taste of expensive Cognac and something unmistakably Nabokov left him dizzy.

When they finally broke apart, Nabokov’s breathing was uneven, his gray eyes dark with something primal. His thumb traced the corner of Damien’s mouth, as if memorizing the shape of his lips.

“If you stay any longer,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “I don’t think I’ll be able to resist taking you to my place and doing more than just fulfilling my wish.”

Damien shivered, caught between temptation and the undeniable gravity pulling him toward this man.

Nabokov kissed him again, slower this time, drawing it out like a promise. When he pulled away, his lips curved into the faintest smile.“Good night, Damien,” Nabokov whispered, pressing one last kiss to his lips before stepping away.

Damien stood frozen, his mind swirling with confusion and desire. He turned toward the door, his steps heavy with regret. As he left Nabokov’s office and slipped into the night, one thought haunted him:He couldn’t escape this.

Not from Nabokov.

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