Page 58 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov gave a small, noncommittal nod, his attention seemingly elsewhere as he rested his chin on his hand. Damien bit the inside of his cheek, waiting in silence for some sort of verdict, but none came.

“So?” Damien prompted, breaking the silence. “Do you think the improvements are enough?”

Nabokov leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “There are… improvements,” he murmured, as if offering a half-compliment.

His gaze flicked lazily from the screen to Damien, the corner of his mouth lifting into something that was neither quite a smile nor a smirk.

Damien clenched his jaw, irritation simmering beneath his polite facade. “Right. So, if there's nothing else—”

“You could stay a little longer,” Nabokov whispered, his voice a velvet thread of invitation that twisted through the air between them.

The shift in tone caught Damien off guard. His fingers hovered above the laptop's keys, freezing mid-motion. He turned slowly toward Nabokov, meeting his gaze. The warmth of the fireplace glinted off the billionaire’s gray eyes, making them seem both hungry and patient. The contrast between his soft tone and the command layered beneath it unsettled Damien.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Damien replied, careful to keep his voice steady.

“Oh, but I do.” Nabokov’s gaze was relentless, pinning Damien where he sat.

Damien inhaled deeply, but the scent of Nabokov’s cologne did nothing to calm his nerves. The man didn’t move, but it felt like his presence was closing in, pulling Damien deeper into a place he didn’t want to explore—yet couldn’t resist.

“No,” Damien said, his voice firmer than he expected. “I really don’t want to, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing Damien’s resolve. “Then what do you want?” he asked softly, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable.

Damien swallowed thickly, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. “Nothing that you can give me.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Nabokov’s face. “How do you know, Damien? We barely know each other.”

“Exactly,” Damien shot back, his frustration bubbling over. “That’s the problem.”

Nabokov leaned closer, his breath warm against Damien’s cheek. “What are you so afraid of?”

Damien opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Afraid? He wasn’t afraid—was he?

The silence between them stretched taut, a loaded pause that felt like a challenge. Nabokov leaned back against the couch, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. And just when Damien thought he’d managed to regain control, Nabokov whispered the words that shattered him all over again.

“I dreamed of us, you know,” Nabokov murmured, his voice low, almost as if confessing a sin.

Damien’s heart faltered. “What?”

“Of your lips.” Nabokov’s gaze darkened as one hand draped lazily along the top of the leather. “It was the first time I dreamed of another man this way.”

Damien’s breath hitched. Nabokov turned his head slowly, meeting Damien’s gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. The air between them thickened, and Damien felt the invisible pull drawing them closer—closer than they had any right to be.

“Why are you telling me this?” Damien whispered, his voice betraying the inner turmoil clawing at him.

Damien inhaled deeply, the scent of Nabokov’s cologne stirring memories of the other night. He tried to steady himself, gripping the laptop as if it could anchor him. But Nabokov wasn't finished.

“Because I still want a taste of your lips,” Nabokov said, his words rolling off his tongue like a dangerous promise.

Damien’s mind screamed at him to leave, to run before things escalated further. But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot, every nerve alive with anticipation. Nabokov leaned in slightly, his gaze flicking down to Damien’s lips, then back up to his eyes.

This was dangerous. Damien knew that much. But danger had never tasted so enticing.He should have stopped it there. Should have set clear boundaries, told Nabokov this was the end. But instead, Damien’s hand faltered, caught between restraint and desire. Nabokov’s fingers found Damien’s chin, lifting his face gently toward him.

“No,” Damien whispered, raising three fingers to rest on Nabokov’s lips, creating a flimsy barrier between them. “No more of that, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes gleamed with something wicked. He didn’t push Damien’s hand away but kissed the fingers softly, his lips warm and deliberate. Then, with unnerving slowness, he brushed Damien’s hand aside and before Damien could stop it, Nabokov’s mouth was on his—hungry, relentless, and utterly consuming.

This time, there were no excuses. No rules to hide behind. Just heat, desire, and the inevitability of what they had started. This time, there was no hesitation. Nabokov’s lips were insistent, yet controlled, moving against Damien’s with a deliberate, maddening slowness. His hand cradled Damien’s jaw, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss, as if tasting every hesitation Damien had ever buried.

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