Page 61 of Mutual Desire

“If you don't let me go, I won't hesitate to show you how much respect I have for you by spitting on your fucking face,” Damien hissed, his voice deceptively calm, though rage flickered beneath the surface. His eyes, sharp and furious, bore into Nabokov’s with unyielding defiance.

Nabokov leaned closer, his breath brushing Damien’s lips, the space between them vanishing to a mere whisper. A slow, arrogant smile curled at the corners of his mouth.“Why waste your saliva?” Nabokov murmured provocatively. “When we could share it instead.”

Damien’s glare intensified, his nostrils flaring with barely restrained anger.His fingers curled into the fabric of Nabokov’s shirt, gripping it tight.Nabokov’s cocky smirk faded into a neutral expression, his eyes unreadable yet heavy with something unspoken.

“You have no idea how much I fucking hate you,” Damien whispered fiercely, his grip tightening on Nabokov’s shirt.

Nabokov didn’t flinch. Instead, he lowered his head slowly, eyes locked with Damien’s as he brought the captive wrist to his lips and pressed a deliberate, searing kiss to the inside of it—slow, almost reverent.His gaze flicked back up, darker now, more dangerous. His voice dropped into a low, deliberate challenge.

“Show me.”

The air between them thickened with tension. Neither man moved for a long, charged moment, their breathing heavy and synchronized, matching the pounding rhythm of Damien’s heart. Then, like a dam bursting, Damien surged forward. Their mouths collided in a kiss that was nothing short of war.

It wasn’t gentle—there was no room for softness or hesitation. Their mouths were feral, biting, taking, demanding more with every stroke of their tongues. Damien clung to Nabokov’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying futilely to dominate the kiss. But Nabokov met him with equal ferocity, his hand sliding down Damien’s back, dangerously close to his ass, fanning the fire that burned between them.

They moved together, step by step, until Damien’s back slammed hard against the wall. He didn’t care. Pain was irrelevant, eclipsed by the all-consuming heat of Nabokov’s mouth on his. Damien fumbled with the buttons of Nabokov’s shirt, yanking them open with desperate urgency. His fingers stilled momentarily when he encountered the white camisole underneath, but Nabokov didn’t give him time to linger on his disappointment.

With one smooth movement, Nabokov’s hand found Damien’s zipper, pulling it down. Damien gasped, breath hitching, as Nabokov reached inside his jeans, pull it out from his boxer, and wrapped his hand around Damien’s hardening cock.

The reality of the moment hit Damien like a freight train, surreal and intoxicating. He glanced down, watching as Nabokov’s elegant hand stroked him in slow, deliberate motions. His mind swam in disbelief—was this really happening?

Nabokov’s gaze locked onto Damien’s, silent and unyielding, heightening the eroticism of the moment. The way the Russian man watched him, expression composed, almost clinical, made Damien’s pleasure spiral higher. His breath came in ragged bursts, and when Nabokov leaned in to capture his mouth again, Damien surrendered completely.

He came without warning, his release hot and sudden, spilling over Nabokov’s hand. A soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips, muffled against the billionaire’s mouth.

Embarrassment hit Damien like a wave. He pulled away, panting, his cheeks burning with shame. With fumbling hands, he stuffed himself back into his boxers, hastily zipping his jeans. His eyes refused to meet Nabokov’s as he reached for the billionaire’s hand, gently wiping it with the hem of his own shirt. The silence between them felt unbearable, weighted by what had just transpired.

When he finished, Damien turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the door without a second glance. His mind raced, consumed by guilt, shame, and the overwhelming need to escape. He reached for the doorknob, but Nabokov’s voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Damien.”

The sound of his name—low, soothing—held him frozen in place. His hand lingered on the cold metal of the doorknob, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a trapped animal.

He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, but didn’t turn around.

“Goodnight, Alexander,” he whispered, his voice hollow, as if speaking from some distant, detached part of himself.

He opened the door and stepped out, the soft click of it closing behind him resonating like a final, unspoken promise.I won’t see him again.

But even as he walked away, the feel of Nabokov’s hand on his skin and the taste of his lips lingered—unshakable, unforgettable, and hauntingly inevitable.

And Damien knew, with a sinking certainty, that no matter how hard he tried, this wouldn’t be the end.

Far from it.

TWENTY

The Secret

The moment Damien sat down, he regretted agreeing to go out to eat with Dimitri. He also regretted regretting it. When Dimitri called earlier with the invite, it had seemed like a good idea. After spending the entire day trying to reach Craig with no luck, eating out felt like a way to salvage an otherwise terrible day. What he hadn’t accounted for was that Dimitri would inevitably bring up Craig—or worse, Nabokov.

Now, sitting outside surrounded by murmuring customers and passing strangers, the appeal of the night had worn thin. At least Dimitri was good company, even if his attention was divided between the menu and his phone.

Damien tried to focus on the menu in front of him, but his mind kept straying back to Nabokov. It was like a sickness he couldn’t shake. He’d replayed the events from the othernight a thousand times—how he’d lost control and cameinto Nabokov’s hand. That humiliating memory kept crawling back, eating at him like rust on metal.

“What are you thinking about?” Dimitri’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Damien looked up, his eyes meeting Dimitri’s curious gaze.“Mm?”

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