Page 78 of Mutual Desire

Then Nabokov’s lips dragged down Damien’s neck—hot, slow, possessive. Each kiss left a mark, a memory, a silent plea not to forget. Damien’s breath hitched, soft moans escaping, threaded with grief so sharp it felt like breaking. Damien’s legs spread instinctively, letting Nabokov press his thigh between them, grinding up into him with a desperation that bordered on obscene.

“Fuck—” Damien gasped against Nabokov’s mouth, his voice wrecked.

Nabokov didn’t answer with words. He grabbed Damien’s face in both hands and kissed him harder, deeper, hips rolling against his like he was memorizing the shape of him. Damien moaned into his mouth, raw and helpless, every nerve ending lit up, screaming for more. Their bodies fit too perfectly, grinding together with a friction that made them both shudder. Nabokov’s hand slid under Damien’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach, then up—slow and greedy—until he found his chest. His thumb grazed a nipple and Damien’s whole body jerked, hips canting forward, cock hard and aching between them.

“Don’t stop,” Damien breathed, barely coherent.

But Nabokov was already kissing his way down Damien’s throat, teeth dragging, tongue leaving wet heat behind. Damien clung to him, nails digging into Nabokov’s shoulders, silently begging him to ruin him just once more.

And then it stopped.

Nabokov pulled back, chest heaving, eyes stormy with something Damien couldn’t name—rage, longing, restraint.

Nabokov reached up and brushed his thumb along Damien’s jaw, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. His expression stayed unreadable, but something deep in his gaze flickered.

Then, quietly, heartbreakingly, gently, he leaned in and kissed the tears that had started to fall down Damien’s cheek. One kiss. Lingering. Tender.

Like sealing a letter he would never send.

“Take care of yourself, Damien,” he murmured.

Before Damien could respond, Nabokov turned and walked out. The moment the door clicked shut, Damien felt his strength give way. He crumpled to his knees, the weight of everything crashing down on him. He collapsed to the floor, his tears resumed their relentless course, falling like rain on his cheeks, washing away Nabokov’s last kiss, feeling it fade with each passing second.Every nerve ending lit, every inch of him screaming for what he couldn’t have.

Lust fades. Love fades. But the ache of almost never goes away.

Nabokov hadn’t even look back.

And Damien… Damien didn’t stop him.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because if he had—just one word, one touch, one plea—he knew he never would again.So he stayed frozen in place, heart cracking open, the ghost of Nabokov’s kiss still burning on his skin.

He’d ended it.

He told himself it was over.

His body didn’t get the memo.

His heart didn’t either.

And somehow, it still felt like he was the one being left behind.

As Damien knelt there, broken and exhausted, a bitter truth settled over him. Nabokov hadn’t just taken over his life—he had taken over his soul. And no amount of begging could ever change that.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, knees to the cold floor, body trembling with something deeper than desire—something raw and ancient.

He only knew he was shaking.

He only knew he was crying.

He only knew he hated himself.

He only knew he wasn’t free.

When he finally looked up, the door was closed. The silence felt like a verdict. Damien pressed his forehead to the ground and broke open—sobbing not just for the man who kissed him like a promise, but for the boy who never learned how to want without shame. For the father who never came home. For the version of himself he could no longer outrun.

Minutes or hours—Damien couldn't tell—afterNabokov had left, Damien stood in the empty bathroom. Nabokov had left nothing but silence in the wake of his departure. The air felt thick, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in on him. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. A familiar ache crept up his throat, tight and unrelenting. He staggered back to the sink, leaning over it as the world around him began to spin. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles white as his head swam with dizzying thoughts. His vision blurred at the edges, and all he could hear was the frantic thrum of his pulse in his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

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