Page 27 of Mutual Desire

During the drive to Nick’s office, which felt like a descent into Hell, Damien hoped with all his heart that Nabokov was stuck in a meeting, trapped in a conference room far away from him. Or maybe he got sick and was at home nursing a cold or something. But with each passing moment, his heart raced faster. The thought of running into Nabokov again churned in his stomach like a bad omen. He hated how easily the man had gotten under his skin.

Upon entering the underground parking lot with the electronic access card Nick had provided, Damien felt the finality of his decision. The nerves that accompanied being in the same building as Nabokov made his heart pound in an almost embarrassing way. Was it really an obsession? No, it couldn’t be.

As he walked through the luxurious lobby, he couldn’t shake the feeling of Nabokov's presence lingering in the air. Memories of their last encounter flooded his mind, and Damien cursed himself for his preoccupation with the man. As he approached the elevator, his heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest. It felt ridiculous—childish, even—but the fear of another awkward encounter with Nabokov was very real.

When he reached the elevator, it opened just as he approached. A man was already waiting outside, and as several others exited, the said man turned to face him. Damien’s breath hitched, his heart dropping into his stomach.

It was Nabokov.

Damien’s eyes widened as he felt the familiar intensity of Nabokov's gray gaze piercing through him. He felt paralyzed, the world around him fading away. Nabokov stepped inside the elevator, stood there, exuding a magnetic aura that drew Damien in against his will.He was dressed impeccably in a gray suit that stressed his features.

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, a small, unreadable smile playing on his lips. “First time we meet without a collision. Should we celebrate?” Nabokov’s voice was low and rich, laced with authority.

Damien’s mind raced, caught between irritation and an inexplicable thrill. He longed to fire back with a witty retort but found himself tongue-tied, his usual sharpness dulled by the presence of this man. He tried to force his brain into action, but his words stumbled.

“Why are you hesitating?” Nabokov’s voice was smooth, edged with amusement. “Get in. You don’t have coffee, and you’re not staring at your phone. We should be safe.”

Fate seemed to revel in tormenting him. Of all the encounters he could have, it had to be Nabokov. The last person he wanted to see, yet his heart fluttered unexpectedly.

After a long pause, Nabokov’s gaze remained fixed on him, waiting for him to make a decision. The elevator doors began to close, prompting Damien to take a step forward, and entering the space that felt charged with tension.

“I am not in a rush, I'll...I’ll take the next one,” Damien managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Damien stepped back, heart hammering as the elevator doors began to slide shut. A perfect escape. But just as the metal panels were about to meet, Nabokov’s large hand shot out, halting them with an effortless force.

The doors stuttered, then obediently slid open again, revealing completely Nabokov’s imposing figure standing in the center of the elevator, one brow arched in silent challenge.

Nabokov’s impassive stare held him captive. “The elevator is empty, Mr. Clarke,” he replied, his tone almost teasing.

Damien’s heart raced, a flurry of thoughts tumbling through his mind. How did he know his last name? The memory of Nick introducing him during the presentation flitted through his mind, bringing an unexpected rush of warmth. Damien’s pulse spiked. His feet remained firmly planted outside the elevator. “Really, I’ll wait for the next one.”

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, as if indulging him. Then, with deliberate ease, he reached for the control panel and pressed the door open button, holding it down.

Silence stretched between them, thick with something Damien refused to name. Nabokov didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, waiting, gray eyes locked onto him with an unreadable expression.It was ridiculous how his body reacted to that look. Heat crept up his neck, his jaw tightening.The elevator remained still. The choice was his.

With a sharp exhale, Damien stepped forward, hating how smug Nabokov looked as he finally released the button andstepped all the way to the back of the elevator. Damien’s feet moved on instinct, carrying him into the elevator despite every instinct screaming run. The doors slid shut behind him, sealing them inside the confined space together with a quiet finality. And just like that, he was trapped. In that moment, Damien felt a surge of defiance. He was entering this elevator not as a victim, but as a competitor ready for the next round. Damien steeled himself for what lay ahead. He would not let Nabokov win so easily.

TEN

The Compliment

Well, fuck me sideways—are you fucking kidding me right now?

The music hummed faintly in the background, more like a distant whisper than a melody, barely breaking through the suffocating silence that coiled around Damien. What little confidence he had left flickered, extinguished by the oppressive presence beside him.

This elevator felt like a spider's web, and he was the fly—trapped, helpless—while Nabokov loomed as the multi-legged, hairy predator. An unreal beauty of a spider. Damien stood frozen, a statue made of anxiety, his hand unwilling to lift and press the button that would take him to Nick’s floor. It felt like a crime to move, as if even the slightest twitch would summon Nabokov's wrath.Am I seriously developing a phobia of elevators?He groaned inwardly.Pathetic!

“You seem tense.”

Nabokov’s deep voice cut through the stillness, sending a shiver down Damien's spine. He kept his head lowered, avoiding the reflection of the Russian man in the polished elevator doors. With deliberate intent, he maintained a significant distance, as if physical proximity might spark an unwanted connection. Even without looking, he felt Nabokov’s attention weighing on him like a physical force. Why was Nabokov so perceptive? How could he sense Damien's unease when he was merely facing the door? Damien swallowed hard, knowing his body was betraying him—every muscle taut, every nerve alight with tension, even his poor chewing gum was suffering under the pressure.

“Hum... no,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Each second stretched out, the weight of silence heavy in the confined space. He felt like he was suffocating, struggling to breathe, as if the air had thickened into a palpable fog.

“Am I making you nervous?”

Damien’s heart raced. What kind of game was this? Nabokov’s questions twisted in his mind. He wanted to retort, to regain his bravado from their last encounter, but the atmosphere felt electric, and his usual sarcasm faltered in the face of the Russian's intensity.

“No.”

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