Page 40 of Mutual Desire

Even in the haze of pleasure, Damien’s mind had betrayed him.His stomach turned. He pressed a quick kiss to Craig’s cheek—only for the simple act to trigger a sharp, unwanted memory. Nabokov. The brush of his lips. The heat that had followed.

Guilt crashed into him, heavy and unshakable. He quickly turned away, grabbing his phone to distract himself and sending Dimitri a message about the bowling night. Anything to keep his thoughts from spiraling further.

A few minutes later, Craig brought their breakfast to the table, and they ate in an easy, comfortable silence.

Until Craig suddenly asked, “Are you picking up your car today?”

Damien nearly choked on his coffee. Shit. Nabokov had said he’d deliver the car himself. He scrambled for an answer, forcing a casual shrug. “Uh… yeah, I’m just waiting for them to call me to go pick it up.”

Craig nodded, sipping his apple juice, seemingly satisfied with the response. Damien swallowed down the guilt and hurried to change the subject.

“Oh, by the way, we’re invited to a couples' night tomorrow—bowling.”

Craig raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully. “Hmm. I have a night shift tomorrow, but if we go early, I could make it.”

Damien exhaled, relieved. “Eric will be thrilled. He’s already guilt-tripping me into going.”

Craig chuckled, the moment of tension passing, and the conversation moved on.

* * *

The rest of the day unfolded like a scene from a life Damien should have been content with—grocery shopping, a movie, dinner on a terrace. It was easy, natural. A perfect day.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, he didn’t think about Nabokov. At least, not until Craig got called in for an unscheduled shift.They walked to the building's exit together, exchanging a goodbye kiss when Damien’s gaze froze.

Nabokov.

Damien’s pulse kicked up, not just from the sight of him but from a sudden, gnawing question—How the hell did he even get in? Craig’s apartment complex had strict security, a gated entrance, a doorman. Yet Nabokov strolled through like he owned the place, like barriers didn’t apply to him. Did he bribe someone? Threaten them? Or worse—did they just let him through without question?

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

Nabokov stopped just in front of them, his expression impossible to decipher. He was dressed casually—well, as casual as a man like him could be. A crisp white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealed toned forearms, and the top buttons were left undone, just enough to hint at the smooth skin beneath. Paired with tailored dark blue trousers and expensive-looking loafers, he still managed to look effortlessly refined, as if he’d stepped out of a magazine

“Good evening,” Nabokov said smoothly, his eyes flicking briefly to Craig.

Damien swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hey.”

Damien’s voice cracked like a strangled whisper, leaving him unsure if he’d even been heard. To his surprise, he managed to respond at all. An uneasy silence settled over them, a bizarre tension that felt like they were stuck in a Broadway show where one actor had forgotten their lines. But Damien couldn’t let this icy quiet linger any longer. He had to make the introductions, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Uh… Craig, this is hum...” He fumbled, unsure how to categorize Nabokov. Who was he supposed to call Nabokov? An acquaintance? A friend? A stranger? A man who haunted his not-so-Catholic dreams?

“He is…the… the CEO of the company that Nicolas works for.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he glanced at Craig, bracing for his reaction, terrified of the questions that might come. To his relief, Craig remained silent. Damien deliberately avoided specifying Craig’s relationtohim; it wasn’t Nabokov’s business, nor was it relevant.

Nabokov and Craig exchanged a strange, tense handshake, while Damien felt like a helpless spectator in slow motion, holding his breath. The exchange felt perfunctory, almost dismissive.Craig’s gaze quickly fell on Damien as if Nabokov had vanished. Just as Damien thought this might be the most awkward moment of his life, a ringtone pierced the air—Nabokov's phone. If he could, he would've kissed that phone in gratitude.Saved by the bell, huh?

“Excuse me,” Nabokov said tiredly, studying his phone screen.

He stepped away slightly to take the call. Craig ignored the wealthy man, and Damien forced himself to do the same. He silently prayed Craig wouldn’t interrogate him about Nabokov's unusual presence. To his relief, Craig broke the silence first.

“Don’t finish the whole bag of chips,” he said humorously.

This light comment should have alleviated the uncomfortable atmosphere, but it didn’t. Damien couldn’t even muster a smile. Though he hadn’t been questioned about Nabokov’s inexplicable presence, he knew it was only a matter of time. At least this gave Damien time to concoct a plausible excuse.

Craig leaned in and planted a quick peck on Damien’s lips, though it felt like an eternity. They exchanged goodbyes, and as soon as Craig disappeared, Damien’s gaze fell to the floor. He wanted to bolt, to avoid whatever confrontation was coming next. The images of his dream from last night flashed back in his mind, and a mix of guilt and frustration twisted in his chest.

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