Page 45 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov shrugged with that effortless confidence he wore so well.“I like options.”

Damien couldn’t help but wonder if Nabokov’s actions were part of a twisted game—a way to keep him off balance. Or maybe, the man just enjoyed watching him squirm.

As they sat down to eat, Damien avoided Nabokov’s gaze, keeping his attention on the view. The city lights were dazzling, a beautiful distraction from the tension building between them.

“You’re quiet,” Nabokov remarked, pouring wine into Damien’s glass.

“Just… admiring the view,” he replied, though he knew that Nabokov would see through his thin pretense. He took a sip, hoping it would quiet the nervous energy swirling inside him.

But Nabokov’s sharp gaze lingered on him, and Damien could feel it—like a touch just beneath his skin, a warmth that pulled his focus no matter how hard he tried to resist. Finally, unable to bear the intensity of it, he glanced over and sighed, “What?”

Nabokov’s lips curved slightly, his expression unreadable. “Nothing.”

Damien arched an eyebrow, sensing the unsaid words hanging between them. “Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Just admiring the view,” Nabokov replied, his voice soft yet deliberate, the words sinking beneath Damien’s defenses.

Damien’s pulse quickened, caught off guard by the simple statement. He shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling both seen and cornered.

“The view’s that interesting, huh?” he asked, attempting a light tone that betrayed his underlying tension.

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, his gaze unflinching. “It is when you’re in it.”

Damien forced a laugh, though it came out a little shaky. “I didn’t realize I’d become part of the decor,” he said, attempting to shrug off the tension he felt wrapping around him.

Nabokov’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, something that looked too close to sincerity. “You’re not.You’re more than that.”

The simplicity of the words disarmed Damien. He could feel his defenses slipping, just enough to let doubt creep in—the doubt that maybe, just maybe, Nabokov was sincerer than he was letting himself believe. But then, he reminded himself, this was Nabokov. The man who seemed to delight in keeping him on edge, playing games with his head.

Damien cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to his wine glass as he traced the rim absentmindedly.“So,” he began, forcing a casual tone, “is this some kind of sport for you? Getting under people’s skin?”

Nabokov leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “Do I get under your skin, Damien?”

“You know you do,” Damien muttered, his frustration slipping out before he could stop it.

The corner of Nabokov’s mouth lifted, and for a brief moment, there was a hint of satisfaction there, as if he’d just confirmed something he already knew. “Good,” he said softly.

Damien’s heart skipped, his stomach twisting as he tried to process Nabokov’s words. It didn’t make sense—none of it did. Why would someone like Nabokov, someone who could have anything he wanted, bother to focus on him, a man who, by all logic, should be inconsequential in his world?

After a moment, Nabokov’s voice cut through the quiet: “Is that why you stare at me like I’m some kind of puzzle?” His tone was measured, as if he was simply stating a fact. “What are you hoping to figure out?”

The question was different this time—subtler, but no less probing. Damien’s heart stumbled.“I’m not,” he lied, gripping the stem of his wine glass.

Nabokov leaned in slightly, his expression a mix of amusement and something darker. “Of course you are. But the real question is...what will you do when you find the answer?”

Damien tried to force a chuckle, but it came out weak and unconvincing. “You think too highly of yourself, Alexander. I’m not trying to figure out anything.”

Nabokov’s lips curled into a subtle smirk, the kind that felt both playful and predatory. “Then you lie to yourself as easily as you lie to me.”

Damien’s breath caught. He hated how effortlessly Nabokov got under his skin, pulling truths Damien wasn’t ready to face.

Nabokov’s gaze stayed steady, his amusement lingering just beneath the surface. “It’s interesting how hard you’re working to convince me—and yourself—that I mean nothing to you.”

Damien shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wishing the chair beneath him would swallow him whole. “I have a boyfriend, remember?” he muttered, hoping that would put an end to this bizarre conversation. “It’s not complicated.”

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, as if assessing Damien like a piece of art with hidden layers. “Then why do you look at me like I’m complicated?”

Damien bristled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t—”

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