Page 47 of Mutual Desire

But there was doubt now, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help but wonder—what if he could?

Nabokov didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips—like a man who already knew how this night would end. His silence was louder than any challenge.

Damien clenched his fists at his sides, battling the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. Part of him screamed to walk away—to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Russian man. But another part, the reckless part, whispered that leaving would only mean admitting defeat.

“Leaving already? And without having dessert?” Nabokov’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, smooth and taunting. “That doesn’t sound like the Damien I’ve come to know.”

Damien inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “You don’t know me,” he snapped, though even he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.Nabokov’s gray eyes gleamed with something dangerous—like a hunter watching prey that didn’t know it had already been caught.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, his voice dipping lower, “but I will.”

The rooftop felt smaller, the air heavier with every passing second. Damien’s heart raced, the heat of Nabokov’s gaze crawling beneath his skin. This is a bad idea, a voice in Damien's head warned. But he stayed, rooted to the spot by something far stronger than reason—something dangerously close to desire.

Damien scoffed, trying to mask his growing unease. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

Nabokov’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “Not yet,” he replied. “But the night is still young, right?”

Damien’s throat tightened, knowing deep down that leaving wasn’t an option—not really. Not when the pull between them was this strong, this impossible to ignore. And not when walking away would only confirm the very thing he was desperate to deny: that he was caught in Nabokov’s web, and there was no escaping now.

Before he could say another word, Nabokov stood, his movements fluid and unhurried. Damien felt the pull of the moment—he should leave, should walk away before this strange dance with Nabokov spiraled further out of control. But when Nabokov took a step closer, his gray eyes gleaming with both amusement and something darker, Damien’s feet stayed rooted. His heart pounded, but not with fear.

“You know,” Nabokov said, his voice velvet-smooth, “I have something more exciting than dessert waiting for us downstairs.”

Damien raised an eyebrow, trying to sound casual. “More exciting than dessert?”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened. “That depends on how competitive you are.” He turned slightly, gesturing toward the door that led back inside. “Come on. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Damien wanted to laugh off the invitation, to pretend that it was nothing more than a harmless game. But the weight of Nabokov’s words—and the promise lurking beneath them—was impossible to ignore. A part of him wanted to leave, to stop whatever was building between them before it could go any further. Yet, the challenge was too tempting to resist.

Nabokov was already moving toward the door, and, without thinking, Damien followed. The cool night air faded as they stepped inside, the soft click of the rooftop door behind them sealing them in together. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, and Damien could still feel the tension coiling between them like a spring waiting to snap.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in sync on the polished floor. When they reached the elevator, Nabokov pressed the button, the soft glow of the panel lighting up beneath his finger.Damien hesitated, glancing sideways at Nabokov, who stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable. The tension wrapped itself tighter around him with each second that passed.He realized with a shiver that this night was far from over.

And with Nabokov, nothing ever went as expected.

FIFTEEN

Run

Damien kept his eyes on the glowing floor numbers descending toward them. He hoped the hum of the elevator would drown out the whirlwind of thoughts racing in his mind.

They stepped into the elevator, and Nabokov gestured for Damien to enter first, his presence shadowing Damien like a steady pulse. The silence between them felt oppressive, even as Nabokov casually pulled out his phone and started scrolling. Damien's gaze flickered toward the mirrored elevator doors. He saw his own reflection—tense, shoulders tight—and next to him, Nabokov’s, calm and utterly in control.

“Will the rest of the food be given to a homeless shelter?” Damien blurted out, desperate to break the silence that was suffocating him.

Nabokov glanced up from his phone, one eyebrow raised, as if mildly entertained by Damien’s awkward attempt at conversation.“Do you want it to be?” he replied smoothly.

Caught off guard by the unexpected answer, Damien shifted his weight, his cheeks burning under Nabokov's scrutiny.His gaze dropped to the floor, his thoughts tangled. He shifted awkwardly, trying to escape the weight of Nabokov’s unrelenting attention. Damien swallowed. “I guess... yeah, if it’s an option.”

A slow smile tugged at Nabokov’s lips. “Consider it done.”

The simplicity of the response made Damien’s pulse quicken. There was no debate, no hesitation—just certainty. And that certainty, as much as it unnerved Damien, carried a strange kind of allure.

“Cool,” Damien mumbled, lowering his gaze to the floor. His heart thudded in his chest, and he hated how easily Nabokov's gaze could unnerve him.

He raised his head, expecting Nabokov to return to his phone, but instead, their eyes met in the reflection. Nabokov's gaze was locked onto him with that same unsettling intensity.

“Do I have something on my face?” Damien asked, forcing himself to sound nonchalant.

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