Page 65 of Mutual Desire

“You want me to end my relationship—for what? A single night with you?” Damien whispered, disbelief lacing his tone. “Do you even hear yourself, Alexander?”

Nabokov’s hand slid up Damien’s cheek, his lips hovering inches away.“Then let’s make it more than just one night,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and intimate. “One night would never be enough.”

Damien felt the fight drain from him, exhaustion seeping into his bones. “Why are you doing this?” Damien asked, his voice cracking. “Why are you trying to destroy my life?”

“Destroy?” Nabokov echoed, frowning. “If your relationship with Craig ends, it won’t destroy you.”

“If I lose him, my life falls apart,” Damien whispered, barely audible.

Nabokov pressed a fleeting kiss to Damien’s lips—light and deliberate. “I’ll pick up the pieces,” Nabokov murmured against his mouth.

Damien gently pulled Nabokov’s hand away from his cheek, the conflict in his eyes clear. “You can’t put me back together with just your dick, Alexander,” Damien whispered hoarsely. Nabokov opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden ringing of his phone cut him off. His expression turned cold as he declined the call and slipped the device back into his pocket.

In the heavy silence that followed, their gazes locked once more. Damien’s mind raced with possibilities—he could leave, threaten Nabokov, or… surrender.

Nabokov leaned in close again, his breath hot against Damien’s lips.“I’m going to Irelandfor ten days,” Nabokov whispered. “Come with me.”

Damien lowered his head, a small, desperate laugh escaping him. He raised his eyes to meet Nabokov’s, the conflict in them raw and exposed.

“Please,” Damien whispered, his voice broken. “Let me go. Just… forget me.”

Nabokov’s response was another kiss—slow, deliberate, and devastating.

“I can’t,” Nabokov murmured between kisses. “And I won’t.”

Damien's heart raced. He could feel himself slipping again, surrendering to something he didn’t fully understand. Nabokov’s hands began to wander, but this time, Damien summoned every ounce of willpower left in him. Damien’s pulse quickened as Nabokov’s hand rested on his thigh, just shy of dangerous territory. The weight of it burned through his jeans, making it impossible to think clearly. He wanted to move away, to create space between them—but instead, his body betrayed him, leaning subtly into the touch. His breathing was shallow, and every inhale tasted faintly of Nabokov’s cologne, thick and intoxicating in the confined space of the limousine.

“You think you hate me, Damien,” Nabokov murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous caress, “but you don’t.”

Damien tried to pull away, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but Nabokov’s hand slid higher, exerting just enough pressure to make Damien freeze. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, a riot of confusion and arousal. He wanted to shove Nabokov away, to stop this madness before it consumed him—but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Tell me to stop,” Nabokov whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Damien’s ear. The words were almost tender, but the challenge in them was unmistakable.

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

Damien’s jaw clenched. He knew what Nabokov was doing—pushing him, daring him to take control. And yet, with every second that passed, Damien felt himself slipping further into the pull of Nabokov’s presence, into the magnetic tension that crackled between them.

“I…” Damien’s voice faltered, betraying the turmoil inside him. His fists loosened, and before he could stop himself, he placed a hand on Nabokov’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his palm. It felt dangerous, like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff—but he didn’t pull away.

Nabokov’s lips grazed Damien’s temple, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down his spine. “Say the word,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate. “I’ll stop. Just say it.”

Damien’s breath hitched. He should say it. He should push Nabokov away and leave—go back to Craig’s apartment, to the safety of routine and predictability. But instead, he stayed frozen, teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

Nabokov shifted closer, his hand sliding up Damien’s thigh, slow and deliberate. The pressure was maddening, just enough to make Damien’s pulse race without crossing the line. It was a game—a cruel, calculated game that Nabokov was winning.

“You don’t want me to stop,” Nabokov said softly, his lips a whisper away from Damien’s.

And he was right. Damien hated how right he was.

With a strangled sound, Damien gave in. He surged forward, capturing Nabokov’s mouth in a kiss that was raw and desperate, filled with every unspoken emotion he had tried to bury. The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue, as if Damien were trying to devour the frustration, the confusion, the aching desire that had been building between them.

Their tongues tangled again, the kiss deepening with every passing second, growing hungrier, more desperate. Damien’s hands fisted the collar of Nabokov’s shirt, dragging him closer, as if proximity alone could quench the ache spreading through his body. Nabokov’s lips moved with slow precision, teasing Damien’s, savoring every second like he was tasting something forbidden. Damien felt the deliberate way the billionaire kissed—not in a rush, but in a way that saidI have all the time in the world to unravel you.

Nabokov’s hands glided down Damien’s sides, fingers pressing just enough to leave a lingering warmth through the fabric. One hand settled on Damien’s waist, while the other drifted lower, curving around the small of his back and inching toward dangerous territory. Damien moaned into Nabokov’s mouth, his mind clouding with need, as every touch set his nerves alight.

Damien’s resolve had already crumbled, but now it shattered completely under the weight of Nabokov’s gentle but relentless exploration. The hand on his waist slid up beneath his shirt, and the sudden brush of skin against skin sent a shiver down Damien’s spine. He gasped into the kiss, his whole body tensing, not with resistance, but with a twisted kind of anticipation.

He knew there was no going back now.

---