Page 12 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The Cheek

The atmosphere inside the SUV was stifling, heavy with unspoken tension. Though they had just left the underground parking lot, Damien felt as if he had been trapped in this confined space for hours. The plush, leather interior—complete with a minibar and soft, violet-hued lights—did little to soothe the discomfort gnawing at him. A dark privacy partition, opaque and soundproof, separated them from the chauffeur. It gave the unsettling impression that, despite being chauffeured through the city, they were entirely alone.

No prying eyes. No interruptions. Just the two of them, enclosed in an airless bubble where every glance and breath seemed amplified.

Being in such close proximity to those gray eyes was its own form of torture, one Damien was struggling to bear.When Damien had first gotten into the car, he fought the urge to bolt, forcing himself to sit still and regulate his breathing. He turned to the window, focusing on the passing city streets in an effort to calm down, hoping it would give him the illusion of solitude. But nothing—not even the soft strains of classical music playing through the limo’s speakers—could mask the weight of Nabokov’s presence. The last thing he wanted was for Nabokov to hear his heart pounding in his chest. Who would've thought that just sharing a car with another man could make him feel so on edge?

They had been driving for several minutes, and Nabokov hadn't uttered a single word. Damien hadn’t looked his way once, afraid that making eye contact would shatter whatever fragile calm he'd managed to maintain. The silence was deafening, almost unnatural. Why isn't he speaking ? His mind raced as he suddenly realized he hadn’t given Nabokov his address—yet the car continued its journey, purposeful and uninterrupted. But where to?

Panic fluttered in his chest. Were they going where they were supposed to? Or was this something else—a sinister twist straight out of a thriller? Scenarios worthy of an action movie flooded his mind. Was he being kidnapped? Sold into trafficking? Or worse? Damien dared to glance in Nabokov’s direction, only to find the Russian man focused on his laptop, fingers gliding over the keyboard, completely absorbed.

“Yes?” Nabokov’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade, startling Damien. He hadn’t even looked up from his screen, but somehow, he had sensed Damien’s stare.

One word, and the oppressive silence was broken. Nabokov's attention remained on his computer, waiting. Damien hesitated, stuck between mentioning Nick’s software or simply giving his address. His mouth felt dry, and no sound came out.

“Is there something you wanted to say?” Nabokov asked, his tone weary, finally lifting his eyes to meet Damien’s. Those gray eyes, sharp and unreadable, made Damien’s pulse race faster.

“My—my address,” Damien stammered, feeling foolishly like a scolded child. He cleared his throat, trying again. “I don’t think I gave you my home address.”

Nabokov arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He tapped the screen briefly before handing it to Damien without looking away from his laptop. “Text it.”

Damien's fingers brushed against Nabokov's briefly as he took the phone, a fleeting contact that sent a jolt through him. He quickly typed out Craig’s address, willing his heart to settle down. Get it together . He offered the phone back, but Nabokov didn’t even bother to look up. “Did you send the message?” Nabokov asked calmly.

Damien clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and hit send. He set the phone back on the seat between them. Still, Nabokov didn’t take it, his attention fully absorbed by the glow of his laptop screen. The sheer indifference infuriated Damien. He should have been grateful for the silence—it allowed him to catch his breath and avoid more awkward conversation. But something about Nabokov's cool disregard gnawed at him. Why the hell do I care if he ignores me ?

Before Damien could say anything, a soft ringtone broke through the silence. Nabokov’s phone. He glanced at the screen, frowning slightly. “Excuse me, I have a conference call,” he said, picking up his phone without sparing Damien another glance.

Damien slumped back into his seat, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief flooded him. He wasn’t ready to discuss Nick’s software yet, not while his mind was this jumbled. Not while Nabokov was still in control. He glanced out the window again, trying to lose himself in the city’s twinkling lights.

Fifteen minutes passed. Damien’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Craig’s name flashed across the screen when he took it out, but he ignored it. Not now. Not while Nabokov was so close, even if the man seemed to be deep in conversation. Another ten minutes went by before Nabokov finally ended his call, the silence in the SUV growing thick again.

Damien tensed. This was his chance, the moment he needed to speak up about Nick’s software. He couldn’t afford to waste it. He shifted slightly in his seat, gathering the courage to break the quiet.

“Sorry about that,” Nabokov’s deep voice rumbled, startling Damien once again. The Russian barely looked up from his laptop, his fingers still moving rapidly across the keys.

“No worries,” Damien mumbled, feeling utterly small. He watched Nabokov, whose complete focus remained on his work, barely acknowledging Damien’s existence. The sight annoyed him more than it should have. How could he feel so ignored and yet crave even a shred of this man’s attention?

It was irrational. Absurd. Why should it matter if Nabokov treated him like he wasn’t even there? Damien shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the window. He fought the strange pull of wanting Nabokov to look up, to notice him, even though he knew better. God! Why do I care so much ?

But the frustration kept building, as did the gnawing desire to somehow make Nabokov see him. Again, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the growing tension in the air making the confined space of the limousine feel even smaller.

Damien cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hum…” he mumbled, trying to get Nabokov’s attention.

“Yes?” Nabokov replied without lifting his eyes from the screen.

Damien hesitated, the words he wanted to say stuck somewhere in his throat. The only sound in the car came from the rhythmic tapping of Nabokov’s long fingers on the keyboard and the classical musical playing in the background. After a beat of silence, Nabokov tossed his head toward Damien, his sharp gaze now fixed on him. That look was all it took to push Damien into speaking.

“About Nick’s software…” Damien began, his voice tinged with nervousness. “Nicolas…”

“Yes, what about it?” Nabokov’s tone was casual, yet it carried an undertone that made Damien second-guess every word. The Russian’s attention was suffocating, leaving Damien no room to think. Damien’s mouth felt dry. He tried to steady his nerves.

“Is your decision final?” Damien asked, his voice wavering slightly.

He regretted the question as soon as he said it. Nabokov’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment, he seemed to analyze Damien’s every thought. The pause stretched painfully long before he answered.

“Well,” Nabokov began, his eyes narrowing, “When I make a decision, I rarely retract it. But… it has happened.”

Damien swallowed hard, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his disappointment. Nabokov’s answer didn’t surprise him, but it didn’t ease the tension either.

“Why do you ask?” Nabokov probed, after the silence had stretched on a little too long.

Damien raised his eyes, forcing himself to meet Nabokov’s penetrating gaze.

“Nick made some changes today. I thought maybe they were worth looking at. It could change your mind.”

Nabokov studied him, his eyes unreadable, his silence unnerving. “So, you want me to give Nicolas another chance?”

“Yes,” Damien replied, his voice a little stronger now. “He worked incredibly hard on this.”

“And his colleagues? Do they deserve the same?” Nabokov asked.

The question caught Damien off guard. “Yes. They all do.” Damien’s gaze held steady, proud.

Nabokov's eyes flashed with what seemed like amusement. “You believe in second chances. Admirable.”

“I believe in perseverance. There’s no limit to how many times someone can fail—or succeed,” Damien said, his voice laced with determination.

Nabokov’s lips quirked into something that resembled a smile. “I couldn't agree more. But I am a busy man. Reviewing all the projects might not be feasible.”

Damien’s heart sank. It wasn’t a clear refusal, but Nabokov’s evasion felt like a cold rejection. He sensed his earlier boldness—his arrogant remarks in the elevator— hadn’t benefited him. For a moment, silence stretched between them, electric and thick. Nabokov’s gaze swept over Damien, calculating, intrigued.

“You are persistent, I’ll give you that,” Nabokov murmured, his voice dangerously smooth. “But don’t mistake persistence for power. It’s a lesson worth learning.”

Damien swallowed, but he couldn’t hide the thrill that accompanied Nabokov’s veiled warning.

“But I will take your suggestion into consideration,” Nabokov added, his tone softening slightly.

Damien looked up, trying to gauge whether Nabokov was being sincere or just placating him. “Thank you.”

A tense silence filled the space between them, and after a moment, Damien’s gaze faltered, dropping to the floor. He felt pinned under the weight of Nabokov’s eyes.

“Come here,” Nabokov’s voice was soft, but it carried an authority Damien couldn’t ignore.

Damien’s head snapped up. He blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Why?”

Nabokov’s eyes darkened, his expression cooling. “Come here, Damien.”

“I’m not a dog, Alexander,” Damien shot back, his tone calm despite the tension thickening in the air. His own response surprised him—sharp, unfiltered, as if his body had spoken before his mind could catch up. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to push Nabokov away or daring him to come closer.

Nabokov’s expression softened, just a touch. “Please,” he whispered, and the tenderness in his voice caught Damien off guard. He felt a pull but resisted.

Damien hesitated, then murmured, “You come here.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. A knee-jerk reaction. An instinct he didn’t quite understand. The moment they left his lips, his stomach twisted, because—why the hell had he said that?

It wasn’t like he wanted Nabokov closer. That would be ridiculous. And yet, something about the way the man commanded a room, the way his presence filled every inch of space, had Damien responding before his brain could catch up.

He forced himself to remain still, to keep his face neutral, as if he hadn’t just invited a man who had no business being near him to step closer. Maybe it was defiance, maybe just a need to keep control of the moment.

But as soon as the words hung between them, Damien knew—he had just made a mistake. Oh yes, he knew he shouldn’t have said it. Knew he should have pushed back, refused, anything but this. But resisting Nabokov felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with bare hands. Nabokov wasn’t supposed to have this effect on him, and yet, here he was, pulling him in without even touching him.

As soon as the words hung between them, Damien braced himself, watching as Nabokov’s expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough for Damien to feel the shift in the air between them.

A flicker of amusement crossed Nabokov’s face. He didn’t move at first, as if waiting to see how far Damien would go.

Damien swallowed, his pulse a little too fast. He should take it back. Laugh it off. But instead, something in him—some inexplicable, reckless impulse—made him whisper, “Please.”

The moment the word left his mouth, regret coiled tight in his gut. What the hell was that? He wasn’t supposed to be asking for anything from this man.

But it was too late.

Nabokov set his laptop aside and leaned in, his movements slow, deliberate—like a predator indulging a chase. The moment stretched, expanding into something almost tangible. The space between them shrank until their faces were mere inches apart, their noses almost brushed. His hand lifted, gentle yet firm, cupping Damien’s cheek. Damien inhaled sharply, taking in the rich, sophisticated scent clinging to Nabokov, and stared, his heart pounding in his chest.

The world outside the car faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a silent, charged exchange. Nabokov's thumb stroked his flushed skin, the sensation both tender and electrifying. Damien’s heart raced as their noses brushed, the proximity so close their lips threatened to touch if either of them moved a fraction. The closeness between them—too intimate, too intense—made Damien’s pulse race. His mind buzzed with questions, but none of them came with answers. What was this? Was it intimidation? Attraction? Power play? Maybe all three.

“Nicolas is lucky,” Nabokov’s voice was barely above a whisper, “to have a friend like you. One who’s willing to do anything to see his software succeed.”

The comment broke the silence, and Damien blinked for the first time in what felt like minutes. “I don’t have much of a choice,” he replied, his tone hardening. “It’s my fault, after all.”

Nabokov smiled faintly. “You think I’m punishing you?”

“Yes,” Damien replied without hesitation. “Isn’t that what this is all about?”

Nabokov’s smile widened, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because you love provoking me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Damien said, a half-smile curling on his lips, “but I can’t blame you. I enjoy provoking you, too.”

The honesty in his voice startled him, and he wished he could take the words back. But it was too late.

Nabokov chuckled softly. “And what do you gain by provoking me?”

“The pleasure of it, I guess,” Damien admitted before lowering his gaze.

Nabokov studied him again, eyes searching, and then his hand moved. He lifted Damien’s chin, their eyes meeting once more. The playfulness between them evaporated, replaced by something darker, more intense.

“So, Damien…” Nabokov’s voice was lower now, almost a growl. “What I'm understanding is that you feel pleasure in provoking me?”

Damien’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to swallow. “I like the challenge,” he replied, his voice quieter, more deliberate. “But maybe.”

“Maybe?” Nabokov’s thumb grazed Damien’s bottom lip, the touch so light, so fast yet electrifying. “Pleasure can be addictive,” Nabokov whispered, his lips just a breath away. “Be careful.”

Damien gave a small, bitter smile. He knew a thing or two about addiction. “I don’t get addicted to things easily,” he murmured. “I’m sure you’re the same.”

“Yes,” Nabokov said softly. “But some pleasures, one never tires of.”

The silence between them grew heavier. Nabokov’s hand lingered on Damien’s cheek, his thumb dangerously close to his lips, their faces still impossibly close. The Russian’s touch, the way his thumb gently brushed Damien’s skin, sent a rush of conflicting feelings through him. What was Nabokov doing? Why this proximity, this tenderness? Was it another form of intimidation, or… something else?

Nabokov barely moved, yet the space between them seemed to shrink, his breath warm against Damien’s lips. Any closer, and their lips would touch.

“And some pleasures,” he whispered, his breath warm against Damien’s skin, “are worth the risk.”

Damien’s thoughts scrambled as Nabokov’s thumb slowly grazed his lip, leaving a burning trail of confusion and desire in its wake. Damien licked his lips quickly, his heart beating faster as Nabokov’s thumb traced the edge of his lip. Every inch of Damien’s skin was alive with sensation, and for a moment, he thought Nabokov might—

A vibration from the seat broke the spell. Nabokov leaned back slightly, grabbing his phone and glancing at it.

“We’ve arrived,” he said, his tone returning to its usual detachment. And with that simple movement, the moment was gone. The SUV had stopped moving without Damien noticing. He cleared his throat, looking down at his lap.

Damien blinked, disoriented. “Thanks.”

“I’ll have your car dropped off tomorrow,” Nabokov said, pocketing his phone.

Damien nodded, his thoughts still spinning. “Thanks,” he repeated, staring down at his hands.

Another pause followed, this one more charged than before. Damien didn’t understand why he wasn’t moving. He’d been dying to get out of this car, yet now that the door was right there, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Nabokov’s voice cut through the stillness. “I need your number.”

Damien looked up sharply, meeting Nabokov’s neutral gaze. “For the car,” Nabokov explained. “In case there’s a problem.”

Disappointment flickered in Damien. He hesitated before taking the phone, entering his number quickly, making sure their fingers didn’t brush when he handed it back. Nabokov accepted it without breaking eye contact. They lingered in that moment, neither willing to leave it behind. Damien wasn’t sure why he wasn’t moving. He had wanted nothing more than to escape this car, this tension. But now that the moment had come, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. As if he were waiting for something… for Nabokov to say or do something.

Then, with unexpected swiftness, Nabokov leaned in again, his hand finding its way back to Damien’s cheek. His lips brushed softly against Damien’s flushed skin, a soft kiss on his cheek that was both brief and impossibly intimate.

“See you tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath warm against Damien's ear.

Damien’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind a swirl of confusion. “Goodnight,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without looking back, Damien finally opened the door and stepped out of the car, his heart still racing.