Page 15 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

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.

Nabokov's lips curled into a subtle smile. “Apart from beauty, no.”

The compliment hit Damien with the force of a sudden breeze—unexpected and leaving him off-balance. He pressed his lips together, unsure whether to laugh or brush it off. They stood close but not touching, the hum of the elevator filling the silence between them. Damien forced himself to focus on the silver doors in front of them, but in the reflection, he could see Nabokov watching him, unblinking.

Damien let out a breath and, in a half-hearted attempt to cut through the tension, muttered, “You really enjoy messing with me, don’t you?”

Nabokov smirked, his voice low and dangerous. “What makes you think that?”

Damien turned toward him, leaning slightly against the elevator wall. “Just a guess.”

Nabokov took a deliberate step closer, closing the small distance between them until Damien felt the electric hum between their bodies. “You think I enjoy making you uncomfortable?”

Damien’s heart pounded, but he didn’t move away. He hated how easily Nabokov’s presence unsettled him, but he couldn’t deny it either. “I think you like having control.”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened, a glint of amusement flickering in his sharp gray eyes. “Is that a problem?”

Damien swallowed. “It is when you’re this good at it.”

Nabokov tilted his head, as if considering Damien’s words. “And yet, you haven’t stopped me.”

Damien knew he should have said something—should have shut this down right here—but the words stayed locked behind his clenched jaw. He stared at Nabokov’s reflection and Damien noticed how effortlessly he held himself—impeccably composed in his white shirt, dark blue tie, and tailored trousers. For a second, Damien could almost believe Nabokov had stepped out of some high-fashion campaign—impossibly refined, yet completely out of place in this moment.

To distract himself from the unsettling thought, Damien shifted a step to the side, creating a slight gap between them. It wasn’t much, but it gave him a fraction of space to breathe.

Nabokov’s gaze flicked toward him in the reflection. “Do I smell?” he asked, the question delivered with dry amusement.

Damien blinked, startled. “What?”

“You keep moving away from me.” Nabokov’s tone was neutral, but his eyes gleamed with teasing intent.

Damien let out an awkward laugh. “No, it’s not that.”

Nabokov arched a brow, his faint smile deepening. “So, I do smell, but that’s not the reason?”

The playful glint in Nabokov’s eyes only made Damien more flustered. “You know damn well how amazingly good you smell,” Damien muttered before he could stop himself. The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Nabokov’s grin widened, his gaze locking onto Damien’s in the mirrored reflection. “Amazingly good?”

Damien groaned internally, pinching the bridge of his nose. What the hell is wrong with me ?

“Thank you,” Nabokov said, his voice low and smooth. “I think you smell amazingly good, too.”Damien rolled his eyes, trying to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. But the ease with which Nabokov teased him was unsettling, like the man knew exactly how to dismantle his defenses brick by brick.

The elevator chimed as they reached the floor, breaking the charged silence between them. Nabokov stepped out first, glancing over his shoulder with an amused expression. “Coming?”

Damien hesitated for a beat too long, caught in the strange web Nabokov had spun. Then, without another word, he followed.

Damien walked behind Nabokov through the lavish office, his eyes darting around to take in the luxurious furnishings. Nabokov’s office was as sleek and intimidating as the man himself—glass walls framed the city’s skyline, while low lighting gave the room an almost intimate feel. In the corner, a pristine glass table stood waiting, an unexpected centerpiece in the otherwise minimalist space.The space was larger than some apartments, equipped with a sleek bar, plush sofas, flat screens, and even a pool table gleaming under soft overhead lights. The room exuded decadence—like Nabokov himself.

“This way,” Nabokov said, leading Damien toward a smaller adjoining room that felt even more intimate.

As they entered, Damien’s gaze was drawn to the second pool table standing elegantly in the center of the room, illuminated by a warm pendant light overhead. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, and a fireplace flickered in the background, casting long shadows that danced along the edges of the room. It felt more like a private sanctuary than an office. Damien’s stomach churned with the realization that this was where Nabokov had been planning to lure him all along.

“Do you sleep here?” Damien asked, glancing around, half-expecting to find a hidden bedroom door.

“Do you see a bed?” Nabokov quipped, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Damien chuckled softly. “I figured you might have a secret door somewhere.”

“You just gave me an idea,” Nabokov replied, flashing a rare grin that sent an involuntary thrill down Damien’s spine.

Damien tried to focus, but every time Nabokov’s eyes met his, his heartbeat quickened. He needed to regain control—of himself, of this strange pull between them.

“Would you like a drink?”Nabokov’s voice echoed softly across the room, jolting Damien out of his thoughts. His pulse quickened, and he looked toward the Russian man, who was already by the bar, casually holding a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac, the crystal decanter glinting under the dim office lights.

“Uh… yeah, why not? Thanks,” Damien answered, though the words felt clumsy on his tongue. He turned his attention toward the bookshelf again, running his fingers along the spines of unfamiliar titles. He flipped a book open, pretending to read, though his thoughts refused to stay focused on the page.

The sound of Nabokov’s approaching footsteps made Damien’s breath hitch. He forced himself to place the book back on the shelf and face the Russian head-on. Nabokov stood inches away, holding two glasses, each half-filled with amber liquid.

Damien accepted his drink, murmuring a thank you. They both took a sip in silence, neither willing to look away from the other. Their proximity was charged—every breath they shared seemed heavy with unspoken meaning. Damien’s heart raced uncomfortably, but the subtle allure of Nabokov’s cologne intoxicated him, drawing him further into this unsettling closeness. Their gazes locked, as if engaged in a silent game neither was ready to lose. Damien knew he couldn’t hold out for long; his eyes would inevitably find the floor.

Luckily, Nabokov broke the tension first.“How long have you known Nicolas?”

The unexpected question caught Damien off-guard, and he blinked, taking a moment to gather himself. He envied how effortlessly Nabokov steered conversations, always one step ahead while Damien struggled to keep up.

“Since… middle school,” Damien finally answered, his voice a little hoarse.

Nabokov took another slow sip of his drink, his sharp eyes never leaving Damien’s face.“That’s impressive,” Nabokov remarked with genuine ease, as though they were discussing the weather.

Damien gave a weak, nervous laugh. “Yeah, I’ve known him for far too long, unfortunately.” He tried to lighten the conversation, but it fell flat, leaving awkwardness lingering between them.

“But if you hadn’t stayed in touch with him,” Nabokov said softly, “I probably never would’ve met you.”

The weight of those words pressed down on Damien, confusing him. He opened his mouth before he could stop himself. “And is…is that a bad thing?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so cold. The sharpness in his voice surprised even him, and regret settled in immediately. For once, Nabokov hadn’t deserved the bite. But instead of irritation, Nabokov’s eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous—amusement.

And that was when Damien realized something unsettling: Nabokov enjoyed it.

The Russian took pleasure in Damien’s sharp retorts and insolent demeanor. That glimmer in his eye wasn’t annoyance—it was satisfaction, as if Damien’s resistance fed into some deeper part of him. But before Damien could fully process this realization, Nabokov leaned in slightly, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You’re right,” Nabokov murmured. “Not meeting you would’ve saved me from… conflicting feelings.”

The words hit Damien like a punch, knocking the air out of his lungs. Conflicting feelings? His mind scrambled to make sense of what Nabokov meant, but no explanation came. The statement felt like a trap—a riddle with no solution—and the subtle ache it left in Damien's chest was worse than he cared to admit.

Nabokov gently took the glass from Damien’s hand, setting both drinks aside with the same precision he brought to every movement. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Damien tried to mask the tension swirling between them. “So… uh, what’s that thing you mentioned? The thing that’s more exciting than dessert?”

Nabokov’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile as he reached for a cue stick. He twirled it between his fingers with practiced ease, his movements unhurried.

“Do you play pool, Damien?” Nabokov asked, the question casual, but the look in his eyes anything but.

Damien arched a brow. “What?”

“Pool,” Nabokov repeated, gesturing toward the sleek pool table in the corner of the room. “One game. Seven rounds. Winner gets a wish.”

Suspicion flickered across Damien’s face. “A wish?”

Nabokov’s smile deepened, just enough to make Damien’s stomach twist in anticipation. “One request. No limits.”

Damien knew he should walk away—end this bizarre exchange before it spiraled further into dangerous territory. But instead, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, driven by equal parts frustration and curiosity.

“Fine,” Damien said, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt. “But don’t cry when I win.”

Nabokov chuckled, the sound low and velvety, sending an involuntary shiver down Damien’s spine. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They moved toward the pool table, the tension coiling tighter with every step. Damien knew this wasn’t just a game—nothing with Nabokov ever was. And he had the unsettling sense that losing would come with consequences he wasn’t ready to face. But the thrill, the undeniable thrill, was impossible to resist.

They took their positions at opposite ends of the table, with the crackling fireplace behind them casting warm light over the polished surface. Damien chalked his cue, stealing a glance at Nabokov, whose eyes remained fixed on him.

“Shall we begin?” Nabokov asked smoothly, his voice dripping with quiet confidence.

Damien returned the gaze, a flicker of provocation sparking in his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Nabokov’s faint grin deepened, and Damien felt it like a current running down his spine.“After you, Damien,” Nabokov said softly, gesturing toward the table.

The first round went overwhelmingly in Damien’s favor. He hadn’t expected to win so decisively, but the points stacked up effortlessly. His nerves settled somewhat, and his confidence grew with each successful shot. By the end of the second round—also his victory—Damien was more relaxed than he’d been all evening.

The atmosphere shifted. They teased each other about their misses, laughed about strategies, and for the first time, Damien felt at ease in Nabokov’s presence. Their interactions became playful; Damien even gave Nabokov light taps on his thigh with his cue stick whenever the Russian tried to distract him. It felt natural—comfortable, even—like they’d known each other for years.

But when the third round ended in Damien’s favor once again, Nabokov’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, it sharpened with quiet intent.

“Wow. You really suck at this,” Damien said, grinning broadly.

Nabokov arched a brow, stepping closer. “Or maybe you’re just too good,” he countered, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“That’s what losers say,” Damien quipped, leaning casually against the edge of the table.

Nabokov stopped just inches away, his presence overwhelming. “I compliment you, and you go and insult me,” he said with mock offense.

Damien rested his chin on the end of his cue, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Truth hurts. If I were you, I’d put this table on eBay. It’s just taking unnecessary space and rotting here anyway.”

Nabokov chuckled, a warm sound that sent heat curling through Damien’s chest. “Harsh.”

“I don’t think a fourth round is necessary,” Damien added smugly.

But Nabokov leaned in, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Let’s play one more,” he murmured.

Damien arched a brow, tapping the cue stick against the floor. “Same rules as before?” he asked, though his heart raced with anticipation.

Nabokov’s grin deepened. “Of course. Whoever wins this last round gets a wish.”

Damien exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. He knew Nabokov’s confidence had a dangerous edge—one that made him second-guess how this final game would play out. But there was no turning back now.

“Alright then,” Damien said with a sly grin. “But just so you know, I’ve been saving my best shots for last.”

Nabokov chuckled softly, stepping closer until their shoulders almost brushed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Damien swallowed hard, doing his best to keep his composure. There was no denying it now—this wasn’t just a game. And whatever was coming next would change the course of their strange, dangerous connection.

A sly smile tugged at Nabokov’s lips. “What do you want if you win?”

Damien tilted his head, pretending to think deeply, as he took a few steps away from his opponent. He wanted to push Nabokov's buttons, to say something eccentric and ridiculous—something that would make the Russian man regret proposing the game in the first place.“How about an island?” Damien teased with a mischievous grin.

Nabokov’s expression didn’t change. If the idea amused or fazed him, he gave no indication. Instead, he gave a small, thoughtful nod. “I can arrange that. Where exactly?”

Damien raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Antarctica,” he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s where the best islands are, right?”

Nabokov’s gaze sharpened as a quiet smile spread across his face. He stepped toward Damien, slow and deliberate, his gray eyes glinting with playful malice.

“You enjoy being impertinent with me, don’t you, Damien?” Nabokov’s voice was a low, seductive whisper. Damien’s pulse quickened as the Russian closed the distance between them. The air felt heavier with each step Nabokov took, but Damien didn’t flinch. He leaned casually on his cue stick, forcing his body to maintain a calm facade despite the nervous energy curling in his gut.

“Yes,” Damien admitted with more confidence than he felt. “And you like it when I am.”He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

Nabokov’s eyes warmed, his smile deepening into something that sent shivers through Damien’s spine.“Yes,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “I like it very much.”

The room fell silent as they locked eyes. Damien tried not to let the intensity in Nabokov's gaze unnerve him, but it was impossible to ignore the weight of the moment. A flicker of something dangerous passed between them—something unspoken, but undeniable.

Nabokov’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I usually punish this kind of cheeky behavior. It’s a shame that I can’t with you.”

A knot tightened in Damien's stomach. He knew the smart thing would be to drop the subject, to brush off the comment with a laugh. Instead, another question slipped out before he could stop himself.

“And why is that?” Damien asked softly, his voice betraying a dangerous curiosity.

Nabokov’s smirk turned predatory. “Because your body doesn’t belong to me... yet.”

Damien’s heart raced as he held the Russian’s gaze. “And it never will,” he said, his tone soft but unwavering.

Nabokov stepped even closer, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. His lips curled into a ghost of a smile. “Is that a challenge, Damien?”

“Having me in your bed is not a game, Alexander,” Damien said, his voice steady. “I’m not a game.”

For a moment, Nabokov’s eyes softened. “Not once did I ever think you were,” he murmured, his voice gentle but resolute.

Damien dropped his gaze, but Nabokov reached out, lifting his chin with a light touch. Their eyes met again, and Nabokov’s thumb grazed Damien’s lower lip, lingering there. Damien’s breath hitched, his body frozen under the man’s touch. His mind screamed at him to move, to pull away, but he stayed rooted to the spot.

“So...” Nabokov whispered, his gaze flicking down to Damien’s lips. “It’s an island you want?”

Damien’s tongue darted out, wetting the lip Nabokov had just touched, and the Russian’s eyes darkened with intent. Damien swallowed hard, his voice low and rough.

“And you...” Damien whispered. “What do you want?”

A slow, satisfied grin spread across Nabokov’s face. He turned away, picking up his cue stick from the table. “You’ll know when I win.”

Damien let out a small, nervous laugh. “When you win? Is that a joke?”The heavy tension between them lightened, if only slightly. Damien leaned against his cue, smirking. “Did you smoke something before I came here?”

Nabokov chuckled. “Are you going to keep talking? Or are you going to play?”

Damien grinned, the banter easing the knot of tension in his chest. “You’re really that eager for a fourth consecutive ass whopping, huh? I don't want an island anymore—I want a country this time.”

Nabokov stepped closer, his grin lazy but full of mischief. “Why stop at a country? Wouldn’t you rather have a continent?”

Damien laughed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But I promise not to abuse my ‘blessed’ pool skills. Ready?”

They started the fourth and final round. But this time, something shifted. Damien could feel it almost immediately—Nabokov’s demeanor changed, his focus razor-sharp. His shots were no longer playful or casual; they were precise, each one landing with ruthless efficiency. Damien struggled to keep up, his confidence slipping as the game progressed.

By the time Nabokov sank the final shot, Damien knew without a doubt: the Russian had been playing him all along.

Nabokov straightened, spreading his arms as if expecting applause. “No congratulations?”

Damien shook his head with a knowing smile. “You threw the first three games, didn’t you?”

Nabokov’s grin was wicked, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Do you really think so little of your own skills?”

Damien chuckled, rolling his eyes. “You played me well, I’ll give you that.”

Nabokov shrugged, stepping closer. “I simply needed to fine-tune my technique.”

Damien crossed his arms, leaning casually against the table. “Alright, I lost. So, what’s your request?”

Nabokov didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied Damien with a slow, deliberate gaze, the intensity in his eyes making Damien’s heart pound.

“I hope you’re not about to ask me for an island,” Damien teased, trying to dispel the tension.

“It would only be fair,” Nabokov replied smoothly, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Damien huffed a laugh. “Well, I can pull up Google Maps and show you an island, but that’s about all I’ve got.”

Nabokov’s low chuckle sent a shiver down Damien’s spine. “Don’t worry. I don’t need anything extravagant.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low murmur. “I just need one small thing from you.”

Damien’s pulse quickened as Nabokov reached out, his hand closing over the cue stick in Damien’s grasp. He set the stick aside, moving in until there was barely an inch between them. Damien’s breath hitched as Nabokov’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing once more over his bottom lip.

Run now, Damien! His mind screamed.

Nabokov’s gaze locked onto his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. He tilted his head, inching closer, the space between them disappearing with agonizing slowness.

Run, Damien!

But Damien didn’t move. He couldn’t—not with the weight of Nabokov’s presence holding him in place.

And then, finally, Nabokov’s lips brushed against Damien’s—soft and purposeful, yet electric enough to send a jolt of heat through his entire body.

Run, Damien...

But instead of running, Damien closed his eyes and kissed him back.