Page 18 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The Second Try

Nabokov’s receptionist—or his secretary, or maybe just his latest sex friend—clearly belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Long red hair cascaded down her back, complementing eyes as green as emeralds, her appearance carefully curated for maximum effect. Damien didn’t doubt for a second that beneath the office desk, hidden from view, were a pair of perfectly sculpted legs on display under a short leather skirt.

His suspicions were confirmed when she stood up to escort him to the office. Each step caused her black skirt to ride higher on her thighs, a confident sway in her stride that felt more suited to a runway than an office hallway. Damien followed her down the familiar corridor, dreading the destination—Asshole of the Year’s office.

They stopped in front of the same door that had witnessed his walk of shame two days ago. His mind immediately betrayed him, flooding with images of heated kisses. Goddammit . His breath hitched, but he masked it with a blank expression.

The redhead opened the door, then stepped aside, allowing Damien to slip inside before she entered after him, positioning herself near the doorway. To Damien’s surprise, she strode toward the room where he and Nabokov had been playing pool. Reluctantly, Damien followed her.

“Mr. Nabokov will be with you shortly. Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, her tone polite but distant, like she was running on autopilot. “Would you like a drink, coffee, tea?”

Damien fought the urge to respond with sarcasm. Comfortable wasn’t in the cards today.“No, thank you,” he replied with the best fake smile he could muster, turning away from her toward the pool table that had witnessed far too much.

Her bright, commercial smile didn’t waver. “Perfect,” she chirped before closing the door behind her, leaving Damien alone.

He approached the pool table slowly, a strange compulsion guiding him. His fingers brushed over the felt, triggering a rush of memories from two nights before—memories he was desperate to forget. With an irritated sigh, he turned toward the fireplace, seeking distraction.

But distraction was not on the menu. His eyes fell on a lavish spread of food laid out on the table—exotic fruits, meats, cheeses, and decadent desserts, as if they were about to indulge in some luxurious picnic. Was this a joke ? Damien rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder what Nabokov was trying to accomplish with this ridiculous setup. Did the man really think a buffet would erase the kisses that haunted Damien’s mind?

Damien sank onto the leather sofa, glaring at the flames crackling in the fireplace. He pulled out his laptop, setting it on his lap, trying to focus on the reason he was here. He was late on purpose—thirty minutes, to be precise. Yet, somehow, Nabokov wasn’t already here waiting like the smug bastard Damien had expected him to. It was almost as if he knew that Damien would be purposely late, and he wanted to return the favor.

In the brief window of solitude, Damien attempted to call Craig again. No answer. Frustration gnawed at him as he fired off yet another apologetic text, knowing full well it wouldn’t fix the damage. He planned to explain everything in person—just not today.

“Good evening, Damien.”

The sudden voice startled Damien, making him fumble with his phone. His pulse spiked as he snapped his head up, locking eyes with Nabokov, who now stood just inches from the fireplace. The billionaire’s presence was impossible to ignore, commanding and effortlessly elegant. Damien couldn’t help but notice the immaculate cut of his attire. He wore a crisp, white dress shirt, open at the collar, revealing just a hint of his collarbone and lending him an effortless, understated elegance. Over it, a tailored charcoal blazer hung casually open, that fit him perfectly, accentuating the sharp lines of his shoulders and his tall, athletic build, giving him an air of understated luxury. Dark slacks tapered perfectly down his long legs, and polished leather shoes peeked out from beneath the hem, glinting slightly in the warm firelight.

Hands tucked casually into his pockets, Nabokov looked entirely at ease—like a man who had every reason to be. A sleek watch gleamed on his wrist, and the scent of his cologne, crisp and layered with subtle woodsy notes, reached Damien, as unwelcome as it was intoxicating. The fabric of his clothes was smooth, likely some absurdly expensive material Damien couldn’t name, but what truly completed the look was the unbothered arrogance that Nabokov wore better than any designer brand.

For a moment, Damien forgot how to breathe. He scrambled to compose himself, his features hardening as he tried to act indifferent, as if the sight of Nabokov didn’t unravel him. But that damn cologne—the same intoxicating scent as the other night —was already messing with his head.

“You’re not speaking to me now?” Nabokov asked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his gray eyes.

Damien clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze on the laptop screen. He’d made a vow to himself: no unnecessary conversation. This meeting was strictly business. Nick’s software presentation—nothing more, nothing less.

“So, how do you plan to present the software without saying a word?” Nabokov’s voice was playful, clearly enjoying Damien’s attempt at defiance.

Damien exhaled sharply, his patience already wearing thin. “If you’re done playing games, can we start? I’d like to go home.”

Nabokov’s lips twitched, but he didn’t reply right away. Instead, he made his way to the sofa opposite Damien’s, poured himself a glass of wine, and took a deliberate slow sip, his eyes never leaving Damien’s. The silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken tension.

“Wine?” Nabokov offered casually, as if they were old friends catching up.

“No,” Damien answered flatly, his eyes glued to the laptop.

“Water, maybe?”

“No.”

A faint smile curved Nabokov’s lips, as if he found Damien’s irritation endearing. “Help yourself if you change your mind.”

Damien ignored him, pretending to be engrossed in the laptop. But Nabokov’s presence was impossible to ignore. The man had a way of commanding the room without saying a word, and Damien hated that it worked.

Without warning, Nabokov reached for a slice of cheesecake from the table. He took his time, savoring each bite with a precision that felt deliberate—sensual, even. Damien’s eyes flicked toward him despite himself, and he instantly regretted it.

Nabokov’s gaze was unreadable, but something simmered beneath the surface. That blank expression carried an unsettling undercurrent of desire. Damien’s stomach twisted as heat spread through his body, not from the fireplace but from the way Nabokov’s gaze lingered—like he was undressing him with every glance.

“I apologize,” Nabokov said, licking a bit of frosting from his thumb. “I didn’t have lunch today.”

Damien swallowed hard, cursing the way his body responded to the sight. He tried to steady himself, shifting his attention back to the laptop. “You’re hungry, and you choose cake?” he muttered under his breath.

Nabokov smiled, the corners of his lips curving mischievously. “What can I say? I have a sweet tooth.”

Damien huffed a reluctant laugh, despite himself. “I have one too, but even I have limits.”

Nabokov’s gaze darkened, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Limits are good,” he murmured, his voice dipping low.

The air between them felt suffocating, thick with tension. Damien fought to maintain his composure, knowing that Nabokov was testing him—pushing him, waiting for him to crack. And when the billionaire leaned forward, his expression softening but his intent unmistakable, Damien knew exactly where this was headed.

Damien leaned forward, tapping on his laptop, and the screen illuminated with Nick’s updated software. He cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s walk through this.”

Nabokov sat beside him, his posture relaxed, but his gaze sharp. Damien tried to ignore the way Nabokov's knee almost brushed against his own or how the billionaire’s presence seemed to fill every inch of space between them.

The software presentation lasted only twenty minutes. Damien moved through the slides efficiently, showing the bug fixes, smoother user experience, and the polished new interface Nick had worked tirelessly on. As Damien clicked through the final slide, he finally exhaled.

“That’s about it,” he said, relieved it was over. “The updates should meet all your requirements now.”

Nabokov gave a small, noncommittal nod, his attention seemingly elsewhere as he rested his chin on his hand. Damien bit the inside of his cheek, waiting in silence for some sort of verdict, but none came.

“So?” Damien prompted, breaking the silence. “Do you think the improvements are enough?”

Nabokov leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “There are… improvements,” he murmured, as if offering a half-compliment.

His gaze flicked lazily from the screen to Damien, the corner of his mouth lifting into something that was neither quite a smile nor a smirk.

Damien clenched his jaw, irritation simmering beneath his polite facade. “Right. So, if there's nothing else—”

“You could stay a little longer,” Nabokov whispered, his voice a velvet thread of invitation that twisted through the air between them.

The shift in tone caught Damien off guard. His fingers hovered above the laptop's keys, freezing mid-motion. He turned slowly toward Nabokov, meeting his gaze. The warmth of the fireplace glinted off the billionaire’s gray eyes, making them seem both hungry and patient. The contrast between his soft tone and the command layered beneath it unsettled Damien.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Damien replied, careful to keep his voice steady.

“Oh, but I do.” Nabokov’s gaze was relentless, pinning Damien where he sat.

Damien inhaled deeply, but the scent of Nabokov’s cologne did nothing to calm his nerves. The man didn’t move, but it felt like his presence was closing in, pulling Damien deeper into a place he didn’t want to explore—yet couldn’t resist.

“No,” Damien said, his voice firmer than he expected. “I really don’t want to, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing Damien’s resolve. “Then what do you want?” he asked softly, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable.

Damien swallowed thickly, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. “Nothing that you can give me.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Nabokov’s face. “How do you know, Damien? We barely know each other.”

“Exactly,” Damien shot back, his frustration bubbling over. “That’s the problem.”

Nabokov leaned closer, his breath warm against Damien’s cheek. “What are you so afraid of?”

Damien opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Afraid? He wasn’t afraid—was he?

The silence between them stretched taut, a loaded pause that felt like a challenge. Nabokov leaned back against the couch, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. And just when Damien thought he’d managed to regain control, Nabokov whispered the words that shattered him all over again.

“I dreamed of us, you know,” Nabokov murmured, his voice low, almost as if confessing a sin.

Damien’s heart faltered. “What?”

“Of your lips.” Nabokov’s gaze darkened as one hand draped lazily along the top of the leather. “It was the first time I dreamed of another man this way.”

Damien’s breath hitched. Nabokov turned his head slowly, meeting Damien’s gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. The air between them thickened, and Damien felt the invisible pull drawing them closer—closer than they had any right to be.

“Why are you telling me this?” Damien whispered, his voice betraying the inner turmoil clawing at him.

Damien inhaled deeply, the scent of Nabokov’s cologne stirring memories of the other night. He tried to steady himself, gripping the laptop as if it could anchor him. But Nabokov wasn't finished.

“Because I still want a taste of your lips,” Nabokov said, his words rolling off his tongue like a dangerous promise.

Damien’s mind screamed at him to leave, to run before things escalated further. But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot, every nerve alive with anticipation. Nabokov leaned in slightly, his gaze flicking down to Damien’s lips, then back up to his eyes.

This was dangerous. Damien knew that much. But danger had never tasted so enticing.He should have stopped it there. Should have set clear boundaries, told Nabokov this was the end. But instead, Damien’s hand faltered, caught between restraint and desire. Nabokov’s fingers found Damien’s chin, lifting his face gently toward him.

“No,” Damien whispered, raising three fingers to rest on Nabokov’s lips, creating a flimsy barrier between them. “No more of that, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes gleamed with something wicked. He didn’t push Damien’s hand away but kissed the fingers softly, his lips warm and deliberate. Then, with unnerving slowness, he brushed Damien’s hand aside and before Damien could stop it, Nabokov’s mouth was on his—hungry, relentless, and utterly consuming.

This time, there were no excuses. No rules to hide behind. Just heat, desire, and the inevitability of what they had started. This time, there was no hesitation. Nabokov’s lips were insistent, yet controlled, moving against Damien’s with a deliberate, maddening slowness. His hand cradled Damien’s jaw, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss, as if tasting every hesitation Damien had ever buried.

A low, involuntary sound escaped Damien’s throat—a mix of frustration and yearning—and it seemed to spur Nabokov further. The billionaire’s hand slid down Damien’s neck, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his ear, sending sparks down Damien’s spine. His other hand settled firmly on Damien’s waist, fingers pressing just hard enough to ground him in the moment, as if to say stay with me .

Damien’s heart pounded erratically, a traitor against his better judgment. He knew he should stop—pull away, now, before it’s too late—but Nabokov’s mouth was a tether, binding him to the here and now, making it impossible to think beyond the next breath, the next brush of lips.

Nabokov angled his head, coaxing Damien’s mouth open with a slow, sensual tease of his tongue. The kiss deepened with a heady urgency, their tongues tangling as if they recognized each other by taste alone. Damien gripped the front of Nabokov’s shirt—not to push him away, but to pull him closer, fingers curling into the soft, expensive fabric.

Nabokov’s cologne enveloped Damien, intoxicating him, making it difficult to tell where the man ended and his own desires began. His pulse thrummed wildly in his throat, and every nerve in his body responded to the way Nabokov kissed him: slow, deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. As if Damien belonged to him and always would.

Nabokov’s hand slipped lower, settling on Damien’s hip and pulling him closer with a possessive ease that made Damien’s stomach tighten. The pressure of Nabokov’s palm against his side sent a jolt of heat through him, and before he could think better of it, Damien’s hands roamed upward, sliding across Nabokov’s broad shoulders. His fingers trailed along the smooth planes beneath Nabokov’s finely tailored shirt, mapping the strength hidden there.

“Damien…” Nabokov whispered against his mouth, the sound barely audible, yet it vibrated through Damien as if it were a command.

Damien broke the kiss briefly, gasping for air, their foreheads pressing together as they both tried to catch their breath. His fingers remained fisted in Nabokov’s shirt, unwilling to let go even as his mind screamed at him to put distance between them. But the moment he saw the look in Nabokov’s eyes—those stormy, unguarded eyes—Damien knew he was lost.

The hunger between them hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown sharper, more urgent. Nabokov’s lips hovered a breath away, close enough for Damien to feel the heat radiating from them, but far enough to make him ache with want.

“Damien,” Nabokov whispered again, his voice a dark, velvety caress.

And just like that, Damien gave in.

As Damien shifted, his knees pressing into the cushions, his MacBook—his latest, ridiculously expensive MacBook—slipped from his lap. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but neither of them flinched. Neither of them cared. Nabokov’s hands were there instantly, guiding him, steadying him as Damien straddled him, his legs settling on either side of Nabokov’s hips.

Nabokov exhaled slowly, the breath fanning across Damien’s face like an unspoken promise. His hands slid up Damien’s back, pulling him flush against his chest, until there was no space left between them. Damien could feel the steady thrum of Nabokov’s heartbeat beneath his palm, matching the wild rhythm of his own.

The kiss resumed with a fiery intensity, their mouths colliding with reckless abandon. Damien arched into Nabokov’s touch as the man’s hands roamed freely now—up his back, across his sides, claiming every inch of him as if Damien were something precious to be possessed.

Heat pooled low in Damien’s stomach and groin, coiling tightly with every glide of Nabokov’s tongue against his. He groaned softly into the kiss, his hips shifting involuntarily against Nabokov’s—where their erections pressed together through too many layers of fabric, sparking an unbearable friction that made his pulse race. Nabokov’s hands tightened on Damien’s waist, grounding him and encouraging him all at once, as if saying I have you—don't hold back . Damien responded without thinking, rolling his hips forward again, chasing that intoxicating friction, and earning a low, approving hum from Nabokov that sent shivers down Damien’s spine.

The fireplace crackled beside them, but the heat between their bodies burned hotter, threatening to consume them whole. Damien was vaguely aware that this was dangerous—that crossing this line was something he could never come back from—but in that moment, with Nabokov’s hands and mouth on him, none of it seemed to matter.

This wasn’t just a kiss. It was surrender. And as much as Damien hated himself for it, he knew he didn’t want it to stop.