Page 19 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)
Unspoken Truths
The tension was electric, vibrating in the air between them like a storm building to its inevitable climax. Damien’s arousal, hard and undeniable, strained against the fabric of his jeans, ignored but ever-present, a constant reminder of his spiraling desires. Nabokov’s lips—deliberate and skilled—moved against his own with a confidence that felt practiced yet intimate, making Damien feel both possessed and powerless. The man’s tongue traced patterns in his mouth, demanding submission, and to Damien's horror, he found himself surrendering to every movement.
Nabokov’s hand drifted down Damien’s spine, his fingers skimming over the curve of his back, dangerously close to the edge of his jeans. Damien groaned against Nabokov’s mouth, both a protest and an invitation, as his knees began to ache from the position. Yet, the discomfort barely registered. His grip on Nabokov’s shirt tightened, as if holding on to the billionaire’s clothes might tether him to some semblance of control—control he was rapidly losing.
The kiss, relentless and deep, finally broke, leaving Damien gasping for air. Nabokov’s lips moved to his neck, a place Damien wished wasn’t so sensitive, so treacherously responsive. As Nabokov’s mouth pressed hotly to his skin, Damien knew he was doomed. His neck was his Achilles’ heel, and Nabokov seemed determined to exploit every weakness. Damien's moans, unguarded and shameless, escaped him in waves, encouraging the Russian's kisses to linger and deepen.
A slow shiver ran down Damien's spine when Nabokov caught his hand mid-air and guided it down, pressing it over the impressive bulge in his pants. Damien’s fingers instinctively flexed against the hard outline beneath the fabric, his mind reeling at the reality of the moment.
“I want to feel your lips here,” Nabokov murmured against Damien's neck, his voice thick with desire.
The words were a match to kindling. Damien’s pulse raced uncontrollably, and a chaotic battle waged inside him—desire against guilt, impulse against reason. But suddenly, clarity slashed through the haze. With a sharp intake of breath, Damien yanked himself back, ripping free from Nabokov’s touch as if the man's skin burned. Nabokov rose to his feet with deliberate ease .
For a moment, the two men stood in charged silence, Damien panting, his expression torn between anger and panic. Nabokov watched him with a gaze that was both unreadable and all-consuming, the weight of it suffocating.
Without a word, Damien stumbled backward, putting space between them, but it did little to extinguish the fire Nabokov had ignited.
Craig. His boyfriend. The man who had stood by him for three years. The thought of Craig, and all Damien stood to lose, slammed into him with brutal force. His hands trembled as he combed through his disheveled hair, as if trying to find a way to physically rearrange the chaos within him.
“Fuck. What the fuck am I even doing? Shit...” Damien muttered, more to himself than to Nabokov.
But before Damien could step away again, Nabokov’s presence closed in like a shadow. The man’s chest pressed against Damien’s back, his arm snaking possessively around Damien’s waist.
“Damien…” Nabokov’s lips brushed his pierced ear, his voice low and dangerously soothing.
Damien closed his eyes, his body betraying him once more as a traitorous shiver coursed through him. The warmth of Nabokov’s breath on his skin clouded his judgment.
“What’s wrong?” Nabokov whispered silkily, nuzzling into Damien’s neck.
With an agonized grunt, Damien twisted violently away from Nabokov’s embrace, his pulse thundering in his ears. He turned to face the billionaire, his eyes blazing with anger and confusion.“What’s wrong?” Damien repeated, his voice rising. “Are you kidding me right now? Have you forgotten that I’m in a relationship?”
Nabokov didn’t flinch under the fury in Damien’s tone. His expression remained as composed as ever, cool and unwavering.“No,” Nabokov replied softly, as if the fact had never mattered. “How could I forget?”
“Then why are you doing this?” Damien demanded, his voice cracking with frustration. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Nabokov’s answer was a step forward, one that cornered Damien without touching him, his presence alone suffocating.
“What exactly am I doing to you?” Nabokov whispered, his voice a dark temptation.
Damien tried to turn his face away, but Nabokov's hand cupped his cheek with deliberate tenderness. The billionaire leaned in again, his lips barely brushing Damien's.
“Like this?” Nabokov murmured. His hand trailed down Damien’s back, finally settling on his ass with an unapologetic grip. “Things like this?”
Damien groaned involuntarily, his head dropping forward as Nabokov’s mouth trailed soft, devastating kisses down his neck. The slow exploration felt torturous, designed to break him piece by piece.
When Nabokov’s lips finally found Damien’s again, the kiss was slower, deeper, and even more dangerous. There was no urgency, only the weight of inevitability, as if both men had resigned themselves to the moment. Damien’s fingers tangled in Nabokov’s hair, and his other hand pressed against the man’s chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, Damien didn’t know.
Then Nabokov whispered the words that shattered Damien’s resolve completely.
“Leave him. End it with Craig.”
Damien jerked back, his heart pounding in disbelief. “Wh-What?”
“You heard me.” Nabokov’s tone was maddeningly calm. “Put an end to it.”
A bitter laugh escaped Damien, though there was no humor in it. “You’re insane,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Nabokov’s expression remained indifferent, as if Damien’s reaction was precisely what he expected.
“How is it insane to tell you to leave someone you don’t want anymore?” Nabokov asked, his gray eyes cutting through Damien’s defenses with brutal precision.
Damien’s anger erupted, hot and fierce. “I do want Craig! You think I don’t love him? Just because I—” He faltered, unable to finish the thought.
Nabokov stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “Who are you trying to convince, Damien? Me or yourself?”
Damien’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Nabokov tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You weren’t thinking about him when you kissed me back.”
Damien’s stomach twisted. “Shut up.”
Nabokov’s gaze burned into him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Damien exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, his pulse still erratic. “You really are a piece of shit, you know that?”
A slow, humorless smile crossed Nabokov’s lips. “Maybe. But I’ve never cheated on my lovers.”
The words hit Damien like a slap, searing through his guilt and self-loathing. Before he could think, his hand shot up, ready to strike Nabokov across the face. But the billionaire caught his wrist mid-air with alarming speed. His grip was firm—possessive—and Damien found himself locked in place, their faces inches apart, the tension crackling between them.
“Don’t ever try to raise your hand at me again, Damien. I won’t tolerate that level of disrespect,” Nabokov warned, his voice low and dangerous.
Damien glared at him, teeth clenched in defiance. “Let me go.”
Nabokov’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second before easing—loosening just enough to no longer restrain, but still holding Damien’s wrist in his grasp. Instead of retreating, he leaned in, his breath warm against Damien’s lips.
“If you don't let me go, I won't hesitate to show you how much respect I have for you by spitting on your fucking face,” Damien hissed, his voice deceptively calm, though rage flickered beneath the surface. His eyes, sharp and furious, bore into Nabokov’s with unyielding defiance.
Nabokov leaned closer, his breath brushing Damien’s lips, the space between them vanishing to a mere whisper. A slow, arrogant smile curled at the corners of his mouth.“Why waste your saliva?” Nabokov murmured provocatively. “When we could share it instead.”
Damien’s glare intensified, his nostrils flaring with barely restrained anger. His fingers curled into the fabric of Nabokov’s shirt, gripping it tight. Nabokov’s cocky smirk faded into a neutral expression, his eyes unreadable yet heavy with something unspoken.
“You have no idea how much I fucking hate you,” Damien whispered fiercely, his grip tightening on Nabokov’s shirt.
Nabokov didn’t flinch. Instead, he lowered his head slowly, eyes locked with Damien’s as he brought the captive wrist to his lips and pressed a deliberate, searing kiss to the inside of it—slow, almost reverent.His gaze flicked back up, darker now, more dangerous. His voice dropped into a low, deliberate challenge.
“Show me.”
The air between them thickened with tension. Neither man moved for a long, charged moment, their breathing heavy and synchronized, matching the pounding rhythm of Damien’s heart. Then, like a dam bursting, Damien surged forward. Their mouths collided in a kiss that was nothing short of war.
It wasn’t gentle—there was no room for softness or hesitation. Their mouths were feral, biting, taking, demanding more with every stroke of their tongues. Damien clung to Nabokov’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying futilely to dominate the kiss. But Nabokov met him with equal ferocity, his hand sliding down Damien’s back, dangerously close to his ass, fanning the fire that burned between them.
They moved together, step by step, until Damien’s back slammed hard against the wall. He didn’t care. Pain was irrelevant, eclipsed by the all-consuming heat of Nabokov’s mouth on his. Damien fumbled with the buttons of Nabokov’s shirt, yanking them open with desperate urgency. His fingers stilled momentarily when he encountered the white camisole underneath, but Nabokov didn’t give him time to linger on his disappointment.
With one smooth movement, Nabokov’s hand found Damien’s zipper, pulling it down. Damien gasped, breath hitching, as Nabokov reached inside his jeans, pull it out from his boxer, and wrapped his hand around Damien’s hardening cock.
The reality of the moment hit Damien like a freight train, surreal and intoxicating. He glanced down, watching as Nabokov’s elegant hand stroked him in slow, deliberate motions. His mind swam in disbelief— was this really happening?
Nabokov’s gaze locked onto Damien’s, silent and unyielding, heightening the eroticism of the moment. The way the Russian man watched him, expression composed, almost clinical, made Damien’s pleasure spiral higher. His breath came in ragged bursts, and when Nabokov leaned in to capture his mouth again, Damien surrendered completely.
He came without warning, his release hot and sudden, spilling over Nabokov’s hand. A soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips, muffled against the billionaire’s mouth.
Embarrassment hit Damien like a wave. He pulled away, panting, his cheeks burning with shame. With fumbling hands, he stuffed himself back into his boxers, hastily zipping his jeans. His eyes refused to meet Nabokov’s as he reached for the billionaire’s hand, gently wiping it with the hem of his own shirt. The silence between them felt unbearable, weighted by what had just transpired.
When he finished, Damien turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the door without a second glance. His mind raced, consumed by guilt, shame, and the overwhelming need to escape. He reached for the doorknob, but Nabokov’s voice stopped him mid-turn.
“Damien.”
The sound of his name—low, soothing—held him frozen in place. His hand lingered on the cold metal of the doorknob, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a trapped animal.
He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, but didn’t turn around.
“Goodnight, Alexander,” he whispered, his voice hollow, as if speaking from some distant, detached part of himself.
He opened the door and stepped out, the soft click of it closing behind him resonating like a final, unspoken promise. I won’t see him again .
But even as he walked away, the feel of Nabokov’s hand on his skin and the taste of his lips lingered—unshakable, unforgettable, and hauntingly inevitable.
And Damien knew, with a sinking certainty, that no matter how hard he tried, this wouldn’t be the end.
Far from it.