Page 20 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)
The Secret
The moment Damien sat down, he regretted agreeing to go out to eat with Dimitri. He also regretted regretting it. When Dimitri called earlier with the invite, it had seemed like a good idea. After spending the entire day trying to reach Craig with no luck, eating out felt like a way to salvage an otherwise terrible day. What he hadn’t accounted for was that Dimitri would inevitably bring up Craig—or worse, Nabokov.
Now, sitting outside surrounded by murmuring customers and passing strangers, the appeal of the night had worn thin. At least Dimitri was good company, even if his attention was divided between the menu and his phone.
Damien tried to focus on the menu in front of him, but his mind kept straying back to Nabokov. It was like a sickness he couldn’t shake. He’d replayed the events from the othernight a thousand times—how he’d lost control and cameinto Nabokov’s hand. That humiliating memory kept crawling back, eating at him like rust on metal.
“What are you thinking about?” Dimitri’s voice cut through his thoughts.
Damien looked up, his eyes meeting Dimitri’s curious gaze.“Mm?”
Dimitri smiled knowingly, an amused glint in his eye. “ Who are you thinking about?”
Damien dropped his gaze back to the menu, trying to appear invested in the options listed there. “What are you having? I think I'll get the salmon,” he muttered, as though the words could shield him from further scrutiny.
“Ribs,” Dimitri said, unconcerned.
Damien flicked through the menu, half-hoping Dimitri hadn’t noticed that salmon wasn’t even on the list.
“How are things been with Craig?” Dimitri asked casually.
Damien avoided his gaze, feigning deep interest in the cocktail section. Dimitri wasn’t fooled, and they both knew it.
“Damien,” Dimitri pressed gently.
“Actually, ribs sound good,” Damien said hastily, shifting in his seat and setting the drink menu aside. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Dimitri.And, of course, Dimitri was already homing in on the truth.
“Did you fuck the guy?” Dimitri asked, his voice low and blunt.
Damien’s head jerked up, the menu slipping from his hand. “What?!”
Dimitri just shrugged, his expression somewhere between teasing and serious.
“You’re avoiding the conversation. Makes me wonder.”
“You’re crazy,” Damien hissed, his pulse quickening. Did Dimitri and Nabokov drink the same brand of audacity?
“Then why are you so evasive?” Dimitri leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a smug grin.
Damien let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t been ready to face these questions. Confiding in Dimitri had once felt like a lifeline. But now, after the insanity of the other night, that door felt firmly closed. How could he explain kissing another man—let alone coming in the man’s hand—without being consumed by shame?
“Because I just want to eat in peace,” Damien grumbled, avoiding Dimitri’s sharp gaze.
Dimitri was too perceptive for his own good. He would see right through any lie Damien tried to weave.
“Oh, so Craig didn’t take it well, huh?” Dimitri’s smirk grew.
Damien clenched his jaw. If only that were all…
“I haven't told him yet,” Damien muttered, hating how pathetic the words sounded. And he had no intention of ever telling Craig the whole story. That would be like lighting a fuse that couldn’t be snuffed out. Admitting to Craig that he’d kissed another man was one thing—maybe even feasible. But confessing that he’d let Nick’s boss jerk him off? Not so fucking much.
Dimitri gave him a long, assessing look before shaking his head. “I still think you shouldn’t tell him.”
And now, Damien was starting to agree. Telling Craig would unravel everything. But keeping it a secret felt like a betrayal all its own.“Secrets fuck relationships up, Dim,” Damien whispered, eyes downcast. “I don’t want that between Craig and me.”
Dimitri exhaled slowly, leaning forward. “I get it, man. But I have a bad feeling this thing with this guyisn’t over.”
Damien’s chest tightened. Deep down, he knew Dimitri was right. This wasn’t over—God, why couldn't it be?
“No,” Damien said quietly, more to himself than to Dimitri. “I’ll end it. I’ll talk to Craig tonight and make things right.”
Damien met Dimitri’s gaze then, holding it with quiet determination, as he felt a flicker of resolve. Dimitri studied him for a moment before giving him one of his rare, thin smiles.
Despite the heavy conversation, their night hadn’t been entirely weighed down by it. Over drinks and good food, Damien had managed to push the chaos of Nabokov and his crumbling relationship with Craig to the back of his mind—if only for a little while. Dimitri had kept the mood light when needed, their banter familiar and easy. For the first time in days, Damien had felt a sliver of normalcy.
By the time Damien left the restaurant, the night air had cooled, crisp against his skin. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the dim glow of the streetlights. As he unlocked his car, he hesitated for a brief moment—then shook the thought away and slid inside.
The familiar route to Craig’s place passed in a blur of neon reflections and the low hum of the radio. When he finally stepped into the apartment, the time on his phone read 10:34.
He knew Craig wouldn’t be in the best of moods, but he hoped the worst of his anger had cooled. As he crossed the living room, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
Frowning, Damien declined the call and set his phone to vibrate. He crept quietly into the bedroom, where Craig lay sprawled on his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling in the dim light of the television.
Damien climbed onto the bed and gently ran his fingers through Craig’s hair, brushing his cheek. He watched his boyfriend sleep, the steady rhythm of Craig's breath bringing a rare moment of peace to Damien’s racing mind.
Then, his phone vibrated again on the bedside table.
Damien grabbed it, and his heart sank. Nabokov. A message followed seconds later:
You are avoiding me so I came to you. I’m waiting outside .
Damien stared at the text, disbelief and anger colliding in his chest. What the hell was Nabokov doing here? Outside Craig’s apartment, of all places?
Furious, Damien slipped into the bathroom and returned the call. Nabokov answered after two rings.
“Nabokov,” came the smooth, infuriating voice on the other end.
“What the fuck, Alexander?” Damien whispered harshly, barely containing his rage.
A beat of silence followed before Nabokov responded, his tone maddeningly calm.“Good evening to you too, Damien.”
“This isn’t funny. Tell me you’re not actually outside.”
“I am,” Nabokov replied evenly. “And I’m getting impatient.”
Damien clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. “You’re insane. I’m not coming down.”
Nabokov’s voice lowered, tinged with amusement. “Then I’ll come to you.”
“No, you fucking won’t!” Damien hissed.
Nabokov ignored him. “You have two minutes, Damien.”
Before Damien could respond, the line went dead.
Muttering curses under his breath, Damien slipped out of the apartment and headed for the street. The sleek black Bentley was impossible to miss. Anger seethed through him as he yanked open the back door of the car and slid inside.Nabokov sat with a laptop on his lap, Bluetooth in his ear, typing as if Damien’s fury didn’t matter.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Damien spat, glaring at the Russian man.
Nabokov removed the Bluetooth with practiced indifference and set it aside. Their eyes met, and Damien’s heart pounded with a dangerous mix of fury and… something else.
“Good evening, Damien,” Nabokov said smoothly, as if they were old friends.
“Cut the bullshit,” Damien snapped. “Why are you stalking me?”
Nabokov’s lips curled slightly. “Stalking? I prefer to call it… persistence.”
Damien’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the seat.“You don’t get to do this,” Damien growled. “This is harassment.”
Nabokov leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “And yet, here you are.”
The tension between them thickened, filling the small space. Damien’s breath hitched as Nabokov’s gaze locked onto his.
“Tell me, Damien,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you going to walk away? Or are you going to give in?”
Damien’s heart raced, and the world outside the car seemed to fade. In this moment, with Nabokov’s hand grazing his thigh and their breaths mingling, there was only one undeniable truth—he was already falling.
“Stay out of my life, Alexander. I’m warning you. I won’t accept you harassing me like some creepy stalker,” Damien said, clinging to Nabokov’s gaze, his voice a mix of rage and desperation.
Nabokov's expression didn’t change. The billionaire remained impenetrable, like a statue—cold, unmoved, and composed. Damien could feel the weight of failure pressing on him. His threat had no effect. Slowly, reluctantly, Damien turned toward the door handle, ready to escape.
But just as his hand hovered over the latch, Nabokov’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“Did you tell him?”
The question froze Damien in place, his pulse accelerating. Shame washed over him, burning hot in his chest. The images of threenights ago resurfaced—Nabokov’s lips on his, the billionaire’s hand stroking him to release. The memory clung to him like a parasite.
“Tell him what?” Damien asked bitterly, turning back toward Nabokov.
He knew Nabokov had seen through the weak attempt at ignorance. Still, a part of Damien craved to hear Nabokov speak aloud about the transgression they had committed, as if the words would punish him in a way the memory alone couldn’t.
“You know what.” Nabokov’s voice was cool, composed. “Did you tell him what happened last time?”
Damien’s throat constricted, and his lips pressed into a hard line. No. Of course, he hadn’t told Craig. How could he? And yet, the question gnawed at him—why did Nabokov care? What was he hoping to gain?
“Why do you want to know?” Damien shot back sharply, frustration bubbling under the surface.
But Nabokov didn’t answer. He brushed the question aside, as if it were a trivial matter.“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” Nabokov stated, not as a question, but as a fact.
Damien glared, anger simmering beneath his skin. Not this time, Alexander . He wouldn’t let the Russian steer this conversation.
“Are you planning to tell him?” Nabokov pressed.
The question snapped something in Damien. Without thinking, he leaned forward, his words coming out like a growl.
“That’s none of your fucking business!”
His voice echoed in the quiet car, vibrating with barely contained rage. A tense silence followed, the kind that felt heavy, pressing down on Damien’s chest. He forced himself to take slow breaths, calming the storm inside him.
Nabokov didn’t flinch. He held Damien’s gaze with an almost clinical detachment, as if observing a fascinating creature under a microscope. Then, with infuriating nonchalance, Nabokov pulled his phone from his pocket, his attention shifting to the screen.
“You’re not going to tell him anything,” Nabokov murmured, his tone casual yet authoritative. “You’ll keep it secret.”
Damien’s anger surged again.“You don’t know anything about me, or my relationship with Craig! Don’t fucking tell me what I will or won’t do!” Damien snapped, his voice rough with fury.
Nabokov raised an eyebrow, studying Damien with the detached curiosity of someone examining a puzzle.“I don’t understand why you’d want to keep it secret,” Nabokov said, his tone even, as if he were discussing the weather.
Damien forced a fake smile onto his face. “That’s my problem, not yours,” he said sarcastically. But the grin vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a grim realization—he had just confirmed to Nabokov that he hadn’t confessed to Craig.
“Is it because you know he wouldn’t forgive you?” Nabokov asked smoothly.
Damien gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? If I told him?”
“Yes,” Nabokov admitted without hesitation. “He’d leave you. And then I could finally have you.”
The honesty in Nabokov’s words stunned Damien, leaving him momentarily speechless. A hollow laugh escaped his lips, though the situation was anything but amusing.
“You really are human garbage, Alexander,” Damien whispered, staring at Nabokov as if offering a twisted compliment.
“And you’re attracted to that garbage,” Nabokov replied smoothly, his voice cutting like a blade. “So, what does that say about you?”
The words landed with the force of a punch. Damien opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Nabokov watched him, waiting, his gaze sharp and relentless. Silence stretched between them, thick with tension.
At last, Damien forced a grin—a lifeless thing that didn’t reach his eyes.“I may have made mistakes,” Damien murmured, “but at least I’m not stupid enough to throw away a man like Craig.”
Nabokov shrugged, shifting slightly closer until their thighs touched.“I don’t doubt Craig is a good man. If he weren’t, I would’ve had you in my bed a long time ago.”
Damien let out a thin, humorless laugh, the sound tinged with bitterness. He met Nabokov’s gaze, unflinching.“So, this is what it’s all about?” Damien asked, his voice laced with sadness. “Just getting me in your bed?”
The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew he should have expected nothing more from Nabokov, yet the sting of disappointment lingered.
“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 said I 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.
Nabokov’s hand slipped around the back of Damien’s neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The leather seat beneath them creaked as Damien shifted, pressing into Nabokov as if trying to crawl under his skin. The kiss was a storm, relentless and consuming, with neither man willing to back down.
Damien’s hands roamed—gripping the back of Nabokov’s neck, curling into his shirt, desperate for something solid to anchor himself to. Nabokov kissed him like he had all the time in the world, slow and deliberate one moment, then fierce and demanding the next, like he was savoring every second of Damien’s surrender.
When Nabokov’s hand slid beneath Damien’s shirt, brushing against bare skin again, Damien gasped into the kiss, his body arching involuntarily into the touch. It was too much and not enough all at once, and Damien felt like he was drowning in the sensation. He tore his mouth away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
Nabokov’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire as he studied Damien with a calm intensity that made Damien’s skin prickle with heat.
“Do you want me to stop?” Nabokov asked again, his hand still resting on Damien’s bare skin, fingers tracing lazy circles that sent sparks of pleasure skittering down his spine.
Damien shook his head, his breath coming in ragged bursts.“No,” he whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
The faintest smile curved Nabokov’s lips—triumphant, but not unkind. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Damien’s mouth, then another along his jaw, slow and careful, as if savoring the feel of him. Damien let out a soft, involuntary moan, his fingers tightening in Nabokov’s shirt as the billionaire’s lips trailed down the side of his neck.
The tension between them shifted—less frantic, more deliberate, like the slow pull of a tide drawing Damien deeper into dangerous waters. Nabokov’s hand slid lower, fingers tracing the line of Damien’s waistband, teasing but never quite crossing the threshold. The anticipation was maddening, and Damien found himself arching into the touch, silently begging for more.
And then, just as quickly as it began, Nabokov pulled back. Damien let out a frustrated sound, half a whimper, half a growl, and tried to drag him back down—but Nabokov held firm, his hand cupping Damien’s face with surprising gentleness.
“You need to make a choice, Damien,” Nabokov murmured, his thumb brushing over Damien’s bottom lip. “Stay, and there’s no going back.”
Damien’s heart pounded painfully in his chest, his mind spinning in a thousand directions at once. He knew what was at stake—knew that crossing this line meant stepping into something dangerous, something irreversible. But the thought of walking away felt just as impossible.
“I…” Damien swallowed hard, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I can’t.”
Nabokov’s gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a moment, Damien saw something in his eyes—something vulnerable, something real.“Yes, you can,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and steady. “You just have to let go.”
Damien exhaled a shaky breath, his resolve crumbling under the weight of the moment. And then, with a soft, broken sound, he leaned in—pressing his forehead to Nabokov’s, his eyes fluttering shut as he let himself fall.
For a moment, they stayed like that—foreheads touching, breaths mingling, suspended in the quiet aftermath of their shared surrender. And in that fragile silence, Damien knew that everything had changed.
With trembling hands, Damien pulled away. He didn’t say goodbye—didn’t dare look back as he opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. Every step away from the carfelt like tearing off a piece of himself, leaving something behind that he would never get back.
And yet, as he walked toward Craig’s building, Damien knew that a part of him was still in that car, tangled up with Nabokov in a way he could never quite escape.
Behind him, the car’s door clicked shut, and the sound echoed through the night like a final, irrevocable decision. And though Damien kept walking, his heart stayed behind—lost somewhere between desire and regret.