Page 24 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The words tumbled out before Damien could think them through, but he didn’t care. It was his last-ditch effort to claw back some semblance of control.

Nabokov’s expression didn’t change—no anger, no fear, not even amusement. Just the same cool indifference, like Damien’s threat was little more than white noise.

“Well,” Nabokov murmured, adjusting the papers in front of him with casual ease. “Do what you think is right.”

The detachment in his tone shattered something in Damien. How could this man remain so calm, so unfazed, while Damien’s life unraveled at his feet?

“All of this… it’s a game to you, isn’t it?” Damien whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of frustration. “Chasing someone who’s already taken—breaking up a relationship for kicks—this is just fun for you.”

Nabokov didn’t answer, his gaze unwavering. It was the silence of a man who had no need to justify himself.

“How the hell do you sleep at night?” Damien asked bitterly, his lips curling into a pained sneer.

“I sleep very well,” Nabokov replied smoothly. The simplicity of his answer stung more than any insult.

Damien clenched his jaw. “You sleep well knowing you destroy people’s lives? Knowing you can’t stand not getting what you want?”

Nabokov smiled, a slow, deliberate gesture that was more dangerous than any threat. The kind of smile that said: I don’t need to justify myself to anyone .

“When I want something, I don’t wait for it,” Nabokov said, his voice low but steady. “I take it. Life is too short to hesitate. If there’s something I want to do, I don’t waste time— I do it, without question. It’s that simple.”

Damien let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle and broken. He was running on fumes—anger, exhaustion, and the ache of helplessness combining into a storm he couldn’t contain.

“So, you’re just a bigger piece of shit than I thought,” Damien muttered.

Nabokov shrugged, unbothered. “I’d say I’m ambitious. But if ‘piece of shit’ makes you feel better, I’ll take it.”

The weight of Nabokov’s words settled over Damien like a heavy blanket, suffocating him. He felt the fight draining from his limbs, the sharp edges of his anger dulling under the crushing reality that he was up against someone he couldn’t win against.

Damien turned abruptly, ready to leave, but tears began to prick his eyes before he could make it out the door. He was unraveling, piece by piece, and Nabokov was watching every fragment fall.

“Damien,” Nabokov called out, his voice calm and measured, as if he had all the time in the world. “Let me drop you off at your place.”

Damien didn’t stop walking.

“Or at the police station. Wherever you want,” Nabokov added casually.

Damien froze halfway to the door, his fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking, anger and exhaustion warring inside him.

“Alexander…” Damien whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “It’s enough. I can’t do this anymore. Let’s stop this. Please.”

His legs carried him not toward the exit, but to the bathroom, where the door swung open under his trembling hand. As soon as he stepped inside, the tears broke free, hot and bitter against his cheeks.

“Fuck!” Damien muttered, choking on his own frustration.

He wasn’t even able to stand up to Nabokov—not even to save his relationship.

In this war of wills, he had already lost. Damien barely felt like a man anymore. In Nabokov’s presence, he was worse than submissive—he was powerless. Why couldn’t he hit the Russian’s weak spot, find a way to force him out of his life for good? Why was it so impossible?

He loved Craig—he truly did. Yet that love wasn’t enough to sever the hold Nabokov had on him. He would have to go to the police. As pathetic as it felt, that was the only way out.He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His own reflection disgusted him. Red-eyed, broken, hopeless. What would his father think, seeing him like this? Crying for nothing—falling apart over a man he should despise.

He turned on the sink, grabbing some paper towels and wetting them. He scrubbed at the wine stains on his jeans, then knelt to wipe his soiled Nikes, as though cleaning away the mess would erase everything else. But the tears kept coming, slow and relentless, dripping onto his hands as he worked.

He moved to the far end of the counter, sat on it, his back resting against the mirror, his legs stretched out. His eyes stared into the void, tears drying on his cheeks but leaving behind the ache in his chest.

Even the thought of going to the police left him cold. Would they even take him seriously when they found out who Nabokov was? Would they just laugh at him, call him weak? Probably. But he had to try—for Craig, if not for himself. Craig deserved that much.

Craig deserved everything.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Nabokov’s tall figure slipped inside. Damien’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

Their eyes met for a moment—then Damien looked away.

“Please,” he whispered, voice fragile. “Get out.”

Nabokovheaded toward a sink a few feet away. “I just came to clean up,” he replied, his tone maddeningly calm.

Damien turned his head away, trying to drown out the sound of running water and the quiet rustle of paper towels. Every second in the billionaire’s presence gnawed at him, threatening to undo what little composure he had left.

When the sound stopped, Nabokov moved closer, standing only a foot away. His gaze rested on Damien, unwavering.

“Can I drop you off?” Nabokov asked quietly.

Damien slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Can one of my men take you home?” Nabokov persisted, his voice soft but insistent.

“No,” Damien repeated, more forcefully this time.

Nabokov closed the distance between them, slipping between Damien’s legs. The space between them shrank to nothing, and Damien felt his breath hitch in his throat.

“Let me call you a cab,” Nabokov murmured, his voice brushing against Damien’s skin like a dangerous caress.

Damien pressed both hands to Nabokov’s chest, trying to push him away, but there was no strength behind the gesture. Nabokov wasn’t just standing before him—he was looming, suffocating.

“No. I just want you to leave,” Damien whispered, avoiding Nabokov’s gaze.

A hand, gentle and deliberate, touched Damien’s cheek, making him flinch.“Why?” Nabokov asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Damien’s eyes finally met his, wide and full of anguish. Tears clung to his lashes, trembling on the brink of falling.

“Is that really a question?” Damien whispered, voice cracking.

Nabokov leaned closer, his breath warm on Damien’s damp skin. “Yes,” he murmured. “You already know how this will end. So why resist?”

Damien’s chest heaved as he fought against the urge to collapse completely. He hated the pull Nabokov had on him—hated how his body betrayed him.

“Oh? And how is this going to end?” Damien whispered, desperation laced through his words.

Nabokov’s mouth hovered close to Damien’s ear, the words falling like a promise. “Me inside you and you coming for me.”

Damien’s cock stirred in response, and shame burned through him. He hated the desire—hated that it was still there, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“You say this with so much confidence,” Damien hissed, his voice shaking with rage. “As if you’ve ever fucked a man before. As if you were even attracted to them.” He pressed harder against Nabokov’s chest, his anger spilling out. “It’s not attraction—it’s just adrenaline. A thrill from chasing what you think you can’t have.”

Nabokov smiled—just a flicker of amusement—and slipped his arms around Damien’s waist. Damien turned his head away, trying to block out the intimacy, but Nabokov’s lips found his cheek, trailing kisses along his skin.

“So, you think I won’t get hard for you?” Nabokov whispered against Damien’s ear, his voice like silk. “Since I met you, every time I’ve jerked off, it’s been you I thought of. I haven’t touched anyone else, because my dick—” his breath hitched ever so slightly, “only wants you.”

Damien squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling freely as Nabokov’s words unraveled him. His body betrayed him, shivering under Nabokov’s touch, craving something he knew would only destroy him.His shame was blistering, but his body—his treacherous body—arched into the touch, into the voice, the presence. He wanted to disappear and be devoured all at once.

“When I take you, Damien… ”Nabokov’s mouth ghosted over his cheek, his breath searing. “You won’t forget it. Not even with alcohol. You’ll remember every second—every inch of me inside you. The only thing you’ll forget…” His hand slid lower, not quite touching but close enough to burn. “…is your own name.”

A beat. A breath. And then, voice thick with hunger, “I can almost feel how tight you’re going to be around my cock. And I can almost see my cum leaking out of that tight, fucked hole.”

Damien let out a choked noise—part gasp, part sob. His entire body was on fire, his sanity fraying. He was going to break.

He jerked his head up, his gaze meeting Nabokov’s as their lips pressed together. His eyes filled with tears, ready to spill over. Nabokov’s words tore him apart, leaving nothing but raw nerves and broken pieces in their wake. He hated his own body for reacting to Nabokov’s promises—promises that stirred a fire inside him that no amount of shame could extinguish.

“So…you won’t stop until you get what you want?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

Nabokov’s answer was a soft, consuming kiss.“No. I won’t stop until I have you.”

Tears began slipping down Damien’s face. He lowered his head, gently pushing Nabokov’s chest as he slid off the counter. Nabokov let him go. Damien took a few steps away, his back to Nabokov, trembling. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, struggling to breathe around the ache in his throat. He could feel the weight of defeat settling over him.

“You know,” he began, voice unsteady, “whenever I lashed out, whenever I insulted you…it wasn’t you I was angry with. It was me. I’m the one to blame, the piece of garbage, the piece of shit in this whole mess. I hate myself for how much I want you. I hate that I’m too damn fucking weak to silence this…this obsession. I should be strong enough to walk away, to protect the man who’s been nothing but good to me. The man I love.”

His words fell into the silence, heavy with finality. Damien swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the floor. The fight had drained from him. He knew he’d lost. Even after admitting it all out loud, there was no relief, no redemption—only emptiness. He turned back to Nabokov, his eyes pleading as he took a few slow steps forward.

“So, since I can’t resist… I’m asking you, Alexander. Man to man. I’m begging you—drop this. Walk away.” His voice broke. “Forget whatever challenge this is for you. Craig doesn’t deserve any of this. He loves me…and I love him, too.”

And then, as though his heart gave out beneath the weight, Damien fell to his knees. Tears streaked his face as he looked up at Nabokov, raw and defeated.

He buried his face in his hands, the tears coming harder now.

“I can’t do this,” Damien whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I can’t fight you anymore.”

He felt Nabokov’s presence loom above him, but he didn’t move.

“I’m on my knees, begging you. I don’t want to hurt him anymore. He’s the last person who deserves this. Please… I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work for you, for free, all summer. I’ll take on any project, make you more money than you can imagine. Just…leave us alone.”

Their eyes met, and while Nabokov’s expression remained as impassive as ever, there was something flickering beneath the surface—a glint of raw vulnerability, fragile and unguarded. It was something Damien had never seen before, something almost haunting in its unexpected openness.

“Please,” Damien begged, his voice a desperate rasp. “Please… just let me go. Craig is a good man. He doesn’t deserve this. If you have any decency left—if there’s any part of you that’s human—please stop.”

“Damien.” Nabokov’s voice cut through the air, calm yet commanding.

Damien looked up, their eyes locking. He could feel Nabokov’s intense gaze on him, an emotion flickering across his face that Damien couldn’t quite place. Nabokov took a few steps closer, closing the distance between them, his features softened, though unreadable.

“Okay, that’s enough. I got it,” Nabokov said finally.

Damien couldn’t bring himself to look away. He knew how pathetic he must look, kneeling there, broken. He hadn’t planned to crumble like this, but his heart had betrayed him.

Nabokov extended a hand, his expression still indecipherable—some strange mixture of pride, resignation, and something else Damien couldn’t place.

“Get up,” Nabokov said, his voice gentler than Damien had ever heard it.

Damien hesitated before accepting the hand held out to him. He rose, leaning on Nabokov for support, their gazes locked.

“All right,” Nabokov murmured. “I’ll stop.”

“You’re lying,” Damien replied instinctively, the words slipping out before he could stop them.He didn’t know why he doubted him—maybe just force of habit.

“No,” Nabokov replied quietly. “I promise you. I’ll stop.”

He reached up, wiping the tear stains from Damien’s cheeks, his eyes searching Damien’s face. “I never wanted to hurt you. All I ever wanted was to make you feel good. I’ll stop now—I swear.”

The sincerity in his voice resonated with Damien, enough that he managed a faint nod, a small sign that he believed him.

“Kiss me…one last time,” Nabokov whispered, his hand resting gently on Damien’s cheek.

Damien stepped forward slowly, tears clinging to his lashes as if each one carried a secret he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. He reached up—hesitant, trembling—and cupped Nabokov’s face. His thumb brushed along the man’s cheekbone, a silent goodbye carved into skin.

Then, gently, he leaned in. Their lips met, soft at first—just the ghost of a kiss, too tender to be real. It was a question. A wound. A memory in the making.

The kiss was bittersweet, a mixture of passion and sorrow. Their mouths met, searching each other with an intensity born from knowing it would be their last. Their mouths crashed together, lips parting instantly, tongues tangling like they'd waited a lifetime for this exact moment. It wasn’t sweet—it was feral. Damien bit Nabokov’s bottom lip, tugged it, devoured it. Nabokov groaned, deep and broken, as if the sound had clawed its way from somewhere buried. Damien’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, needing more—needing everything. Their tongues slid together in perfect sync, tasting, claiming, memorizing.

Nabokov spun them around, pressing Damien against the wall, one hand cupping his jaw, the other already traveling downward, gripping Damien’s waist with an ache that felt almost reverent. Damien gasped, moaned, hips arching toward him instinctively, like his body knew this man, trusted this man, even if nothing else made sense.

Then Nabokov’s lips dragged down Damien’s neck—hot, slow, possessive. Each kiss left a mark, a memory, a silent plea not to forget. Damien’s breath hitched, soft moans escaping, threaded with grief so sharp it felt like breaking. Damien’s legs spread instinctively, letting Nabokov press his thigh between them, grinding up into him with a desperation that bordered on obscene.

“Fuck—” Damien gasped against Nabokov’s mouth, his voice wrecked.

Nabokov didn’t answer with words. He grabbed Damien’s face in both hands and kissed him harder, deeper, hips rolling against his like he was memorizing the shape of him. Damien moaned into his mouth, raw and helpless, every nerve ending lit up, screaming for more. Their bodies fit too perfectly, grinding together with a friction that made them both shudder. Nabokov’s hand slid under Damien’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach, then up—slow and greedy—until he found his chest. His thumb grazed a nipple and Damien’s whole body jerked, hips canting forward, cock hard and aching between them.

“Don’t stop,” Damien breathed, barely coherent.

But Nabokov was already kissing his way down Damien’s throat, teeth dragging, tongue leaving wet heat behind. Damien clung to him, nails digging into Nabokov’s shoulders, silently begging him to ruin him just once more.

And then it stopped.

Nabokov pulled back, chest heaving, eyes stormy with something Damien couldn’t name—rage, longing, restraint.

Nabokov reached up and brushed his thumb along Damien’s jaw, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. His expression stayed unreadable, but something deep in his gaze flickered.

Then, quietly, heartbreakingly, gently, he leaned in and kissed the tears that had started to fall down Damien’s cheek. One kiss. Lingering. Tender.

Like sealing a letter he would never send.

“Take care of yourself, Damien,” he murmured.

Before Damien could respond, Nabokov turned and walked out. The moment the door clicked shut, Damien felt his strength give way. He crumpled to his knees, the weight of everything crashing down on him. He collapsed to the floor, his tears resumed their relentless course, falling like rain on his cheeks, washing away Nabokov’s last kiss, feeling it fade with each passing second.Every nerve ending lit, every inch of him screaming for what he couldn’t have.

Lust fades. Love fades. But the ache of almost never goes away.

Nabokov hadn’t even look back.

And Damien… Damien didn’t stop him.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because if he had—just one word, one touch, one plea—he knew he never would again.So he stayed frozen in place, heart cracking open, the ghost of Nabokov’s kiss still burning on his skin.

He’d ended it.

He told himself it was over.

His body didn’t get the memo.

His heart didn’t either.

And somehow, it still felt like he was the one being left behind.

As Damien knelt there, broken and exhausted, a bitter truth settled over him. Nabokov hadn’t just taken over his life—he had taken over his soul. And no amount of begging could ever change that.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, knees to the cold floor, body trembling with something deeper than desire—something raw and ancient.

He only knew he was shaking.

He only knew he was crying.

He only knew he hated himself.

He only knew he wasn’t free.

When he finally looked up, the door was closed. The silence felt like a verdict. Damien pressed his forehead to the ground and broke open—sobbing not just for the man who kissed him like a promise, but for the boy who never learned how to want without shame. For the father who never came home. For the version of himself he could no longer outrun.

Minutes or hours—Damien couldn't tell—afterNabokov had left, Damien stood in the empty bathroom. Nabokov had left nothing but silence in the wake of his departure. The air felt thick, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in on him. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. A familiar ache crept up his throat, tight and unrelenting. He staggered back to the sink, leaning over it as the world around him began to spin. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles white as his head swam with dizzying thoughts. His vision blurred at the edges, and all he could hear was the frantic thrum of his pulse in his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

Damien’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. His throat constricted, his lungs fighting for air, and his mind—racing and spinning, replaying Nabokov’s last words—felt like it was suffocating him from the inside.

He hadn’t felt this way in years. Not since…

His father.

A sharp, gut-wrenching pang hit him as the memory flooded his senses. The funeral. The hollow feeling in his chest, as though the world had tilted sideways, and the ground had fallen out from beneath him. He hadn’t been able to breathe then, either. The days that followed had been a blur of numbness, his body trying to catch up with the grief that consumed him. But it hadn’t truly hit until one night, alone in his bedroom, surrounded by nothing but darkness and the lingering scent of cigarettes—his father’s last habit—that the panic had come crashing in.

This—this was the same feeling.

The same suffocating, desperate grasping for air, as if something invisible was pressing down on his chest, suffocating him. He hadn’t had a panic attack since then. But this felt almost like a betrayal. He had tried so hard to lock away the grief over his father’s death, like a distant memory where it couldn’t hurt him anymore. But now, with Nabokov gone, it felt like that old wound had cracked open again, raw and bleeding.

Damien swallowed hard, fighting to calm his breath, clutching the sink as though it was the only thing holding him together.

Get it together, Damien. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not that broken boy .

But the words felt hollow. His hands shook as he splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would bring him back to reality. The panic still lingered, though, gnawing at him. His reflection in the mirror was unfamiliar. The man staring back at him—broken, lost, unsure—wasn’t the same person who had stood on his own two feet after his father’s death and a battle with depression and addiction. Not the same person who had let go of everything and everyone, until Nabokov had walked in and torn all that apart.

Damien steadied himself, but the tightness in his chest refused to relent. Maybe it wasn’t just Nabokov he had lost. Maybe it was everything. Every choice. Every part of himself he’d buried, thinking it was gone for good. And now, here he was, stuck in this moment, trapped between the man he had been and the one he had tried to become.

The cold water did nothing to ease the turmoil inside. He wiped his face, staring at his reflection, wondering if he’d ever truly escape the shadows of the past—whether it was his father’s death or Nabokov’s absence, both of which seemed to haunt him in ways he never expected.

If only he had listened to his gut.

If only.