Page 8 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The Apology

Damien had officially given up trying to salvage his day. At this point, it felt like he was trapped in some cliché horror movie, where he’d unknowingly picked up a cursed object at a garage sale. Except, instead of ghosts or ghouls, his curse came in the form of Nabokov. Twice now, he’d been forced into awkward, tension-filled encounters with the man, and it was beginning to feel less like coincidence and more like some cosmic joke.

Standing before him again, Damien was sharply aware of the oppressive silence that hung between them. Nabokov’s presence was inescapable, his gaze burning holes into Damien as though sizing him up for something far more significant than mere small talk. The man’s expression was unreadable, his face carved in a perfect mask of indifference, but the weight of his gaze alone made Damien’s skin prickle. It felt like being pinned down, held hostage by those calculating, storm-gray eyes. Damien's heart hammered in his chest, and no amount of willing it to slow helped. Not with Nabokov standing so close.

Damien forced his gaze to remain neutral, his face an impassive mask despite the crackling tension surging between them. He could feel the gravity between them, the inevitable pull into each other’s orbit—and it made his skin crawl with frustration . When had he become so attuned to this man? Damien hated it—hated how easily Nabokov could unsettle him, throw him off balance with nothing more than a look.

The silence stretched on, taut and almost unbearable, until Nabokov's voice sliced through it. His tone was low, composed, but there was something cutting beneath the calm.

“Should I expect this to become a habit?”

Damien nearly flinched at the smoothness of Nabokov’s voice, the words spoken with a detachment that made his irritation rise. The man hadn’t moved an inch, still rooted in place like a marble statue, and yet somehow his presence was the loudest thing in the hallway. Nabokov’s stillness only amplified the intensity of the moment, as if he had all the time in the world to study him, dissecting him piece by piece with those unyielding eyes.

“I might start taking it personally,” Nabokov added, his lips barely twitching into what might have been the ghost of a smile—if smiles even existed in his repertoire. Damien wasn’t sure.

Annoyance flared in Damien’s chest, and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “From the look of it, it seems like this happens to you a lot.”

Damn it . Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? His brain had been screaming for him to maintain some semblance of politeness, to apologize and make amends for Nick’s sake. But something about Nabokov brought out a side of Damien he didn’t recognize—a side that craved confrontation.

Nabokov's brow lifted, a methodicalreaction that only made Damien's pulse race faster. “Oh? And what made you come to this conclusion?”

Damien’s breath hitched, feeling the silent demand in Nabokov’s words. His instinct told him to back down, to steer the conversation into safer waters, but no. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to. There was an odd thrill in challenging Nabokov, in testing the limits of this unreadable man’s patience.

“You always carry spare shirts, I assume,” Damien replied with a smirk, nodding at Nabokov’s now-pristine white shirt.

For a brief second, something flickered in Nabokov’s eyes—something dangerously close to amusement. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Damien saw it. The spark of a challenge accepted.

“This type of accident … it must happen frequently, right? If you deemed it necessary to have a wardrobe here somewhere in the building.”

Nabokov didn’t miss a beat, his voice laced with calm menace. “And the second time the coffee spilled on me? Also, frequent?”

Damien’s throat tightened, but he didn’t relent. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Absolutely. I’m very clumsy.”

The lie slipped out smoothly, but there was no missing the tension straining beneath the surface. They were toeing a line neither seemed willing to cross—yet. The exchange had become a battle, each man pushing, testing, without ever fully giving in.

Nabokov’s lips curved just slightly, a near-smile that was more unnerving than reassuring. “For someone so clumsy, you handled yourself quite well at the presentation. Impressive.”

Damien’s heart skipped. The compliment didn’t soothe him. If anything, it felt like a trap, a way to drag him deeper into this bizarre game of psychological warfare.

“The best out of the bunch,” Damien fired back, his voice dripping with mock arrogance.

Nabokov’s eyes glittered with something darker now—something that made Damien’s skin hum with awareness. He could feel Nabokov’s gaze trailing over him, as if the man was memorizing every twitch, every shift of his body language.

“You seem very sure of yourself,” Nabokov said, the amusement in his voice sharp as a blade.

“I am,” Damien retorted, his words practically daring Nabokov to challenge him further. He didn’t know why he was doing this—why he was pushing so hard—but he couldn’t stop.Nabokov took a step closer, just barely, his gaze steady and predatory.

“I like people who are confident… as long as they can back it up,” he murmured, letting the implication hang between them like smoke. “So far, you seem to be making a strong case.”

Damien felt the words like a low-voltage current sliding under his skin. It was the kind of comment that was supposed to feel flattering, but coming from Nabokov, it landed like a challenge—intimate, invasive, and far too calculated. He hated how his body responded—how his pulse spiked and his stomach gave that humiliating little swoop.

It was just a sentence. Just words.

But something in the way Nabokov delivered them—measured, languid, like he already knew exactly how Damien would react—made it impossible to ignore.

They stood there, the silence between them now almost suffocating. The tension felt ready to snap. Nabokov’s eyes locked onto Damien’s, and in that moment, it was as if nothing else existed. The hallway had faded away, leaving only them and the storm brewing beneath their thinly veiled words.

And then, just as Damien’s nerves were about to fray, Nabokov’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, “ Your scent… it’s exquisite.”

Damien’s breath caught in his throat.

The words sent a jolt of electricity through Damien’s veins, making his heart stutter. He barely had time to process the shock before Nabokov leaned in, his breath brushing against Damien’s ear as he murmured, “I love the cologne you’re wearing… Damien.”

The sound of his name on Nabokov’s lips left Damien breathless. He froze, every inch of him hyper-aware of the heat radiating from Nabokov’s body, the proximity between them suddenly unbearable and intoxicating all at once.

By the time he gathered his thoughts, Nabokov was already gone, leaving Damien standing there, reeling from the strange, intense encounter. His mind raced, trying to grasp what the hell had just happened.

This wasn’t normal. None of it was. Damien had faced arrogant bosses, difficult parents, and high-stakes environments before, but Nabokov was on an entirely different level. There was something dangerous about the man—something that both repelled and pulled Damien in at the same time.

And worse, Nabokov knew it.

Damien stood frozen for a moment after Nabokov turned and walked away, his long strides disappearing down the hallway. The collision had left him rattled—Nabokov’s intense presence lingered in the air long after he was gone.

Damien ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky exhale. “Get it together,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at his phone for Nick’s message. Right. Nick’s office. He needed to find it.

The maze of hallways didn’t make it easy. Damien doubled back twice, growing increasingly frustrated as each door he tried either led to a conference room or a supply closet. The lingering tension from his encounter with Nabokov didn’t help. His thoughts kept drifting back to the way the man had looked at him—intense, deliberate, as if he could see straight through him. It wasn’t until he passed the same potted plant for the third time that it hit him.

Wait .

Damien stopped dead in his tracks, stomach dropping.

He wasn’t even on the right floor.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples as the realization settled in. He had been so rattled by Nabokov that he hadn’t even noticed he needed to take the elevator to get to Nick’s office—he was still on the 17 th floor, wandering aimlessly, when Nick was nowhere near here. No wonder none of the damn doors led to Nick’s office. With an aggravated sigh, he spun on his heel and made his way back to the elevator, stabbing at the button with more force than necessary. He could already hear Nick’s teasing once he found him—something along the lines of what, did you get lost in the supply closet ?

As the elevator doors slid shut, Damien ran a hand down his face. Jesus Christ . One run-in with the guy — well, more like three, and he was already walking around like a disoriented idiot. This was not a good sign.

Damien stepped off the elevator on the right level this time. Finally, he spotted a frosted glass door with Nick’s name etched onto a small plaque beside it. Relieved, he pushed it open and stepped inside.The office was modest but tidy, with a desk stacked neatly with files and a small bookshelf in the corner. Damien dropped into the chair opposite Nick’s desk, letting out a long breath as he leaned back.

The quiet gave him too much room to think. His mind replayed the events of the evening—the reception, the conversations, Nabokov. Always Nabokov. No matter how hard he tried to push the man from his thoughts, he kept coming back, like a song stuck on repeat.

Damien shook his head, forcing himself to focus on something else. He pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages and social media to pass the time. The minutes ticked by slowly, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound in the room.

By the time Nick finally walked in, Damien had grown restless. Nick’s bright energy filled the office instantly, his grin wide as he shut the door behind him.

“Sorry I took so long,” Nick said, dropping his bag onto the desk. “Mr. Bettman had way more questions than I expected.”

“No worries,” Damien replied, standing and stretching his legs. “How’d it go?”

Nick gave a thumbs-up. “Pretty well, actually. He seemed happy with everything.”

Damien smiled faintly, but the weight of the evening still pressed on him.

Nick clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Alright, enough work talk. Let’s go get some shots!”

Damien blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Shots?”

“Yes, shots. You’ve been a rock for me today, D. Now it’s time to celebrate. My treat.”

Damien hesitated for a second, then let out a small laugh. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Together, they made their way to a bar nearby, Nick leading the way with his usual enthusiastic stride. Damien followed, grateful for the distraction, though a small part of him couldn’t shake the weight of gray eyes still lingering in his mind.

* * *

The After Five was more upscale than Damien had expected, crowded with guests dressed sharply, most of the men sporting suits. It was definitely more restaurant than bar. At least that made him feel like he wasn’t underdressed. Scanning the room, he spotted one of the few unoccupied tables at the very back. Nick headed to the bar to order, leaving Damien alone to claim their spot.

Damien dropped his bag on the chair beside him and settled in, surveying the scene. Indie music played softly in the background, and the patrons’ low conversations created a steady hum. He noticed Nick at the bar, leaning casually against the counter and laughing with the bartender as if they were old friends. It looked like a lively conversation—one that Damien was clearly not part of.

With a sigh, Damien unlocked his phone and sent Nick a quick text: Take your time huh .

No reply. Of course.

Damien’s gaze drifted, landing on a red-haired woman a few feet away. She kept glancing at Nick, her interest blatantly obvious. Nick, oblivious as ever, was too absorbed in his chat with the bartender to notice. Damien considered texting him again, warning him about his admirer. But then again, if he did, Nick would forget all about him and leave him alone to fend for himself all night. Nope, alcohol first. Good Samaritan duties could wait.

Damien exhaled, his patience thinning as Nick’s laughter continued to echo from the bar. Just when he thought he might have to physically drag Nick over, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Dimitri in the group chat, leaving Damien completely disappointed. Craig, unsurprisingly, hadn’t texted him. He checked the time, starting to regret coming out at all when—finally—Nick approached, a tray loaded with at least twenty shots.

“You’re insane,” Damien muttered, shaking his head with a half-amused smirk as Nick plopped the tray down on the table.

Nick grinned, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair and loosening his tie. “Scared of a few shots now?”

Damien took one, downed it, and winced. “Unlike you, my car’s not safely stashed in some fancy underground lot. Can’t exactly get wasted tonight.”

Nick responded by knocking back three shots in a row, unfazed. Damien watched him for a moment, but his mind wandered, unbidden, back to the presentation—and to Nabokov. Their tense conversation kept playing over in his head. And then, once again, to Nabokov.

“Listen, D. I know I’m incredibly hot and all, but there’s no need to stare.” Nick’s playful tone brought him back to reality.

Damien shook his head, rolling his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Seriously, man,” Nick continued, his grin softening. “Thanks for today. You nailed it. I owe you.”

Nick placed a hand on Damien’s, his sincerity cutting through the typical bravado. For a brief moment, Damien’s chest tightened with a mix of pride and uncertainty. He couldn’t quite shake the nagging feeling about Nabokov, the weight of responsibility that lingered over their earlier encounter.

“I’m surprised you can string words together after three shots,” Damien teased, trying to steer the conversation away from the tension building inside him.

Nick smiled, leaning a little closer. “No, seriously. If you ever need anything, I’m here for you, D. Always.”

That was Nick—flawed, chaotic, occasionally exasperating—but when it came down to it, he was a loyal friend. Damien’s thoughts briefly turned to the only time they’d truly fallen out in sixteen years, but he pushed the memory away. Now wasn’t the time for old wounds. They were here to celebrate, not dig up the past. Damien smiled, grateful for his friend despite the whirlwind of emotions still churning inside him.

“Alright, start by cutting me in on half the profits from Anto-X,” Damien joked, grinning.

“I can only offer you a free month trial,” Nick quipped back, and they both burst into laughter, taking another shot each.

Nick leaned back, stretching. “Man, I really need to fuck someone tonight,” he announced, as casually as if discussing the weather.

Damien raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were back with Amanda?”

Nick shrugged. “We’re still figuring it out. We’re not ready to fully commit yet.”

“So... still open?” Damien asked, his irritation creeping into his tone. Nick nodded, taking another shot.

“Don’t you think it’s time to settle down with her?” Damien pressed. Amanda was stable, grounded—everything Nick seemed to need but didn’t fully appreciate.

Nick sighed, clearly not in the mood for a lecture. “I don’t think you should be the one talking,” he muttered, his eyes flicking to his empty glass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Damien retorted, arching a brow. “I’ve been in a relationship for three years.”

Nick’s gaze met his, the brief silence heavy with unspoken judgment. “Yeah... three years, and you still haven’t moved in together.”

Damien blinked, taken aback. He didn’t expect the conversation to turn this way. Nick rarely ventured into his private life with Craig. The awkward silence stretched as they locked eyes.“It’s not a priority right now,” Damien replied, his voice soft but steady.

Nick nodded, but his sigh spoke volumes. “Alright, if you say so…”

Damien exhaled. He hated talking about this. Even more, he hated that Nick—of all people—was bringing it up. But he couldn’t be mad at his best friend for being honest. That’s what they were supposed to be for each other, after all.

“Look,” Damien said, his voice quieter now, “I get it. But I don’t think your opinion’s exactly objective since you don’t like Craig.”

Nick smirked, the tension breaking slightly. “Correction— he doesn’t like me because my sexy ass it too much for him to handle.”

Damien couldn’t help but smile at Nick’s ridiculousness. The atmosphere eased.

“Anyway,” Damien said, deciding to drop the subject, “I’m not sticking around long. Just needed these shots, but I really need to see Craig.”

Nick looked surprised. “Oh, damn. You should’ve told me, man! I wouldn’t have dragged you out here.”

“No, I needed this. Plus, that redhead’s been eyeing the moment we got here. I think my presence is cockblocking her.”

Nick turned abruptly, making Damien laugh at his lack of subtlety. He spotted the redhead, and his eyes lit up with mock seriousness. “Get out of here, now!”

Damien chuckled, grabbing his bag. As he headed for the door, he waved goodbye, leaving Nick to his one-night stand.

Later, Damien pulled up outside Craig’s apartment complex—a sleek, upscale building nestled in a quiet, well-manicured neighborhood. The kind of place that screamed ‘successful professional,’ complete with a pristine lobby and overpriced rent. He was about to head up when his phone buzzed.

Red hair was too tight had to take her number.

Rolling his eyes, Damien smiled to himself. Despite Nick’s wild antics, he couldn’t help but wish his friend would find someone who made him as happy as Craig did—whatever that happiness really meant.

Go to bed man.

Craig hadn’t responded to Damien’s messages about coming over, which didn’t come as a surprise. Their recent argument, and Craig’s insistence on taking time apart, lingered between them like a wall. But Damien wasn’t one to let something so small escalate into something bigger. Armed with a spare key, he entered Craig’s apartment uninvited, determined to fix things.

The place was quiet, dimly lit by a small light in the kitchen. Damien walked over and found Craig standing next to the fridge, yogurt in hand. Craig’s gaze locked onto his, his expression hardening.

“Hey,” Damien spoke softly, dropping his bag as he stepped closer.

“What are you doing here?” Craig’s voice was flat, cold.

Damien stopped just short of him. “I came to see my man.”

Craig’s jaw tightened. “I told you I needed space.”

“And I told you we’re not letting this fight drag on any longer.” Damien’s tone wavered slightly, but he caught himself, taking a deep breath. He had to stay calm.

Craig set the yogurt down with a sigh, looking at Damien with a weary kind of frustration. “Now? You decide to show up now? What, didn’t realize it was my day off? Or did Nick need you again?”

Damien’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Damn, you’ve got psychic powers now? Should I ask you for the lottery numbers?”

Craig’s forced smile matched his. “Being sarcastic won’t fix anything.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Damien shot back, stepping forward. The tension simmered between them as Craig shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“That’s why I didn’t want us to see each other, Damien. We’re clearly not ready for this.”

Damien closed the gap between them until their faces were nearly touching. He placed a hand on Craig’s waist and cupped his cheek with the other. “Who says we need to talk?” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes softening.

He kissed Craig gently, but Craig didn’t respond at first, his eyes still open, guarded.

“You asked me when was the last time you touched me,” Damien murmured. “Well, do something about it.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, Craig’s gaze hardening before his walls finally crumbled. With a soft growl, Craig pressed his lips against Damien’s, their kiss turning desperate, hungry.

It had been too long since they’d last connected like this. Damien had almost forgotten what it felt like to be wanted , to be touched with this kind of urgency and it stirred something deep within him. With Craig, it always came from a place of love.

“I love you,” Craig whispered when their kiss broke, his breath warm against Damien’s lips. “I don’t want to lose you.”

With that, Craig spun Damien around, pressing him firmly against the counter. Before Damien could even process it, his pants were yanked down to his ankles. He heard Craig rummaging behind him, the clink of a cabinet door opening, and then—

Damien barely had time to react before Craig’s slick fingers trailed down the curve of his spine. His breath hitched. Wait, was that—?

He turned his head slightly, catching sight of the unmistakable dark bottle sitting on the counter. Olive oil?

A startled laugh almost escaped him, but it was swallowed by a sharp inhale as Craig’s fingers worked him open with surprising ease. It was insane. Improvised. But the heat in Craig’s touch, the rough urgency of the moment, burned away any hesitation. Damien’s desire far outweighed any concerns.

When Craig finally thrusted inside him, the familiar burn and stretch of it felt like both relief and punishment. Craig didn’t hold back. Each thrust was hard, unrelenting, as though Craig was making up for lost time. Damien moaned, his body pressed hard against the counter, fingers gripping its edges for support.

Craig was rougher than usual, and it only added to Damien’s pleasure, his mind swimming in the sensation. God, he’d missed this. Missed being with Craig in this way, missed the way his body felt when Craig filled him.

Damien reached for his own cock, stroking in time with Craig’s thrusts, his breath hitching as his body edged closer to climax. It didn’t take long. Craig came hard, followed shortly by Damien, both panting, spent.

Afterward, they showered together, this time taking their time, reconnecting in a slower, more intimate way. Clean and dry, they eventually settled in bed, the TV droning in the background as they lay together.

“ I overreacted ,” Craig said, his hand lazily caressing Damien’s back. “ About Nick, I mean .”

Damien rested his head on Craig’s naked chest, staring at nothing in particular. “ Don’t worry about it . Let’s just enjoy tonight.”

Craig smiled softly, kissing the top of Damien’s head. “Okay.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Damien asked.

“Graveyard shift.”

“We'll spend the whole day together then. I'll be glued to you. We'll eat together, we'll watch TV together, we'll go take a shit together…”

Craig laughed aloud , the sound so full Damien felt it in his ribs. Damien had missed this laugh terribly.

“All right, babe.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, but Damien’s mind wasn’t as settled. He found himself replaying his multiple encounters with Nabokov, particularly the moment when the man had bent close, whispering that compliment.

Your scent… it’s exquisite.

And with it, the ghost of a scent—something dark and refined, like expensive leather and smoke, still clinging to the collar of his thoughts.

Why was he still thinking about that? Why was Nabokov, a man he barely knew, taking up so much space in his head?

Damien swallowed hard and pulled Craig closer, burying his face in the familiar warmth of his chest.

Enough .

Tomorrow, Nabokov would be nothing more than a strange memory. A blip. He reassured himself that their paths wouldn’t cross again. There was no way.