Page 9 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

Fated Encounter

Damien kept his word. He did everything he’d promised—well, almost. They didn’t exactly take a shit together. But Damien stayed glued to Craig’s side all day, determined to make up for lost time. They started their morning with a lazy sleep-in, followed by a series of intimate exchanges—a blowjob from Craig, another one from him, and a shower that soon became a slow, sensual exploration of each other’s bodies.

By the time they settled in for lunch, Damien’s grin hadn’t faltered once. A day like this was just what their relationship needed after the recent argument.

Yet, despite the joy of being with Craig, an unwelcome thought occasionally infiltrated Damien’s mind—a persistent echo of Nabokov. It felt wrong to entertain thoughts of another man while Craig, who loved him dearly, was right there. How could he be so easily haunted by a stranger he’d met just the day before? Some people had a knack for leaving an indelible impression, but it baffled him that, even as Craig dressed for work after their second bout of lovemaking, his mind drifted to Nabokov. It made no fucking sense.

“Hey, Dam! You with me?” Craig’s voice pulled him back to the moment, grounding him in the reality of their shared space. Each time Nabokov crossed his mind, Damien found himself slipping into a daydream, and it annoyed him.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replied, shaking off the distraction. Craig stood in front of the bed in his blue uniform, looking at Damien with a hint of concern.

“You okay?”

Damien offered a shy smile, pushing away the remnants of his wandering thoughts. “You’re leaving me all alone, so no.”

Craig returned the smile and leaned down to plant a soft kiss on Damien’s lips.

“At least I’ll have you all to myself tomorrow too,” Damien said, excitement bubbling in his voice. Craig would be off work, and the thought of reliving their delightful day fueled his anticipation. But as he watched Craig’s expression darken, a sense of foreboding crept in.

“About that…” Craig started, and Damien’s heart sank slightly.

“Yeah?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Craig’s neck, hoping to brush away the disappointment.

“I completely forgot about a meeting regarding the clinic tomorrow afternoon,” Craig said, his voice apologetic.

“The clinic? What clinic?” Damien arched an eyebrow, surprised.

“I think I mentioned it before? Some of my colleagues and I are planning to open a private practice,” Craig replied, a hint of pride in his tone.

Damien’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? That’s amazing, Craig!” Damien exclaimed, genuinely thrilled for Craig despite the lingering shadow of their interrupted plans. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I had no idea! You’ve got my full support. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

Craig smiled, his eyes soft with affection. “It’s still in the early stages. But thanks, babe. It means a lot.”

They kissed, a spark reigniting between them, but Craig gently pulled away, checking the time on his phone.

“Babe… I really have to go,” Craig managed to say, his voice muffled against Damien’s lips.

“Are you sure you don’t have just a little more time?” Damien teased, trying to pull Craig back in for another kiss.

With a playful grin, Craig responded, “Dam, I really need to go.”

Reluctantly, Damien released his hold, feeling a pang of regret as Craig finished getting ready. They shared a long kiss goodbye, and as soon as Craig left, Damien flopped back onto the bed. The white sheet draped over his naked body felt cold without Craig’s warmth beside him.

He needed to shower, to wash away the remnants of their passionate encounter, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Nabokov. It was pathetic. Was he obsessed? No, it couldn’t be that. Intrigued, maybe. He hoped that whatever fascination he had for Nabokov would fade with time—perhaps even by tomorrow.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table, snapping him from his Nabokov-induced reverie. A text from Nick appeared on the screen.

We're eating together tomorrow.

Damien’s response was swift and blunt.

No .

Barely a heartbeat later, his phone rang. Of course, it was Nick.

“I’m gonna call you back, Nicolas. I need to shower,” Damien said, his voice flat.

“Since when do you shower, Clarke? Monthly ritual?”

Damien rolled his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable headache that this conversation would bring. “Just tell me what you want before I hang up.”

Nick’s light laugh echoed in Damien’s ear. “Geez, why so grumpy, Clarke? I didn’t mean to interrupt your—”

“Tell me what you have to say,” Damien interjected.

“Pull up at my work tomorrow. I’ll feed you,” Nick announced.

The mention of Nick’s workplace sent an uncomfortable flutter through Damien’s stomach. What the actual fuck ?

“I can’t, Nicolas. I need to take my car to the garage,” Damien said, his voice strained.

“It won’t take all day, anyway,” Nick reassured him.

“It might, and I might have to leave the car there,” Damien replied, frustration creeping in.

“Just take an Uber back,” Nick suggested.

Damien huffed, “I’ll just fly there instead.”

“Even better!” Nick’s amusement was palpable.

“Listen, if there’s any update, I’ll give you a call, okay?” Damien said, trying to sidestep the issue.

“Yeah, sure,” Nick said, though it lacked conviction.

Before Damien could respond, Nick hung up. He shook his head, exasperated. Nick had a unique talent for triggering headaches.

After showering, Damien crawled back into bed, exhaustion weighing him down. He turned the television on low and felt a need to investigate Nabokov. If he could understand the source of this infatuation, maybe he could suppress it and get some sleep. But as he opened the Google app, curiosity gnawed at him.

He typed in Nabokov’s company name, landing on a Wikipedia page, revealing billionaire Alexander Nicolai Nabokov as the CEO.

Alexander .

Just knowing his first name sent a ripple of something unsettling through Damien. He pressed on, typing in Nabokov’s full name and switching to images. The results were limited, and the few photos he found were of Nabokov with beautiful women—one blonde in particular, strikingly gorgeous.

Was Nabokov still involved with any of these women?

A wave of disappointment washed over him as he closed his phone, his mood souring further. He switched off the TV and shut his eyes, but sleep eluded him. Thoughts of Nabokov replayed in his mind, each detail of the images etched in his memory. This late-night research was a terrible idea; now, all he could think about was Nabokov, a thought he wished he could banish.When he finally drifted off, it was two hours later.

The next day, Damien woke to the familiar sound of Craig’s soft breathing beside him. For a while, he just lay there, watching Craig sleep, running his fingers through his messy brown hair. It felt grounding, reassuring, but the lingering anxiety over seeing Nick—and the possibility of encountering Nabokov—was impossible to ignore. He headed to the kitchen and began preparing breakfast. As he measured out the ingredients for pancakes, Damien resolved to call the garage and make an appointment.

His first two calls went unanswered, and by the third attempt, a voice finally came through, “We have no openings this week. It’ll have to be next week.”

Damien couldn’t believe he’d been so careless to think he could just call in and expect immediate service. He needed to bring his car in today.

“It’s making a weird noise. I think it’s the transmission.”

“Sorry, man. I can’t fit you in today,” the mechanic said flatly.

Damien sighed and decided not to press further. He had no luck with the other three garages he called either. Defeated, he abandoned the quest. This was his fault for not planning ahead.

Damien arranged the breakfast tray, its aroma wafting through the air, coaxing Craig from sleep. The delightful morning felt like a sweet echo of the day before. As they settled into the cozy comfort of breakfast in bed, their conversation drifted toward Craig's ambitious clinic project.

After finishing their meal, Damien let Craig drift back into slumber, cherishing the peaceful moment. When Craig awoke again, they lounged together, watching TV, sharing laughter and gentle caresses before they ended up making love in the shower.

By the time the clock struck one, Craig was on his way to a meeting, leaving Damien alone in the stylish apartment that felt both inviting and suffocating. His plans for the garage lay in ruins, a dream dashed by circumstance. Though he yearned to spend time with Nick, a lingering sense of dread crept in. Instead, he resolved to check on his website, where a few time slots had already been snatched up.

Just thirty minutes after Craig's departure, his phone buzzed. Nick's name lit up the screen. For a fleeting moment, Damien wondered if his best friend had installed hidden cameras, but then the paranoia slipped away as he remembered he was at Craig's place. As the phone rang, Damien hesitated, guilt pricking at him. Realizing he was being ridiculous, he picked up on the fourth ring.

“What?” he answered, trying to mask his annoyance.

“I’m starting to think you’re sexually frustrated. Should I have a chat with Craigson about it?” Nick teased.

A small smile crept onto Damien's face. “As if you’d have the guts to actually talk to him.”

Nick’s laughter was light, but it carried an edge of truth. “Fair point, asshole!”

Craig visibly intimidated Nick. Despite sharing the same blue eyes, Craig’s held an intensity that Nick’s completely lacked. Where Nick’s were warm and full of mischief, Craig’s were sharp, assessing—like a doctor about to deliver a grim diagnosis. ‘Like a robot programmed for disapproval,’ Nick had once joked. And yet, whenever Craig turned that gaze on him, Nick suddenly forgot how to act like a functioning adult.

“Are you getting your car fixed right now?” Nick asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

Damien fell silent, weighing his response. “Yes.”

“You’re the worst liar ever. I can hear the TV, you know?”

Damien grabbed the remote and turned off the screen. “My appointment is later.”

“Oh! Yeah? At what time?” Nick pressed, feigning innocence.

“At three.”

“Get your ass over here right now, Clarke!”

Damien sighed, feeling cornered. “Why can’t we meet at the restaurant instead?” he suggested, hoping to downplay his reluctance to head to Nick’s office.

“Actually, I want you to take a quick look at Anto-X. Bettman had some notes I need to go over ,” Nick said.

“You’re unbelievable, Nicolas!” Damien replied, half amused, half exasperated.

“I know! I often hear that in bed,” Nick shot back, laughter in his voice.

Damien rolled his eyes. His best friend could be a real pain in the ass.

“How long until you’re here?” Nick asked, urgency creeping in.

Damien ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the moment. “Give me an hour.”

“Make it quick!” Nick said before hanging up, leaving Damien shaking his head.

As Damien reluctantly prepared to leave, a gnawing anxiety coiled in his stomach. What were the odds of running into Nabokov? Surely slim. He focused on his outfit, ensuring he looked sharp. It wasn’t for the chance of meeting Nabokov; it was simply professional decorum.

During the drive to Nick’s office, which felt like a descent into Hell, Damien hoped with all his heart that Nabokov was stuck in a meeting, trapped in a conference room far away from him. Or maybe he got sick and was at home nursing a cold or something. But with each passing moment, his heart raced faster. The thought of running into Nabokov again churned in his stomach like a bad omen. He hated how easily the man had gotten under his skin.

Upon entering the underground parking lot with the electronic access card Nick had provided, Damien felt the finality of his decision. The nerves that accompanied being in the same building as Nabokov made his heart pound in an almost embarrassing way. Was it really an obsession? No, it couldn’t be.

As he walked through the luxurious lobby, he couldn’t shake the feeling of Nabokov's presence lingering in the air. Memories of their last encounter flooded his mind, and Damien cursed himself for his preoccupation with the man. As he approached the elevator, his heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest. It felt ridiculous—childish, even—but the fear of another awkward encounter with Nabokov was very real.

When he reached the elevator, it opened just as he approached. A man was already waiting outside, and as several others exited, the said man turned to face him. Damien’s breath hitched, his heart dropping into his stomach.

It was Nabokov.

Damien’s eyes widened as he felt the familiar intensity of Nabokov's gray gaze piercing through him. He felt paralyzed, the world around him fading away. Nabokov stepped inside the elevator, stood there, exuding a magnetic aura that drew Damien in against his will.He was dressed impeccably in a gray suit that stressed his features.

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, a small, unreadable smile playing on his lips. “First time we meet without a collision. Should we celebrate?” Nabokov’s voice was low and rich, laced with authority.

Damien’s mind raced, caught between irritation and an inexplicable thrill. He longed to fire back with a witty retort but found himself tongue-tied, his usual sharpness dulled by the presence of this man. He tried to force his brain into action, but his words stumbled.

“Why are you hesitating?” Nabokov’s voice was smooth, edged with amusement. “Get in. You don’t have coffee, and you’re not staring at your phone. We should be safe.”

Fate seemed to revel in tormenting him. Of all the encounters he could have, it had to be Nabokov. The last person he wanted to see, yet his heart fluttered unexpectedly.

After a long pause, Nabokov’s gaze remained fixed on him, waiting for him to make a decision. The elevator doors began to close, prompting Damien to take a step forward, and entering the space that felt charged with tension.

“I am not in a rush, I'll...I’ll take the next one,” Damien managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Damien stepped back, heart hammering as the elevator doors began to slide shut. A perfect escape. But just as the metal panels were about to meet, Nabokov’s large hand shot out, halting them with an effortless force.

The doors stuttered, then obediently slid open again, revealing completely Nabokov’s imposing figure standing in the center of the elevator, one brow arched in silent challenge.

Nabokov’s impassive stare held him captive. “The elevator is empty, Mr. Clarke,” he replied, his tone almost teasing.

Damien’s heart raced, a flurry of thoughts tumbling through his mind. How did he know his last name? The memory of Nick introducing him during the presentation flitted through his mind, bringing an unexpected rush of warmth. Damien’s pulse spiked. His feet remained firmly planted outside the elevator. “Really, I’ll wait for the next one.”

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, as if indulging him. Then, with deliberate ease, he reached for the control panel and pressed the door open button, holding it down.

Silence stretched between them, thick with something Damien refused to name. Nabokov didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, waiting, gray eyes locked onto him with an unreadable expression.It was ridiculous how his body reacted to that look. Heat crept up his neck, his jaw tightening.The elevator remained still. The choice was his.

With a sharp exhale, Damien stepped forward, hating how smug Nabokov looked as he finally released the button and stepped all the way to the back of the elevator . Damien’s feet moved on instinct, carrying him into the elevator despite every instinct screaming run. The doors slid shut behind him, sealing them inside the confined space together with a quiet finality. And just like that, he was trapped. In that moment, Damien felt a surge of defiance. He was entering this elevator not as a victim, but as a competitor ready for the next round. Damien steeled himself for what lay ahead. He would not let Nabokov win so easily.