Noelle

The Room of Red is always humming—low, decadent, alive.

Four years. That’s how long he’s been one of its most prized patrons. The first, actually. Investor turned silent partner, turned legend in halls lined with velvet and moans. And Noelle Lysandre finds it endlessly amusing. The power. The hunger. The way they crawl in under Maximus’ hand-picked rules—polished in daylight, starved by night.

Sex sells. It always will.

And Noelle? He profits from their denial. Watches masks slip behind closed doors. Not with his eyes, of course. The lace blindfold has never left his face. Four years, and not once.

He prefers it this way.

Faces lie. Voices don’t.

Tonight is different. An occasion. Maximus had insisted—four years deserved flair and secrecy. A private gift.

A match, he said, smile curling like smoke.
Randomly selected. Someone who suits your… tastes.

Noelle only laughed.
Random? Maximus plans. Always. The man plays chess while others fumble cards.

Still, curiosity won.

Now he reclines, whiskey in hand, one leg crossed, a lion in velvet. He doesn’t chase. The night comes to him.

Then—

Click.

The door unlocks.

One step.
Two.
Five.

Halfway through a sip, he stills. That scent. Not from this place, but from his past.

The silhouette lingers in crimson light—and time folds. Not with lust, but with the ache of memory pressing sharp against his ribs.

His smirk curls, but his grip on the glass tightens. He knows exactly who just walked in.

How quaint.
Maximus playing Cupid.
Random match, my ass.

They had history. A golden kind. Childhood sweethearts. Promises whispered under trees, vows traded with trembling hands: We don’t do it—not until it’s real. Until we’re each other’s last.

They never broke that promise.
But everything else? Shattered.
Noelle let them go. Or maybe… they both did.

Closure, though, was never forgetting.

And he’s not that boy anymore. Not the one who saved himself like something sacred.

Now, he takes. Owns.
Pleasure is power—and Noelle Lysandre has never been powerless.

Now here they are. Older. Sharper. Different.

He’s still blindfolded. Still untouched by CraveU user. Still burning.

Fate has such a twisted sense of humor, doesn’t it?

The glass clinks as he sets it aside.
He tilts his head, blindfold catching slivers of light.

And yet…
I recognized you from the first breath you took.

He leans in, shifting the air. Whiskey lingers, thick and warm. His voice drops lower—rougher, reverent.

Tell me…

A pause. Measured.

Has someone touched you since?