Page 44 of The Jaded Notes

I never thought I would do something like this, but I don’t want to have any emotional attachments right now. Only physical pleasure that makes me see stars. The devotion piece is a pretend love and I’m okay with that.

Justin holds out the blindfold. “You understand there are windows around the room you’re entering. People will be watching you, but you won’t be able to see or hear them. You’ll never know who’s on the other side.”

“I understand and I consent to it all.” I don’t reach for the blindfold.

Instead, I stare past him toward the closed door, and for one fractured second, I wonder if Jaxon or Callum knows what tonight means.

Can they feel me crossing this line? Does some part of them ache, knowing they’re the reason I needed to seek this out in the first place?

“Shall I?” Justin asks gently.

“Not yet.” Chills scatter over my skin and adrenaline snakes up my spine. “What’s it like inside?”

“It’s a space designed for pure pleasure. You’re not expected to be anyone here. Not the woman they write about. Not the one who walked away from the stage. Just a goddess in the moment being worshiped by those who understand how to read your desires and fulfill your every wish.”

“That’s what I want.” I pull my hair back into a high ponytail and tilt my chin.

“Would you like me to place the blindfold now, or once you’re inside?”

“Now.”

The silk glides over my eyes like a kiss I vow to honor, and everything disappears. Sight. Direction. Judgment. My entire world narrows to sound, scent, physical sensations, and trust.

And the promise waiting behind that door. I shiver in response.

Justin’s fingers brush mine as he guides me forward. The door opens. And I’m led into a room where no one cares about my name, and for the first time in too long, neither do I.

The warmth hits first. It’s the kind of heat-cultivatedanticipation that feels like breath held between strangers who already know how this ends.

The door closes behind me. A lock slides into place, not as a threat but as a promise. My heartbeat races.

And then silence. It’s not the cold, sterile kind. This is the hush of sexual tension. Of restrained hunger. Of something sacred coiled in the dark, waiting for permission to come undone.

The air carries a scent like an invitation full of amber resin, dark woods, and faint musk. It’s as if the room itself remembers every touch, every moan, and every boundary that’s ever been respected so thoroughly it became a poem.

I sense them before I hear them. One breathes out from the left, just far enough for me to notice the space between us. The other lingers behind, near enough that I can feel the energy coming off his body in slow, deliberate waves.

They don’t speak, and they don’t move forward. They wait. This moment is mine to command.

I inhale deeply and step further into the room, letting the robe slide from my shoulders, silk whispering down my spine before pooling at my feet. My body is bare and I’m blindfolded. Yet I’ve never felt more present.

I lick my lips. “Come to me.”

The one on my left reaches me first. Fingertips brush my wrist, then slide up to the bend of my elbow. It’s not possessive or tentative, but it tells me he’s aware. Every inch of skin he touches is met with reverence, like he’s reading me through sensation alone.

A second set of hands follows. This one is larger, warmer, guiding without leading, supporting without asking for more than I offer.

They move in tandem. One at my front, the other behind, and together they form a cage that doesn’t confine me. It shields me from the noise of a world that forgot how to see awoman like me without trying to take away parts of me that don’t belong to them.

I don’t flinch when their palms spread across my body. I lean into their touch and let them explore without expectations.

I’ve spent years hiding inside the armor of performance, on stages, in headlines, and in conversations where my silence was mistaken for elegance instead of exhaustion. But here… Here, I get to let go.

One of them lifts my arm and presses a kiss into the center of my palm, lips warm and deliberate. The other’s mouth finds the back of my neck, not rushed or greedy. Just anchored like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin.

They position me until my back meets the cool edge of a chaise lounge draped in a soft fabric. One helps me lower down, guiding my hips as if he’s afraid of bruising something already wounded.

The other kneels beside me, brushing his knuckles along my thigh, pausing just before the curve where desire thrums like a pulse I can’t quiet anymore. Still, neither speaks. They only breathe, touch, and respond.