Portal Avalon contains adult content. You must be 18 years of age or older to enter.
This realm contains sexually explicit adult fiction intended solely for consenting adults aged 18 and over. All characters are fictional adults (18+). By entering, you confirm you are of legal age in your jurisdiction.
Realm IV — Explicit 18+
The desires we hide from ourselves are always the most powerful. Explicit adult fiction exploring the shadowed edges of passion and longing.
Behind every mask at the Count's annual ball hides a secret. When Vivienne is swept onto the floor by a stranger whose touch she already recognizes, one stolen night threatens to change everything she thought she wanted.
The curator always locked up alone. On the last Friday of every month, someone slipped a key under the back door — and the private collection in the basement was never shown to the public.
The envelope had no return address. Inside: a single room number, a hotel name, and a time. She had received three before she finally went. She told herself she was going only to say no in person.
The rules were clear. The consequences were clear. None of that had mattered on a rain-soaked evening in November when the door was locked and the only thing louder than the storm was the silence between them.
She had come to negotiate a contract. He knew, within the first sixty seconds, that she had no intention of leaving with only that. The real negotiation was the one neither of them would commit to paper.
She knew he was leaving in the morning. He knew she knew. They spent the final hours of darkness making an agreement without words — a night that would have to carry the weight of the years they would never have.
They had agreed it was nothing. Just a convention, a crowded bar, and two people with no reason to be careful. Nine months and six cities later, they were still agreeing that it was nothing — while booking Room 417 in advance.
It was a six-hour journey and the compartment was empty except for the two of them. By the time the train reached the first tunnel, they had already broken every rule either of them had ever made about strangers.
He was the groom's oldest friend. She was the bride's younger sister. They had been successfully avoiding each other for three years. The wedding reception lasted until four in the morning and the hotel was fully booked.
The offer was generous — too generous. She asked what the additional clause meant. He smiled and said it was negotiable. Everything, he said, was negotiable. That was when she understood this was not a standard employment contract.
They had a word for colleagues, a word for lovers, and no word for whatever existed between them after two years of careful avoidance. That nameless thing was the most dangerous thing either of them had ever felt.
Everyone else on the call was muted. He had unmuted only once, to say her name — quietly, without context, in a voice she had never heard him use in a meeting before. She had not spoken for the remaining forty minutes.