7

The door of the hotel room clicked shut. Sam had booked a suite in one of those expensive hotels where the windows can't be opened, as if the architect had anticipated that someday someone might want to jump. Sam sat on one of the velvet chairs, a small ornate side table beside him, his shirt casually open, tie long discarded, his gaze intense, appraising.

I had sensed my next big opportunity this morning when I received his invitation to come here. I knew what I was getting into. My heart was pounding, and somewhere deep inside, a part of me knew I was using Sam just as much as he was using me. And that made it fair.

"I knew you'd come," he said, leaning forward and handing me his glass of whiskey, elbows resting on his knees. I chuckled softly, taking a large sip. "So confident."

"Experience," he replied, his voice smooth and lulling, a perfectly practiced blend of arrogance and interest. He wasn't Levi. But with half-closed eyes, a little imagination, and a slight buzz, I could pretend he was. So I took another sip. Damn, this stuff burns.

Sam stood up, slowly closing the distance between us, knowing full well I wouldn't run. "So, what do you really want?" He took the glass from my hand, finished the rest, and set it down. The tension between us became palpable, almost tangible in the air.

I couldn't deny the feeling of weakness within me—not physical, but emotional. A rush of alcohol mixed with a strange, burning heat I couldn't quite comprehend. Everything blurred, swirling in my head. It was as if the world around us was fading away, leaving only Samuel and me in a room of smoldering tension.

"I know what you want. But more importantly, I know what you need," he said knowingly, his voice deep, carrying a dangerous hint of challenge. I tilted my chin slightly, letting my gaze sweep over him as if he were an option I was only just considering, answering: „Maybe I want exactly what you want."

He placed a hand on my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips, applying the faintest pressure. My pulse raced. Was it the whiskey? Or was it because I was imagining Levi? I felt my body lean into him involuntarily as he pulled me closer.

Somewhere inside, I knew I was losing control, but the thought slipped away just as quickly. His hands pushed my skirt up to my waist. His body pressed me against the wall with a jolt. The hunger in his unwavering gaze.

"I don't believe so. But I bet you'll be begging soon," Sam murmured, almost as if he'd read my thoughts. His lips met mine hard, with a wild, untamed force that nearly knocked me over. It wasn't a gentle exploration but a demanding kiss, as if he were claiming me.

His tongue pushed into my mouth relentlessly, without hesitation, testing and breaking down my boundaries. I pressed into him, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer, my body demanding him as if he were the only reality that mattered now.

My body reacted to him before my mind could even process it, my hands finding his neck, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if it could quell the swirling need inside me. Then he broke away from my mouth, leaving me barely able to breathe before his lips fell to my neck. He bit into my skin, not gently, almost painfully. His teeth grazed my throat, following the line of my neck downward.

I moaned as he pressed into my skin, a chaos of heat and pressure that robbed me of my senses.

I clenched my thighs together, pulsing with every kiss, every bite he left on my skin. My skin feeling too tight, as if it wasn't made to withstand this heat. His teeth, his tongue—every stroke over my neck sent a burning trail through my body. A shiver ran down my spine, my fingers clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer as my hips pressed against his desperately, unconsciously.

I couldn't hold back anymore. Finally, my hands darted down, undid his pants, and slipped inside.

He groaned against my lips, deep, almost a growl. His hands moved roughly over my skin, finding their grip on my hips, digging in. He pulled me so tightly against him I could barely breathe, but maybe I didn't want to. Maybe air was overrated in moments like these. I gasped as he lifted my legs around his waist, pinning me harder against the wall with a single motion. My head nearly hit the wall, but he caught me, a rough care in his touch.

"If you're a good girl, I'll give you what you need," he murmured against my neck. I heard my own moan, deep and longing, as Sam spread my thighs wider, pressing into me as if he wanted to devour me whole. And maybe I wanted exactly that.

Every kiss on my neck, every movement of his lips sent a new shiver through me, making me cling to his shoulders as if he were the only thing holding me up.

Then he carried me to the bed without breaking contact with my lips. The world tilted for a moment before I landed on the mattress, breathing heavily, dizzy from the alcohol or from him or both. He spun me onto my stomach, his hand in my hair, pulling just hard enough to bring me back to the present. I gasped, my body tensing as he pulled me onto my knees, my eyes closing in anticipation.

He knelt behind me, a heavy shadow, his breath hot and uneven against the nape of my neck. His fingers dug into my hips, so hard it hurt. "Stay just like this," he commanded, his voice ragged against my ear as he pressed his body even tighter against mine.

He grabbed my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me aware of his demand for my eyes.

"Look at me." His tone brooked no argument, and when I did, when I sank into his fathomless, almost black eyes, I felt dizzy. As if nothing else was real except this moment, except him.

His fingers slid between my legs, finding exactly what he was looking for, while his other hand tore my soaked panties away. I flinched, biting my lip, but it was no use. A moan escaped me anyway. Sam inhaled sharply, his hand growing more demanding.

I could only whimper softly, pressing my hips against his hand, silently begging for more.

He spread me wider, delving deeper with his fingers, his gaze absorbing every reaction. As if he were memorizing every twitch, every sharp intake of breath. His fingers found my rhythm, his lips closing over mine, hard, demanding. There was nothing gentle about the way he kissed me.

I obeyed. His eyes—fuck. They consumed me. Intense and hungry. My mind was empty, my body nothing but burning desire.

And then he pulled back. I would have cursed, would have begged, but he gave me no time. His belt clinked, then his zipper. My gaze dropped.

Shit. Hurry up.

He pressed against me, rubbing at my entrance, slow, torturous. My body tensed, the heat rising to my head.

Then he thrust in. Deep. Without any warning.

Fuck. He filled me, pulling almost all the way out only to drive into me again, deep, brutal, as if it were his damn right. Every thrust made me cry out, made me burn. "You like that, huh?" His voice was little more than a growl. A rough sound escaped me—somewhere between a gasp and a desperate moan. He gave me no second, no pause. His hips moved, finding a rhythm that drove me to the edge of madness.

He felt so damn good—every movement, every thrust sent me higher, pushed me closer to the abyss. Then he grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him again. He pulled almost all the way out, only to thrust into me again, harder this time, deeper, a relentless rhythm that stole my breath. My knees threatened to give out, but his grip held me there, held me open, held me firm.

His groans grew deeper, darker, mingling with my sounds as I nearly slipped off the sheets, searching for stability. He gave me none. He pulled me back onto him, deeper, harder, every thrust another scratch on my skin.

Then his hand was on my neck. A sharp jerk. My back arched, my throat exposed, and he gripped tight. It made me gasp, made me feel even more. Every thrust sank me deeper into him, his rhythm tearing at my mind. I was completely at his mercy, and that was all I wanted.

The room blurred, there was only the sound of his hips against my ass and how he drove me forward with hard, short movements. „You like that?" he gasped, the words forced. I couldn't answer, only moaned a curse as he drove deeper into me, the pressure inside me growing stronger. His teeth tugged at my lip before his tongue plunged deep into my mouth. And suddenly I felt my face pressed into a pillow.

His grip on my hips grew harder, his fingers digging deeper into my skin, his thrusts becoming more chaotic, harder. I was on the edge, every impulse amplified by the gasping at my ear and the desperation for the release I needed. I felt him trembling against me, still buried deep inside, and something about knowing I had that effect on him—pushed me over the edge. As the climax hit me, hard and fast, I could only scream out for God as pleasure washed over me in waves.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice rough and desperate. "I..." Before he could say more, his control broke. I felt the pulsing inside me as he slowly pulled out, leaving a wet trail that flowed warm down my inner thighs. His hand slid down my back, a final claim. "I should've done this the day of the party."

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

It was late in the evening, the room quiet except for the sound of the boiling kettle, piercing through the thick, increasingly heavy silence.

I took off my jacket, and as my gaze wandered around the room, I immediately noticed the small package on the table. A brown envelope, almost as if from another world, as if it held no real significance—and yet, there it was. A gift from Helen. I stood there for a moment, the air heavy, almost as if the room was filling with the thought of her presence. Was it a coincidence that it had arrived just now, or was it part of a plan I didn't yet understand? I didn't know.

I opened it without really thinking. Inside the package were incense cones. The feeling of irritation within me grew, but curiosity was stronger, a urge to use them, as if it would somehow move me forward. I lit two cones, the scent of sandalwood and something sweet mingling with the cool air of the apartment.

It had something calming, as the smoke danced into the corners of the room. Without really noticing, I was already sitting in front of my camera, the tarot deck in my hands. Live.

The small camera showed me in front of the table, the cards spread out. I should have stopped, but the thought that I wasn't alone, that people were watching, felt suddenly different than usual.

"The journey you are about to take… it will not only change your body. It will tear your soul apart," I said in a voice that sounded foreign to me. The room seemed to grow denser, the screen flickering, as if darkness itself was creeping through the virtual space.

My fingers glided over the cards, but they no longer felt like cards. They were hot flames, burning into my skin, slowing my thoughts and pulling everything I once knew out of me. It was almost too easy to recognize the movements of the future, as if I were merely a mirror for the images someone else was showing me.

I felt the tingling in my palms, as if something, or someone, was guiding me. Was it the effect of the smoke filling the room, or was there more? The followers reacted immediately, their excitement almost tangible: "This is exactly about me!" one of them wrote.

I could hear it, that suppressed excitement in their voice. But it was no longer just that—suddenly, I knew things I couldn't possibly know. The cards in front of me said more than they should. They flowed like a current through me, and I simply accepted them.

Another comment flashed up: "What about my relationship?" The words came without hesitation, as if they had been dictated to me: "He will open up soon, he will tell the truth, but you must trust him, even if he struggles to show you everything."

"You just described my situation exactly!" wrote another. And then another: "How do you know that?"

Of course, I knew. Like a river carving its way through me and then flowing out into the world. "It's the smoke," I said, "the smoke and the cards—they're the ones telling me all this."

The followers demanded more, and I was caught in a whirlwind of visions that flooded me, like a stream of images carrying me away, without me being able to resist. A deeper voice than my own crept into my thoughts.

"You are more than you think," I heard it whisper. The voice was familiar but distant, like something that had always been there but had never truly been heard. A dark, seductive power that resided in the deepest corners of my soul had freed itself from the smoke and found a way to manifest. "I am guiding you," the voice said. "See what you are doing. You have their attention. You are strong. You don't need to be afraid."

It was an overwhelming feeling. I didn't want it—but at the same time, I was exhilarated, as if every fiber of my body was craving the energy of the presence now flowing through me. The cards in front of me were alive, and I was playing with them, just as I always did.

But there was more.

"The Star," I said, pointing to a card that now stood out completely from the others. "You will soon realize that you cannot control everything. But it won't bother you. You will surrender to it."

"Oh God, this is really crazy! It's all true!" someone commented.

I saw the flickering image on the screen and felt both uneasy and elated. What was it that was speaking through me? I felt like a stranger in my own body, as if I were being pulled through these words by someone else. The smoke enveloping the cards began to unsettle me. It felt like a veil pulling me into another world—a world that wasn't real and yet felt so true.

The darkness wasn't just within me. It was everywhere. It was the space around me, the screen flickering, in my hands. Everything seemed permeated by this inexplicable presence that I could no longer shake off, that enveloped me. That sudden, iron coldness in my chest, as if something had reached out to me from nowhere.

It wasn't a physical feeling—it was deeper, a feeling of possession, of control, that went beyond what I knew. There was a power merging with me. I leaned into the camera, the look in my eyes deep, almost hypnotic. "Don't be afraid," I said softly, "I know what you need."