Chapter One
W alking down these streets on a Sunday morning should be illegal—but it is easier this way, as it would have taken me longer to arrive if I had taken the car instead. Where are all these people going so early, anyway? Church?
As I walk under the grey sky with the rain falling steadily, I try to process what I’m about to do, and everything it implies. A part of me feels anxious, but there’s no turning back now—well, technically there’s always a way to go back, but I gave my word. And I don’t see myself sending a text saying:
Well, I am in fact not coming. Xo.
No, that’s not who I am. That would make me a coward, which I am sometimes, but not this time. Today, I’m taking all the risks.
I freeze in front of the entrance of my favourite hotel, The Botanic Hotel, located in a vast space in the heart of the city. The building is surrounded by flowers, herbs, high trees, and a great selection of plants dedicated to aromatherapy sessions.
I wonder if my nerves would calm down if I chew on a few of these chamomile leaves.
The entrance to the hotel is surrounded by the main garden. A corridor leads the way to the luxurious building, its architecture combining vintage and modern styles. I inhale and take a look at the height of this beautiful edification.
The first time I visited this place was thanks to a gift voucher I received for my birthday two years ago. Since then, I have been in love with this hotel and its restaurants, with the finest chefs in the country. They serve colourful breakfasts with fruits I have never seen in my life, an endless selection of granola, and milk— strangely, they didn't have cow's milk, but they have all the other kinds of milk. The incredible attention to the customers and the facilities are always impeccable.
Before going inside, I clean my heels on the carpet and hand my umbrella to the handsome young doorman, who places it in the holder by his narrow, wooden desk. I don’t know who the human resources manager is here, but I’m sure being beautiful and young is among the requirements for working at a hotel like this. I flash a polite smile, mouthing a silent thank you before making my way to the reception. Even if I am nervous, I manage to put on a bright smile as I approach the clerk.
“Good morning, Anthony,” I say after quickly reading the name on his tag. “I have a reservation with an early check-in under the name Olivia James.”
“Good morning, Miss James. We were expecting you and have prepared the key to your room.”
Now that is what I call service. This is why this hotel remains among my favourites—I swear, if I could move in here, I would.
“Thank you, Anthony,” I say, slipping the card into my coat pocket. But as I turn to the elevator, Anthony speaks again, making my spine tingle.
“Miss James, I see Mr. Martens is also listed to occupy the room. Should we grant him direct access or would you prefer we call the room upon his arrival?”
My heart skips a beat, but I give him a confident smile.
“I would prefer you to call the room. Thank you.” My voice is surprisingly steady. The announcement of his arrival should give me the perfect amount of time to prepare emotionally and get in character before seeing him.
My nerves are hard to calm at this point, but deep within me, I can’t wait to have him near at the same time.
“Perfect, Miss James,” he confirms.
I nod and continue my way to the elevator. Once inside, I look down at the key card. Suite 069 . How convenient. One would think that I chose this suite for the occasion—I did not.
I press the button for my floor and feel the tension building inside me, second thoughts gnawing at my gut. But before I can dwell on it, the elevator dings and the doors open.
The familiar, comforting scent of the hotel washes over me as I step into the hallway. The air smells like dried roses; a subtle, natural fragrance that feels like a warm hug. The scent follows me as I walk down the hall and to my suite, inhaling deeply as I go, trying to steady myself. I see suite 069 at the end of the hall, lights automatically switching on with every step I take forward, just like a thriller—is this a premonition?
A feeling of hesitation and anticipation builds inside me, and I scold myself for putting me in this situation, one that has my anxiety levels peaking to their highest possible point. I can even hear the little voice in my head:
You need to get out of your bubble, Olivia.
You need to meet new people, Olivia.
Get yourself a dating app, Olivia.
Go fuck a stranger, Olivia.
Ugh, bullshit. How did I even think this was a good idea, anyway?
In front of room 069, I breathe in as I consider opening the door. Oh, fuck it.
The key card activates, and I push the door open, stepping into the dark room. I fumble for the slot to insert the card and the lights flicker on.
Breathtaking.
Suite 069 is beautifully arranged with the scent of dried flowers filling the room. I caress the edge of the bed with my left hand as I walk toward the windows behind the thick curtains.
Ready to feel like I’m in a perfume commercial, I set both of my hands between the two curtains and stretch my arms in a swift movement, allowing me to admire the view.
Astounding.
Not just a window, but a balcony overlooking the botanical sanctuary. I let the doors wide open. The view is so serene that you wouldn’t think it was still in the heart of the city. I close my eyes, taking in the fresh, humid, cool air from outside. It is still raining, but I find it perfect. My nerves have been calming down, my anxiety—still at max, though.
I let the fresh air fill the room and a part of me wishes that I can spend my whole Sunday in this same place, sipping champagne and requesting room service.
I turn around and scan the rest of the room. Fancy. I throw myself onto the bed, suddenly wishing mine was the same. I wonder where these hotels get their bedsheets from . It’s what sleeping on a cloud must feel like. I could fall asleep at this very moment. But something inside me shifts and I know I need to prepare myself.
I get out of bed and carefully take off my black coat, my favourite for autumn. I leave it on the chair near the door so I can find it even with a blindfold on—not that I’ll be wearing one. As I walk around the room, I remove my dress; a red dress that is tight at the waist, knee-length, comfortable yet flattering, without cleavage, and the perfect fabric that hugs my body in all the right places.
I slide my back zipper down and remove one sleeve after the other, letting my dress slide down my legs. I take it from the floor and place it over the same chair. I adjust my stockings to my thigh with my suspender belt—which needs to be tighter than this if I want to avoid pulling them up every ten minutes.
I love the illusion of spaciousness created in the room. One wall is covered with a dark mirror, allowing me to see the entire room from where I’m standing. I stop, catching my reflection in the mirror, and admire the sight for a moment. I’ve always felt most powerful in gorgeous lingerie, and today’s white lace set from Agent Provocateur, which I bought in Paris years ago, does not disappoint. Soft fabric perfectly fitted. It’s almost a shame to take it off.
I remove my hair pins and comb my dark hair into a sleek ponytail, hoping to keep it neat. As I’m adjusting, the phone rings. I jump at the sound. That ring volume is something I would change. I rush to pick it up, hitting my toe with the base of the bed. I yelp. Fantastic.
"Hello,” I respond, smiling, hiding the pain in my voice.
"Miss James, Mr. Martens has arrived."
Oh shit, oh shit.
“Thank you, he can come up." I hang up.
My heart races with what I want to think is excitement. This will be the first time I meet this man in person. No, I’m not a psycho. We’ve shared several months of conversations, late-night calls, and a steady stream of messages since our first digital encounter.
I know he is an executive at some place—according to his brief profile description—and he knows I’m an entrepreneur. No need to go into details.
His name is Nathaniel Martens—Nathan, as he prefers. Thirty-seven-years-old. Birthday August 1 st . Single. No engagements. No divorces. No children. So far, so good.
He knows my voice and I know his, but we’ve never laid eyes on each other. His face is a nice blur of imagination inside my head. A sweet image based on his low voice, talking to me about his day, his morning runs, his lunch. But my favourite part is when he tells me about the books he’s been reading, his preferred scenes and his impressions. He takes the time to read the titles I recommend, always sending me a picture with the book in his hands as soon as he gets it. It makes me feel he is not just any stranger, but a cultivated, decent kind of stranger.
I’ve seen parts of him—his hands, mostly, and some more intimate glimpses, thanks to a few thirsty pictures and FaceTime sessions, without showing our faces. This meeting is our decision to cross that line, keeping the mystery we both enjoy dearly.
A dark room , he calls it.
The rules are simple. As it’s been in our digital encounters, no seeing each other’s faces , but now with the added intimacy of touch, our game needs to adapt. So— if I understood: No lights, no phones, no visual distractions . We will leave the room separately with a twenty-minute gap between us. Simple, efficient. No strings attached.
Of course, I’m crossing my fingers, my toes, and everything I can cross for him to be the same fine man with the nice body and voice that melts me and, not some creeper who might kill me and leave me half-naked in a hotel room. I came ready for the first-case scenario only.
I check my reflection one last time, close the balcony doors, draw the curtains close, turn off the lights, and lay in the middle of the bed, waiting for him.
A couple minutes later, the door beeps. I hear his voice entering the room along with some beams of light from the hall.
“Olive, are you in here?” His voice is tender.
My head is running with what to say.
“Hello, Mr. Martens,” I let out.
“Oh, Olive,” he breathes, his footsteps getting closer. “I could get used to you calling me Mr. Martens. Guide me to you, will you?”
“Just follow my voice,” I tease as he draws nearer.
Before I can speak again, his hands are on my waist, pressing into the mattress on either side of me.
“I found you,” he whispers, his voice low and thick with desire. His scent is intoxicating, filling my senses.
“Impressive,” I say, trailing my fingers along his face, feeling the short beard beneath my touch. “That was fast,” I remark, and he lets out a silly laugh. “Either you’ve been inside this room before, or you have night vision.”
“Perhaps,” he murmurs to my ear, not saying which of my guesses is the truth. But a part of me tells me he hasn’t been here in the past, so night-vision it is.
“What am I mouthing right now?” I ask playfully.
“That’s easy,” he replies confidently, his fingers grazing over my chest. “You’re asking me to kiss you.”
I giggle, arching my back. “Did I mention where?”
His grip tightens around my waist, his tone shifting.
“You don’t need to.”
In a swift movement, he positions himself between my legs, pushing my lace knickers aside. Heat builds inside me.
“Did I read you well?” he asks as I feel his breath glide down against me. I giggle without saying a word, my whole body anticipating this moment.
His tongue slides over me slowly and I arch my back, letting out a soft moan as his hands move up to my chest. His pace intensifies as his lips devour me and my body responds, giving in completely to the moment.
He has no idea how much I’ve been waiting for this. How many times I’ve manifested this moment to the universe—although I’m hoping the universe received my note on size preferences. Please universe, do not disappoint me . Surprisingly, the dark, blinding room does add up to the naughty mystery I didn’t think I would enjoy this much.
The feel of his tongue teasing me sends me into overdrive.
“You surprise me, Olive,” he mutters between kisses, his deep voice vibrating against my skin. “I didn’t expect you to be this sweet. How am I supposed to be a gentleman with you now?”
I moan, my voice strained.
“Were you even a gentleman in the first place?”
He chuckles.
“You’re right. Who am I kidding?” With that, he stands abruptly, his tone shifting to something more commanding.
“On the edge.”
My mind, still foggy, struggles to process.
“Huh?” I ask, confused.
“The edge of the bed...now,” he repeats, his voice demanding, bossy. Despite the sudden shift, I obey, crawling to the edge of the bed.
Is it ok to say that this sudden change is still turning me on?
I sense his presence in front of me. With his legs, he pushes mine apart, his dominance unmistakable. I feel his fingers under my chin, lifting my head. His other hand roams to the base of my ponytail, twirling the strands between his fingers. He gives a firm tug that sends a shock of pain and pleasure coursing through me, causing me to yelp.
“Hush, love," he whispers close to my ear as he leans in, his deep voice making me melt. “I haven’t even begun.” I smell his perfume, intoxicating, manly, a perfect mix of amber and wood that lingers around me.
His grip on my hair tightens, and with a gentle force, he presses his fingers against my lips.
“Suck,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Hypnotized by his authority, I part my lips and obey. His fingers enter my mouth, and my tongue swirls around them. The heat between us is palpable, every movement deliberate and dripping with want.
As I suck on his fingers, imagining more, I hear him let out a soft groan, his approval clear.
“Good girl,” he praises, pulling his hand back slowly. “You’ve earned a little prize, haven’t you?”
Before I can react, he yanks my hair harder, tilting my head back as his lips crash onto mine. The kiss is hungry, desperate, filled with a raw need that matches the fire building inside me. His tongue teases mine and the intensity deepens as I feel his other hand move between my legs, pushing aside the delicate lace again.
His fingers explore my wetness, circling slowly, teasing until I feel the tip of two of his fingers sliding inside, filling me with both relief and an overwhelming craving for more.
His pace is agonizingly slow, each movement precise. His thumb circles my sweet spot with maddening control. My hips arch toward his hand involuntarily, my body aching for more. But he makes me wait, testing my patience with every delicate stroke. His lips break away from mine and I’m left panting, desperate.
“Someone’s impatient,” he murmurs, his voice charged with amusement.
His thumb presses against me again, sending a shiver through my body as I whimper in response. I moan softly, my voice betraying how close I am. He chuckles, clearly enjoying the power he has over me.
“Oh no, Olive,” he insists. “Don’t hold back.”
“Please,” I let out, barely able to speak.
His hand stops, his fingers remaining inside me, keeping me on the edge.
“You can do better than that, love. Come on, beg for it,” he commands.
“Oh God, please,” I plead, my voice coming out soft and out of breath.
“ God ? It’s Nathan. But thanks,” his voice is low and full of authority, but I swear I heard him laugh, and it makes me smile. I bite my lip, my head swimming with desire. His dominance has me caught between frustration and surrender.
“Please… Mr. Martens,” my voice is barely above a whisper. His lips brush the outline of my ear as I feel him even closer.
“How polite,” he murmurs. He withdraws his fingers, leaving me aching for more of him.
“Ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice low and strained. But before I can say anything, I feel the tip of his cock pressing against my entrance. I move my hands down to his length and feel the latex texture of a condom. When did he put it on?
I gasp as he slides inside me, filling me, stretching me deliciously. My hands gripping the sheets as he begins to move. Each thrust is deep and intended, his body claiming mine with an intensity that magnifies my longing for him. His pace quickens. I’m lost in the moment, my mind blank as I focus on the heat between us, and the way his cock feels inside me. How his hands grab my hips firmly, keeping the distance as short as possible.
Imagining the look in his eyes, I pass my fingers through his hair and grab onto it, feeling how his thrusts intensify. I slide my hand between my legs and rub myself, sensing my orgasm building fast and hard.
Nathan leans over me, his lips brushing against my neck as he continues to take me, his movements growing more frantic.
My moaning grows louder and closer together, one after the other. I let myself go, my orgasm filling the room. His grip on my hair tightens as my body tenses beneath him. He growls, his pace quickening. His own release washes over him as he groans into my ear, his body shuddering. For a moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, the aftermath of what happened hanging heavy in the air.
After a few moments, Nathan pulls away, his hands gently releasing their grip on my hair and body. He presses a soft kiss on my neck before he lies back on the bed, pulling me with him.
We lie there in the darkness, our bodies still tangled together, both of us silently catching our breaths. There’s no need for words right now. The intensity of the moment speaks volumes on its own. And I remain there, realizing how I went to hell and got fucked by Lucifer.
Finally, after a few long minutes, Nathan breaks the silence with a chuckle.
“Hello, love,” he says, his voice low and satisfied. “Can I say, it's nice to finally meet you?”
I can’t help but laugh, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
“Nice to meet you.” I put my hand over his chest. “It really is a pleasure .” We both laugh.
As we lie there, tangled in the sheets, the reality starts to settle in. The darkness of the room feels safe, keeping the outside world at bay for a little longer.
For a moment, I feel light—like I’m floating, laying on top of a cloud. And this time I don’t mean the bed, but the effect he has on me.
Nathan’s hand lazily strokes my arm, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. My mind races, replaying the past months—our conversations, our connection, and now, this. I’m exhilarated, but there’s an underlying tension. A part of me knows this was meant to be just one moment, a temporary escape. But now that it’s real, I can’t help but wonder what's next.
“Are you okay?” Nathan’s voice breaks through my thoughts, soft and gentle. So different from the commanding tone he had earlier.
“Yeah,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m good. Just...thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” he says, putting his hand over mine as he intertwines our fingers together— is he a romantic? I send my worries to the back of my mind and roam his face with my hand, trying to find his lips. He chuckles and I kiss him one last time before stepping out of the bed to leave. He grunts, and I laugh lightly.
“Are you sure you can’t stay? We can remain here, sharing the darkness, or even enjoy a highly stimulating blind brunch.”
His voice is melodic, an attempt to make the offer tempting. But even if I'd love to, it’s Sunday and I gave my word to be in a different place. The blind brunch will have to wait.
I sigh.
“Look, Satan,” I say, and hear him laugh. “I already fell into temptation once; don’t you tempt me with your poisoned apple again,” I say trying hard to keep my voice serious. The sound of his laugh makes the room so alive.
“Am I supposed to be Satan or the little old lady in Snow White ?” he asks, as if I didn’t know the difference between one and the other.
“Ugh, nobody likes a know-it-all, Nathaniel,” I say while sitting on the bed one last time.
He pulls my hand to get me closer to him. He kisses me deeply and I respond, not wanting to break from it.
“I can’t wait to meet you again,” he says, and I feel his presence closer to mine.
“Neither can I.” I stand up abruptly, making my way into the bathroom. I walk carefully, caressing the walls to guess where the door is, feeling completely stupid. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s only fair that I leave first.
When I come out of the bathroom, still doing the Spiderman act against the wall to guide me toward the chair where I left my clothes, I hear Nathaniel’s laugh.
“Oh dear lord, I’m so close to tell you to turn the lights on.”
“No, no. You said you wanted to keep the mystery. We are keeping the mystery, even if I’m leaving this place wearing my clothes backwards.
Down at the reception, I leave my key card and nod with a big smile when the same handsome, young man wishes me a good day. Anthony, right?
I hold the furry collar of my coat and stop by the entrance to collect my umbrella. As soon as the doorman sees me, he picks up mine. I suppose it’s easy to find as it’s the only one with a gold, heavy handle and flowers in the reverse. The little treasures you find in the thrift store.
“Madame,” he says, handing me my umbrella.
“Thank you,” I respond, this time with an actual sound.
I glance at my phone: 11:45 a.m.
I’m late.
I’M SO LATE, Tatiana is going to kill me. I run like my life depends on it—because it does. Tatiana's place is only a ten-minute bus ride, but with the rain, these shoes, and the cobblestone streets, I might fall and die before even making it to the bus stop.
Finally, after a failed run from the bus stop to her place, I reach the door of her little house. I knock and she opens it, wearing her apron tied neatly around her waist with her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression says it all.
“Girl, you’re late, I’m starving—” she blurts, raising an eyebrow. “And what are you wearing? I SAID CASUAL SUNDAY, Olivia!”
“What are you talking about? This is completely casual,” I say, pointing my hands up and down toward my outfit. Even if I’m always… naturally overdressed . This is not really that casual. I only wore this to give me some self-confidence, and Nathaniel couldn’t even take a look at it. What a shame.
“Sure, casual...You’re making me look like the maid, Olivia.” She sighs, shaking her head.
“Okay, fine—do you have something less cute I can borrow? You know, to match your look?” I pause, but there's silence and we both laugh.
“You’re so full of—” I cut her off.
“Nice humour and beautiful dresses? Yes, yes, I am.”