As he takes me up to the hotel room, I can't stop my brain from going into overdrive. What if I discover I don't like it? Daniel promised that nothing would change, but it will. Everything will. How could it not?

If, after my first foray into this world, I decide I don't like it after all, what then? He will look at me differently. I will look at him differently. By the time I actually step into the hotel room, I’m close to freaking. Why am I flip-flopping all of a sudden? Why am I doubting myself? Why am I doubting Daniel?

And then he smiles at me. That's all it takes. A simple, encouraging smile. He points to a box. Not a large box, not one of those big, square moving boxes, but bigger than a box that stored file folders like you can get at your local office supply store. This box looks like the boxes we use to store a lot of the manuscripts that arrive at Pen & Quill that end up in the maybe slush pile. We hang onto them for awhile before either sending them back to the authors for more work or taking them down to the basement incinerator. And yes, the building is that old. It has an incinerator.

The box is set on the floor catty corner between the edge of the coffee table and the end of the sofa. What is inside that box? I know. It’s a box of secrets, of sex. Can I deal with what’s inside? I don't have any sexual hang-ups, but it’s not like I often venture beyond the realm of what I call ordinary sex. Stewart isn’t particularly imaginative nor have any of our sexual encounters gone beyond the norm. And by that, I mean, although not cruelly, the wham, bam, thank you ma'am, kind of sex. A few minutes of foreplay and then typically the traditional missionary position, and once or twice, oral, but still, very straightforward, very ordinary, almost… almost clinical in nature. I feel the heat of a flush warm my cheeks. What—

"Go ahead, open it," he says.

The box isn't taped, but the four flaps of its lid are folded in on themselves. One by one I pull the flaps open and then peer down into the box. My immediate impression? I don't see any handcuffs, and I realize that my conception and impression of bondage hovers on the naïve side. I cringe inwardly, realizing that in one of my scenes in my manuscript, I had the woman handcuffed to a bed frame with metal handcuffs. Maybe that's what Daniel was talking about when he said he found some mistakes in my book.

I glance up at him, and he nods with encouragement. I begin to finger some of the items. I’m not surprised to find different gadgets of all sizes and textures. There are different types of rope, straps, and, much to my dismay, small link lengths of chain. I try to still my racing heart as I touch the items, but I don't remove them from the box.

"What are you thinking, Ashley?"

"I… I'm not sure," I admit. My fingers slide along the surface of a leather collar. It looks exactly like a dog collar.

"It's custom-made. Those metal rings are where rope can be secured or even attach a chain to it."

He speaks matter-of-factly. He speaks from experience. He does know this world. It isn't just talk. I don't want to look at him, don't want him to see my nervousness. Nevertheless, his voice compels me to.

"Most people use ropes, or rope-like devices, for their bondage encounters. That doesn't always mean a literal rope, like you had in another scene in your book. It can be anything such as a scarf, a belt, or even a necktie. Bondage is designed to restrict movement, actually. It's not meant nor intended to be a form of torture."

I don't have any torture scenes in my manuscript, so why would he say that? Then I remember. Another scene does have—

"It's not about rape, or even one-sided sex."

He sits down on the couch next to me, so close that his arm brushes against mine. I feel the heat of his body and inhale the scent of his cologne.

"Regardless of the tool of bondage, it's important to be very careful. It doesn't take much to cause rope burns or to cut off someone's circulation."

I glance at him, eyes wide. "I used rope in one of my scenes."

"Yes, you did," he nods. "And it was thick and rough. You described the kind of rope that they use in old Westerns to hang people or rope cattle with, didn't you?"

I feel like an idiot, but nod.

"If rope is used, it's most commonly a nautical type of rope made of nylon. Nautical rope. You know what I'm referring to? The white, soft, pliable ropes of different thicknesses?"

Again, I nod, absorbing his lesson.

"That type of rope is softer. When used in a bondage scene, nautical rope with a thicker diameter, not like the kind of rope you described, is preferred."

He pauses, looks down at the box, and then reaches into it. He extracts a two-foot length of white, nylon nautical rope, nearly an inch thick. He extends it toward me.

"Feel it. Run your fingers along the surface."

I swallow, but obey. I wrap my palm around the rope. It’s sturdy, pliable, yet soft to the touch.

"Close your eyes. Imagine me tying you up with this. You're bound to something with this kind of rope. What would it feel like?"

My pussy clenches as I imagine it.

"You can use this type of binding in any number of ways. You can tie someone's hands to the bedpost, like you did in your book, or you can be a little more creative."

I look at him. Creative? He stares back at me, a slight smile curving the corner of his lips. My nipples harden. Is he going to use this rope on me? Today? In a few minutes? As if reading my thoughts, he shakes his head.

"Rope is not used when a Dom and a sub are getting to know one another. The use of rope implies complete trust. Complete comfort with one another."

He takes the rope from my hands, his gaze not breaking mine.

"Always remember, Ashley, that allowing yourself to be bound is an act of complete submission. Whether with me or someone else, when you allow yourself to be bound, you're trusting the Dom."

He frowns and tosses the rope back into the box. "What is it?" Did I say something, imply something with a look? He looks at me, and for a moment I don't think he’s going to answer.

"I knew a couple, not that long ago. She was accidentally killed by her Dom—"

I can't help the gasp that escapes my throat. I stare in dismay.

"They had been drinking. Oh, what they did for their scene wasn't unusual. He bound her wrists and then, using another rope, bound her to a large hook screwed into the ceiling."

I imagine that, a woman, naked, arms raised over her head, totally at the mercy of her partner. "What happened?"

"They indulged, but because he was drunk, he more than likely missed the cues that she gave him." He looks out the window. "Remember the safeword I told you about?"

I nod.

"No one really knows for sure what happened. Even the guy couldn't completely recall the course of events. Anyway, the autopsy determined that she had been bound too long. She was inebriated, too. Rule number one: You don't do scenes when you're drunk."

He looks at me again, pointedly, and I nod. I feel like a bobble head.

"Her position decreased oxygen intake, and she had difficulty breathing. She didn't use her safeword, and if she did, she didn't say it loud enough or he wasn't listening. The strain on her lungs also placed a strain on her heart. She died."

How awful! How could something like that happen? Why didn't the guy follow the rules—

"They'd been married for ten years. They had two kids. CPS took the kids, and he's in jail for manslaughter."

I swallow a hardened lump in my throat. How horrible—

"I'm telling you this because the rules have to be followed. If they're not, bad things can happen." He sighs. "Most of the people in this world that I know are businessmen and women; they have careers, families, and children. You wouldn't know what they do behind closed doors just by looking at them."

I understand what he’s trying to say. I watch him for several moments, contemplating his somber expression. He isn't looking at me anymore, but into his memories. I pull my gaze away from him, allowing him this moment of… of grieving? I glance back at the box. Okay, so ropes are out for now, especially ropes suspended from ceilings.

I see a metal contraption. It looks like a bar, maybe a foot long and an inch round. Holes are drilled into each end of the bar. An S hook feeds through those holes and connects to a couple of large leather cuffs, padded on the inside with sheepskin-like material.

"What's that?" He glances down to what I point out and smiles as he lifts the bar from the box. Watching me. As if to gauge my reaction.

"This is a spreader bar. They're usually two or three feet long, although of course, size and construction varies. It's intended to separate extremities." His grin broadens. "For example, I could place the cuffs around your wrists, or around your ankles, keeping your legs spread. Easy access."

The heat of a flush travels all the way from my chest upward into my face. Stop that! I imagine myself lying on the bed in the other room, naked, my ankles cuffed, the bar spreading my legs while he—

"Want to give some of this a try?"

An equal surge of heat builds in my groin, causing internal contractions and a surge of wetness. After only a few seconds of thought, I nod. This is what I want, isn't it? An adventure? A teacher?

"But not here," he says.

I’m confused. Why did he bring me up here again? Were we going to have another round of what I consider vanilla sex? He sees my consternation and chuckles.

"We can't use most of that stuff in here. I brought you up here, Ashley, so that you could look at some of the tools used in bondage without being overwhelmed or…"

"Chickening out?" I glance down at the gadgets in the box. He chuckles once more, sending a jolt of anticipation through my body.

"If you're ready, we'll go to a home I own, not far from here. It's private and secluded."

I lift an eyebrow. "You have a house, here in the city, in addition to your penthouse apartment?" I grimace. I just committed a faux pas. I’m not supposed to know that my boss has a penthouse apartment, am I? Any more than he should care where I live.

He merely grins. "Yes, in addition to my penthouse apartment, and equipped with a basement that I've converted into what I call my playground."

He studies every nuance of my expression. I get it. He can't be seen taking women into his penthouse apartment, risk anybody hearing them—

"Your playground," I murmur. What other gadgets does he have in this playground of his? I can only imagine—no, not imagine. Experience. He’s inviting me to his playroom.

I don't know if he’s daring me or expecting me to back out or what, but I accept his challenge.

"Lead the way," I say, hoping that my voice expresses more bravado that I feel at that moment. I can't back out now. I want to learn. I want to know everything there is to know about this world that Daniel seems to enjoy so much.