There are many reasons why after receiving their first tattoo, people return for more. Sometimes it’s about the expression of individuality, other times remembrance or growth. Whatever the motivation, I’m not alone in my lingering mystification over having subjected myself to more than sixty hours beneath buzzing needles.

The ridges of my spine were horrible, the pain shredding my thoughts and sending ragged lightning into my jaw and the base of my skull. Worst by far, however, were the lowest ribs. I don’t know why, but when the needles penetrated there, some cumulation of nerves pronounced a physical pain that eclipsed all others felt in my life. Even the resetting of a broken forearm, done without anesthesia on a camping trip in high school.

Lillian, who cries over stubbed toes, doesn’t understand what possessed me to consciously submit to pain. Damien struggled with it, also, and would leave the parlor periodically to escape the sight. For a day following a session, I would be ink-sick and lethargic. He would ask, “Why do you do it?” and my answer was always some variation of, “Because I have to.”

C.S. Lewis said, God whispers in our pleasures, but shouts in our pain. I wouldn’t say being tattooed brought me closer to my Creator. I’m not that arrogant, or hopeful. But I do believe it brought me closer to myself. Withstanding physical pain (swallowing it whole, embracing it with open arms) is an unmitigated test of mental fortitude.

Do I flee, or do I fight?

Neither, as it happens. The only way to win is to surrender.

* * *

The penthouse suite at the US Grant occupies the entire eleventh floor. I wander across the black walnut floorboards, though a joined living and dining room. I look at but don’t really see the gorgeous finishes or art on the walls, or even the spectacular nighttime views of the bay and the graceful bridge to Coronado Island.

I’m standing before a window, entranced and strung tight, when I feel Alex approach. His presence causes an electric surge of awareness in the balls of my feet. My heart pounds.

Fight or flight.

He hands me a glass of wine, which I take with shaking fingers. We drink together, not touching or speaking. From the moment I arrived until now, we haven’t said a word. It’s been difficult for me—I crave his voice, a conversation to settle my nerves—but the darkness in his eyes speaks clearly.

No.

So I keep my mouth shut, and the longer I do, the more I realize that communication doesn’t depend on speech. I sip my wine, not tasting it, and because he hasn’t told me not to, I watch him instead of the city.

He’s freshly shaven, sharply elegant in all black from long-sleeved dress shirt to shoes. Without his voice to distract me, I absorb the contours of his face. The sensuous curves of his lips. The thick eyelashes shadowing blue irises with golden flecks. His finely formed brows and the framing of his face by tousled hair so dark it’s almost black. The faint lines of laughter beside his eyes. The freckles, few and light, over his nose and cheekbones. I’ve noticed these details before, of course. But not like this.

There’s no hint of the playboy in his stoic features. Nor do I see the tycoon. This man is… other. Alex and not. More power, deeper control. So much that my blood sings. I’m aching and he hasn’t even touched me.

When his eyes find mine, I almost drop my glass. He smiles—a slow, knowing curve—and lifts it from my fingers, setting it beside his on the windowsill. His gaze meanders over my features and down to my neck, where it stalls on the fevered pulse in my throat.

Say something. Say anything, please.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts the long chain of my necklace from beneath the collar of my dress. He does it carefully, without touching skin. The delicate gold links wrap once around his index finger. His eyes flicker over my head. He doesn’t have to pull—doesn’t have to speak. He walks. I follow. Across the living room, down a hallway, and into the dimly lit bedroom.

He releases the chain. A thumb grazes my lower lip. I sway a little and he smiles.

“Tell me your favorite word, Ms. Sands.” In spite of its long absence, the sound of his voice isn’t jarring. But the darkness in it lifts the hair on my nape.

“Illusions,” I whisper.

“If anything makes you uncomfortable, you say it. Do you understand?” I nod compliantly. “Tell me out loud.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“From this point on, you won’t speak unless it’s the safeword.” I bob my head. “Good. Now sit on the bed.”

My knees, already weak, buckle and deposit me on the soft surface. Eyes on my face, Alex reaches into a front pocket and pulls free a length of thin, black fabric. My pulse jumps to my throat. He spreads the fabric between his hands and I see that it’s not long. Maybe three feet.

I swallow and meet his gaze. Mistake. I squirm. I should have asked him questions. What’s he going to do to me?

“Stop thinking so hard,” he says smoothly. “I’m not going to bind you. I’m not going to hurt you. This is about pleasure, Ms. Sands. This is about you finally surrendering control. All your discipline belongs, tonight, to me.”

One of his knees hits the bed beside my hip. A warm palm smooths up my throat, tilting my head back. His mouth brushes mine, tongue flicking over the seam of my lips. Before I can kiss him, he pulls back.

“You have to trust me to give you what you want,” he murmurs. “No hesitations. Whatever I say, you do. Understand?”

I nod, but it’s more of a spasm.

He smiles slightly and rises. “Stand up.” I jolt to my feet, then flush at the crinkles of humor around his eyes. Knuckles brush, featherlight, across my cheek. “Close your eyes.”

The shadows on my eyelids compound as silk slides across the bridge of my nose. Alex deftly ties the ribbon at the back of my head. His hands smooth over my hair, stroking, calming a sudden spike of panic. Fear rises and with it his name. It beads on my lips, an unreleased plea.

Discipline. Focus.

I release a slow breath and relax.

“Well done,” he whispers. “Now, don’t move.”

My other four senses expand to account for lack of sight. Carpet fibers bend, fabric sighs… His fingers graze my ankles as he lifts one foot, then the other, from my heels. The soles of my feet sink into lush carpet.

Warm hands slide up my calves, around my knees and down my shins. Up again, higher this time, until my dress is caught in the motion. Fabric whispers over my hips, my stomach. I lift my arms and he pulls the dress over my head.

I wait for him to say something. (I’m not wearing underwear.) But he doesn’t speak. For a long time, I hear nothing—can’t, really, over the roar of my blood, the rustle of hair pressed between my ears and silk.

There are moments I think he’s gone. But then I feel his breath, or a tingling pressure that tells me he’s looking at me. No sight or hearing, but my body can feel. And I discover a new type of hearing, tuned deeper than sound.

At the slightest whisper of air, my nipples harden in anticipation. His open mouth covers a peak. Heat and wetness, the kiss of teeth. I bite my lip on a moan, then shiver as he pulls away to blow over the damp skin.

Alex…

I clench my teeth.

He repeats the process with my other breast. Only touching my nipples. It’s sensual torture. The urge to reach out, to react, is a constant pressure in my head.

Heat radiates on my legs as he kneels before me. Oh God. His breath fans over my stomach. The flick of his tongue in my navel nearly buckles my knees. Every inch of my skin pulses, screams to be touched.

Without warning, his tongue delves between my legs, strokes up, and circles my clitoris. My legs crumple but his arms catch me, locking around my thighs. He lifts me to my toes, licking deeper, harder.

The need to cry out his name is so extreme that I hold my breath—which only intensifies the pleasure. Without sight, I still see… colors burst like splatters of paint before fading, absorbed by the darkness.

He is relentless, ungentle, and masterful. My legs quiver and turn to jelly; the pounding in my veins increases. Blood pools low in my body, singing a promise of release. Yes… Seconds from bringing me to climax, his tongue abruptly vanishes, followed by the support of his arms. Cold air bathes my damp flesh.

I am a gasping, broken puppet, swaying without my strings.

“Lie down on the bed.”

I reach back and find the surface. Moving with grace is the least of my concerns as I crawl over the duvet and collapse onto my back. Slowly, my heart rate descends to normal levels, though the throbbing between my legs doesn't abate.

“Hands over your head. Keep stretching. There, grip the pillow.” My fingers sink into the downy mass. I begin pulling it toward me. “No,” he purrs, and I still. “Spread your legs and lift your knees, keeping them on the bed. Higher.”

He makes a low noise. “Good girl,” he says, voice gravelly and strained.

And I suddenly realize there’s power in powerlessness.

“Don’t move.”

The bed dips with his weight. His breath on the sole of my foot warns me the instant before his tongue glides over the extremely ticklish skin. I almost kick him in the face. (It’s a near thing.) He does it again, little flicks that bring my back off the bed. By some miracle, my knees stay down and my torso stretched.

I don’t have to tie you up. I don’t need to.

He was right—I can’t feel the bindings, but they’re there.

I survive the same treatment on my other foot and even find some strange, meditative space. Tickling isn’t pain, but it’s not unrelated. Don’t move. There are no shackles on a tattoo bench, either.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses trail up one leg, then the other. His tongue traces the straining tendons of my inner thigh—moving close, but not reaching the place I want him. I pull against invisible bonds and sweat breaks out on my skin.

Fingertips whisper over my stomach, followed by the slide of something… wet silk? It might be a twin of my blindfold, but I don’t know. My thoughts are disjointed and indistinct.

The slight coarseness of the fabric teases my nipples, circles my breasts, and lifts away. It trails up my arms. Glides across my ankles, my neck. I waver between tension and expectation, unable to anticipate his next touch, twitching when it comes. My collarbone. My lips.

And at last, There.

The ribbon slides between my legs. My breath dies, then returns harsh and panting. Alex lifts my hips, pulling the silk taut against my core and beneath me. He’s tying it. To what? I focus hard and feel a second ribbon around my waist. I thought he wasn’t going to bind me.

I’m not bound, though. Except by his voice.

The ribbon between my thighs pulls tighter, finding and pressing against my clitoris. The pulse between my legs reaches new heights. My body is possessed, my mind thrown across the edge of temperance. My hips undulate restlessly and I can’t stop it. I have to… I need…

“No,” he snaps.

It takes everything—everything I have and more than I knew I possessed—to stop moving. Tears bead in my eyelashes and I have no idea why.

When his breath fans over my center, above the silk, a low moan scrapes free of my throat. I grow wetter, hotter, throb even harder for his touch. My stomach muscles clench and unclench. Sweat trails down my neck. Between my legs, the silk feels strangely heavy, growing more so with each moist breath. It’s unbearable.

Please, Alex!

Nothing. Just his breath. Just a promise.

Seconds pass. Minutes? In my mind, I’ve climaxed a hundred times, fallen endlessly into ecstasy. I count heartbeats and lose track. Minutes pass. Seconds?

Then, strangely, the need ceases to matter. Static and weightlessness enfold me. There will be no resolution. There is no finish line. Just this. His breath. And I surrender.

I’m empty but full. Poised but sedated. There’s no fight in me—not anymore. He is the eye of the storm.

“Perfect,” he whispers.

The sudden pressure and heat of his hands on my thighs is a shock. My senses reel, expanding to assimilate the contact. It’s such a relief to be touched—a miracle. He pushes my thighs up further, forcing muscles to stretch.

Then his tongue is there, and the silk drags over me.

I detonate, climaxing so hard it’s painful.

I almost weep at the sound of his belt, the lowering of his pants, the tearing buttons of his shirt. My muscles are quivering so badly my teeth chatter. I’m at the end of my endurance. The bindings are fraying. I grit my teeth and squeeze the pillow so hard my fingernails tear fabric.

Silk ribbons slide away and with one thrust, he’s inside me to the hilt. It’s excruciatingly perfect. I’m so sensitive. Too sensitive. I don’t care. He draws back slowly—too slowly. I wait… wait… his next thrust is so deep and hard I’m forced up the bed.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I was made for this—for him.

Again, the slow withdrawal, the savage thrust. My back arches, head tilting until my crown is flat to the duvet. He cuts through the imagined bindings on my legs. I hook my ankles around his calves and give everything to him. Take everything from him.

So recently starved for touch, I now joyfully drown in it. My senses reel, overwhelmed by hot skin and slick sweat, his scent imprinting mine. His chest slides against my tender breasts; his stomach flexes, hair tickling my softer canvas. The hands beneath my hips tilt me for his pleasure. For my pleasure…

Deep and dark, sensation builds. Too much. The keen in my throat is that of a wild animal.

“Come for me, Thea,” he growls.

My scream is hoarse, almost tortured. I’m given over to the abyss. It’s pain and also pleasure. It’s more than both.

Alex’s movements slow to a languorous roll, drawing out my climax until tears dampen my blindfold. His breath catches. He shudders and whispers my name. The feel of him throbbing inside me, filling me, is beyond euphoric. I try to choke back a sob and fail.

His lips caress mine, sipping until I sigh. Slowly, his fingers unclench mine from the pillow. He rubs feeling back into my arms, which until this moment, I hadn’t realized were still over my head.

I’ve lost my mind—I’m lost.

He tucks my arms between us, against his warmer skin. My head is gently lifted, hair pulling as he unknots the blindfold. The weight alleviated from my eyes feels disproportionate to the thin silk.

I don’t open my eyes and he doesn’t ask me to. He merely rolls onto his side with me locked in his arms. My face against his neck, I taste the salt of his skin mingling with the salt of my tears. The storm of misplaced grief was short—I’m floating now, warm and languid.

Safe. Home.

“Tell me you’re all right,” he says, soft and intent.

I lick my lips and rasp, “Good girl.”

Tension melts from him with a soft chuckle. He strokes my back, steady and gentle, and kisses me softly. “Sleep, Thea.”

I smirk tiredly and whisper, “Yes, sir.”