On a Thursday evening in August, I take matters into my own hands. Dominic has been out of town the last three days visiting his parents in Napa Valley. In lieu of pining in his absence or stalking his social media for updates on his whereabouts, I’ve spent the time brainstorming with Nathan on how best to seduce my Dom. I even picked Charlie’s brain. As awkward as that conversation was for both of us, I learned some essential facts about Dominic. Facts I’m going to use mercilessly against him tonight.

I spent the afternoon getting everything ready in the loft. I’m wearing his favorite color—blood red—from panties to dress. I’ve made his favorite meal, chicken cacciatore, and his favorite Miles Davis album is queued on the record player. All that’s left is to wait and try not to chew off my lipstick.

Thanks to Google, I know his flight landed forty minutes ago. He should be here any minute. Every sound outside makes my heart leap and fools my ears into thinking it’s his key in the door.

Another twenty-five minutes pass. The oven goes off. I pull out the chicken and promptly start worrying it will be cold by the time he gets here. To distract myself, I re-toss the salad, fuss with my hair in the bathroom mirror, and wipe off then reapply my lipstick. Dominic has taught me plenty about patience, but it’s still not my strong suit.

When I finally crack and grab my phone to call him, it rings in my hands. Sighing in relief at the sight of his name on the screen, I answer.

“Sir?”

“Room six. Now.” The line goes dead.

Lowering the phone from my ear, I consider that all my preparations are for naught. I glance at the counter where our dinner is rapidly cooling, then at the candles flickering merrily on the table.

I laugh and bend over to blow out the flames.

Screw the chicken.

If I didn’t know the club like the back of my hand by now, I might be nervous walking down the shadowed hallway housing the playrooms. But though I’ve never used a room, I’ve seen firsthand what each has to offer.

Knowing he wants room six fills me with a delicious mixture of anticipation and dread. Among regulars at the club, it has the nickname Devil’s Den. Like something out of a gothic horror novel, the playroom has dark walls, minimal lighting, and an antique-flare with accents of crimson and navy. One wall is covered entirely in tools of the trade—gags, cuffs, harnesses, hoods, spreader bars, clamps, paddles, floggers, hooks, ropes, chains…

It’s a torture chamber.

When I reach the room, I’m breathing heavily, fear spiking as I see the curtain drawn over the viewing window. I wonder what he has planned for me. If I can stand it—if I want it.

Despite my nerves, the answer comes swiftly. Yes. Yes, I want it. Anything and everything he has to give me.

I don’t care if my needs classify me as a masochist. If some might think me weak, or damaged, or lacking self-esteem. They don’t know shit. And I don’t care, either, that to the general population Dominic’s desire to deliver pain is considered a mental illness. To me—for me—he is an iron glove swathed in velvet. Redemption at the end of a whip.

Before my fingers touch the doorknob, the wood swings open. Air leaves my lungs in a rush.

All the furniture save one piece has been removed. Candlelight glows around the thick, padded bench set perpendicular on the opposite wall. Shackles hang from it, waiting for my limbs. A thick collar also rests on the black surface, its attached chain linked to the wall. Soft, lush music drifts from speakers, the rhythm fluttering against my skin. But what makes my pulse pound in need is the man waiting for me.

“Good evening, London,” says the demigod in leather pants and nothing else. A smile teases the corner of his lips. “Are you ready to play?”

There’s only one answer.

“Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Clothes off. Hands and knees on the bench.”

I rush to obey, stripping out of my dress and lingerie with Dominic’s searing gaze caressing my every move. His appreciation glows in my chest, spinning my anticipation to new heights.

The supple leather of the bench is cool under my palms and knees.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, warm palm sliding down my spine, making me sigh in relief. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you.”

“You can do whatever you want, sir.”

“Mmm. Is that so? Head up.”

As I obey, he lifts my hair from my nape and reaches for the collar. The interior is soft, the buckles clinking softly as he fastens them. In short order, my ankles and wrists are shackled. I squirm, testing the limits of the chains.

“One more,” he says, reaching overhead to a thick belt that hangs from the ceiling. He fastens it around my waist, pulling the chain until my spine is straight. The support is a false promise—it only means I can’t lower onto my forearms without hurting myself.

When a tremble shakes me from head to toe, he sighs in pleasure. “You love not knowing what’s coming, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my head dropping forward.

“Head up,” he snaps, “unless you want me to tighten the chain on your collar.”

I jerk my chin up, my eyes fluttering closed. “No, sir.”

“I thought not. Point your toes. Like that. Are you comfortable?”

“No, sir.”

He chuckles darkly. “Good. Maybe this will help.”

I know by the tone of his voice that whatever this is, it’s only going to heighten my anxiety. Sure enough, a strip of dark fabric covers my eyes. There’s a tug as he ties it, a small pinch in my scalp as my hair pulls. I whimper.

He strokes my shoulder, my flank, then gently squeezes my breasts. Pleasure spreads in waves from the contact, then turns on itself as clamps bite down on my nipples. Because of my inverted position, the pressure is more painful than usual, but I welcome it. Embrace it as the high-pitched hum of a vibrator fills the air, as he attaches it to a mount and positions it between my legs.

I’m not ready for it, the vibration on my clit an unwanted shock. I squirm helplessly to escape even though there’s nowhere to go.

It sets the tone of the evening.

Whatever’s on his mind tonight gives him an edge I haven’t seen, brings a rawness to his actions, makes everything brighter and more potent.

I break, and break, and break.

Merciless pleasure. Pitiless pain. I’m ready—exultant—when the sweeping wave of surrender takes me. I belong to pain and him, and they belong to me.

My pain is my choice.

I’m his therapy and redemption as much as he is mine. The taste of our communion is bitterness laced with cream. Sugary arsenic. For what I want, he doesn’t give, in the end spilling his seed on my back instead of inside me.

Never inside me.

Sadist.

But also my savior, for when he’s unraveled me to the most fundamental level of my humanity, the greatest gift arrives. Whispery nothingness. Floating peace. If not exactly forgiveness, it nevertheless feels like acceptance.

Each time he breaks me, I rebuild a little more.

After, he holds me as I come down, his face tucked into my neck. My fingers play in the soft hair at his nape.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

He nuzzles me, holds me tighter. I don’t protest—it’s worth the discomfort. “I am now,” he answers at length, lips against my pulse.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His smile curls against my skin. “I just did.”

I huff out my amusement. Beneath it, though, is a tingle of intuition coupled with fear. The good kind of fear, like falling with a parachute.

“You just missed me, didn’t you?”

He nips me lightly. “You’re pushing it.” No bite in the words, only soft affection. Content with my sleuthing efforts, I snuggle deeper into his embrace.