He grabs my arm. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” I answer firmly. Yanking my arm free, I go to get my stuff and come back to him sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. I clean his cuts in silence, and he watches me while I work. My brother did this to his face. Regardless, I’m still mad at him. And by the uneasy way he’s watching me, he can tell I’m angry.

After the two cuts on his cheek and brow are bandaged, I walk toward the kitchen to pour myself another drink. I should really go back to my apartment, but I feel stuck here, like I don’t remember how to be on my own.

The black silk rope hanging from the back of the chair catches my eye. Without a word, I walk toward it, letting the soft fabric run through my fingers.

“Do you know what this feels like?” I ask him. “To be tied up? To trust someone so much you give yourself over to them completely?”

“No,” he answers, and I hear the strife in his tone. I know he’s beating himself up for what happened to Ezra.

Settling my gaze on his face, I drown in those dark eyes before speaking. “Take your shirt off, and put your hands behind your back.”

There’s hesitation. He’s afraid. Not of what I’ll do to him but what it will feel like to give up control. To trust me.

Whether or not he should.

Finally, he pulls his shirt over his head and his hands move toward his back, and I walk behind him. He doesn’t flinch as I wrap the rope around his wrists, tying it like I learned to do. The moment I have his hands bound, I feel the power over him that he felt over me.

I could hurt him. Humiliate him. Ruin all of the progress he’s made to heal the scars from his childhood. He would never trust again.

As I walk around to face him, his eyes stay trained on my face. They are glassed over, and his chest is moving heavier. Is that desire or fear?

Softly, I drift my fingers down his chest, tracing the shape of his black and white tattoos across his skin. He flinches, his breathing hitching every few seconds.

Leaning forward, I press my lips to the center of his chest. His breathing stops entirely, and I rest my face there for a moment, feeling his heartbeat, now racing because of me.

He presses his lips against the top of my head, and I can tell he wants to touch me. There is a struggle against the rope, but he won’t be able to get his hands out. This is what it was made for. If he wasn’t truly powerless, it wouldn’t have the same effect.

I trail my lips upward to his neck, tasting the sweat dried on his skin. He moves to find my lips with his, but I pull away. I’m teasing him, and I know it’s a sweet, delicate torture.