He led me through one more box sequence, then broke out into a turn, sweeping me in an elegant circle, resuming the one-two-three pattern of the waltz, but now he was moving us around the room.

It was deeply disconcerting to dance blindfolded. I started to stumble a few times, unsure where he was directing me next, leaving us moving in opposite directions. He managed to steady me and get us back into rhythm, but I could feel how much each misstep was impacting his confidence.

“Stop apologizing,” I murmured when the song came to an end and we waited for the next to begin.

“I didn’t say a word,” he said defensively.

“Not with your mouth, but I can feel you apologizing every time I stumble and asking permission every time you’re about to change it up. Stop asking and make me follow. Lord Steel isn’t polite.”

He continued that way for a few more beats and then suddenly I could feel a difference, a latent easy dominance that had been lurking just beneath the surface. His steps lengthened with the intensity of it, and I had to push outside of my comfort zone to keep up, something that would usually be inconsiderate from a dance partner, but that’s precisely what I wanted him to do.

Finally, something clicked between us and he settled into asserting himself, so I instinctively relaxed into submission. Because I trusted him to direct me and he trusted me to follow when he gave a wordless command, I wasn’t stumbling anymore.

We flowed through an exhilarating sequence of movements that ceased to be steps and simply became the push and pull of our bodies. It was what I’d been hoping to build to, but I was astonished by how quickly we’d gotten there.

Apparently, if we didn’t talk or look at each other, we stopped bickering and became a formidable team.

When the song was nearing its conclusion, he spun me around like he owned me, then dropped me into a terrifyingly low dip. To my surprise, I surrendered in his arms, letting him swing me down, trusting he wouldn’t let me fall. He held me there for long seconds, but when the song came to an end, he pulled out of the dip and stopped with our bodies pressed together. We were both out of breath.

“Lucas Steel is in there,” I said without stepping back, not ready to stop touching him. “You just needed permission to let him out to play. I hereby give you permission to be bad.”

He gently pulled the blindfold off, fingertips brushing my cheekbones, I reluctantly dropped my hands and took it, holding on to it like it might keep me from reaching for him again. It felt like I was in subspace, fuzzy and vulnerable, seeking the protective reassurance of my dominant. Which he wasn’t. He was a client.

He said, “For a few minutes there, nothing else existed but the feel of you and of being in control. It let me find a new place in my head for Lucas Steel. Consider me a converted believer in your teaching abilities. I’m in if you are.”