Page 29 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
Because that's all this is: a hormonal response to an objectively attractive, powerful man who's showing interest in my work. It doesn't mean anything. It's just biology, just a reaction to recent emotional upheaval and the isolation of this cabin.
I cross to the window, looking out at the moonlight on fresh snow. I need to get myself under control. To focus on the incredible academic opportunity Victor is offering, not on my inappropriate feelings.
My reflection stares back at me, and I make a decision. I will stay. I will accept Victor's academic mentorship—but I'll be extremely careful to maintain professional boundaries and not let him see this ridiculous schoolgirl crush I've developed.
I'll be the consummate professional. I'll focus on the research, the career opportunities, the academic connections. I won't let my confused emotions ruin what could be the chance of a lifetime.
And if the warmth that spreads through me when he looks my way persists despite my best efforts to suppress it, I'll deal with that embarrassment privately, never letting him see how inappropriately I'm responding to his professional guidance.
For now, I need to sleep. To reset. To come back tomorrow with a clear head and appropriate professional boundaries firmly in place.
Because the last thing I can afford is to mess up this opportunity by developing feelings for a man who's only interested in my academic potential.
Chapter eight
Kyra
Istand at a podium in Harvard Medical School's largest lecture hall, hundreds of academics hanging on my every word. My research slides illuminate the screen behind me, data points and molecular structures highlighting the breakthrough I've achieved in cardiac regeneration.
"As you can see from these results, the nanoparticle delivery system shows unprecedented precision in targeting damaged heart tissue while completely avoiding healthy cells," I explain, my voice confident and steady. "This represents a paradigm shift in treatment protocols for post-infarction patients."
The audience is impressed—I can feel their collective appreciation of my work, their recognition of my brilliance. But one pair of eyes burns more intensely than the others.
Victor Strickland sits in the front row, his silver hair gleaming under the auditorium lights, his gray eyes fixed on me with unmistakable pride. Unlike the others, he's not taking notes or checking his phone. His attention is absolute, consuming, as if I'm the only person in the universe.
As I continue my presentation, the audience begins to fade, their faces blurring, their bodies becoming transparent until they disappear entirely. Only Victor remains, his presence somehow larger, more vivid than before.
"Exceptional work, Dr. Sinclair," he says, his deep voice echoing in the now-empty hall. He stands and approaches the stage with that predatory grace I've come to recognize. "Your mind is truly extraordinary."
"Thank you," I reply, suddenly aware of how alone we are. "The research couldn't have happened without your support."
He climbs the steps to the podium, moving beside me with deliberate slowness. "Your brilliance deserves to be nurtured," he murmurs, standing close enough that I can feel his heat. "To be developed to its full potential."
His hand covers mine on the podium, large and warm and sure. "But there are other aspects of you that deserve attention as well."
I gasp as he moves behind me, his chest against my back, his hands sliding from my shoulders down my arms. "Such a brilliant mind," he whispers against my ear, "deserves pleasure to match."
The lecture hall dissolves around us, transforming into his study at the cabin. I'm still in my presentation outfit—pencil skirt, silk blouse, heels that make me feel powerful—but something has shifted. His hands are more insistent now, one at my waist, the other tilting my chin to look at the research spread across his desk.
"Do you see what you've accomplished under my guidance?" he asks, his breath hot against my neck. "Imagine what else I could teach you."
"This is inappropriate," I whisper, but I'm pressing back against him, feeling the hard length of him against my ass, my body betraying my words.
His hands begin unbuttoning my blouse with practiced ease. "No. It’s the most appropriate thing in the world—two minds, two bodies, recognizing what they need in each other."
"Victor," I breathe as his hand slides beneath my opened blouse, cupping my breast through my bra, his thumb finding my nipple and drawing another gasp from my lips.
"I've watched you hold yourself back," he says, his voice dark with promise. "Limiting yourself to accommodate lesser minds, lesser men. But not anymore." His teeth graze my earlobe, sending lightning down my spine. "Not with me."
I should stop him. Should remind him of all the reasons this is wrong—he's Aaron's father, he's twenty-six years my senior, he's my academic mentor. Instead, I arch into his touch as his fingers find my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until it peaks hard against the lace of my bra.
"Such a brilliant mind," he repeats, the words becoming a mantra. "Such a perfect body made for my hands."
His other hand slides up my thigh, beneath my skirt, fingers trailing fire across my sensitive skin. He finds the damp lace of my panties and groans in approval. "Let me show you what you need," he murmurs, and I'm nodding, desperate for whatever he's offering.
"Your research is extraordinary," he says, his fingers pushing my underwear aside, finding the slick heat between my thighs. "The sounds you make are extraordinary."
When he touches me there, I inhale sharply, my legs spreading wider of their own accord, my hands gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white. He's expert, precise, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus his attention, his middle finger circling my clit.
