Page 16 of His for Christmas
As she leaves, I allow myself a moment of anticipation. Tonight, the pretense of purely professional interaction will be set aside. Tonight, I'll make it abundantly clear to Holly Parker exactly what I want from her.
And judging by the way she responded to my touch all day, she wants the same thing.
Dinner is still an hour away, and my patience has worn thin. I've changed into a charcoal suit that my tailor assures me is particularly flattering, had the private dining room prepared with candles and flowers, approved the menu, selected the wine. Yet time refuses to move at an acceptable pace. I find myself prowling through the mansion, ostensibly checking on the decoration progress but actually seeking a glimpse of Holly. I instructed my driver to pick her up at seven-thirty, giving her time to return home and change. But there's always the chance she might still be here, finishing some detail, making notes for tomorrow. The thought quickens my steps as I turn down the west corridor, where most of the decorating work has been concentrated today.
The sound of movement draws me toward the small alcove near the service stairs—a tucked-away space that most visitors never notice. I slow my approach, silencing my footsteps on the thick carpet. When I reach the archway, I pause, satisfaction curling through me at the sight before me.
Holly stands with her back to me, reaching up to adjust a sprig of holly berries tucked into a garland wrapped around a column. She's still wearing the burgundy sweater from earlier, the material stretching across her back as she extends her arm. Her hair has come loose from its knot, falling in soft waves down her back.
She freezes suddenly, her hand still extended above her head. She hasn't turned, hasn't seen me, yet she knows I'm here. The awareness between us is primal, instinctive.
"I thought you'd gone home to change," I say, my voice breaking the silence.
She lowers her arm slowly and turns to face me. "I wanted to finish this section first. The berries needed to be secured before they dried out completely."
Even in the dimly lit alcove, I can see the flush that spreads across her cheeks. She's as aware of tonight's significance as I am.
"Dedicated to your craft," I observe, moving closer. "One of the many qualities I admire about you."
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—that nervous gesture I've come to anticipate and enjoy. "I should go soon. Your driver?—"
"Has been instructed to wait," I interrupt, closing the distance between us. "There's no rush."
The alcove feels smaller with both of us in it, the space intimate and shadowed. Holly takes a small step backward, her shoulders meeting the wall behind her.
"The decorations are coming along well," she says, her voice professional despite the way her eyes drop briefly to my mouth. "The delivery team brought the main trees today, and we've placed them according to the plan you approved."
"Holly," I say softly, placing one hand on the wall beside her head. "I didn't come looking for a progress report."
Her breath catches. "Then why did you come looking for me?"
The directness of her question deserves honesty. "Because I'm impatient. Because an hour seemed too long to wait."
Understanding dawns in her eyes—the realization that I've been seeking her out deliberately, that I've orchestrated this moment of privacy. She doesn't retreat further, doesn't try to duck under my arm and escape. Instead, she tilts her chin up slightly, a subtle challenge in the gesture.
"Impatient for what, exactly?"
In answer, I close the final distance between us, my free hand coming up to cup the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her soft hair. "For this."
My mouth claims hers with none of the restraint I've been exercising for days. This kiss is possessive, demanding, making it clear exactly what I want from her. My body presses her against the wall, letting her feel the hardness of my desire against the softness of her curves.
She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprise mingled with pleasure—before her lips part, granting me access. My tongue sweeps inside, tasting her, claiming her. The kiss is deep and thorough, exploratory yet commanding. Her hands, hesitant at first, come up to grip my shoulders, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of my suit.
I angle her head to deepen the kiss further, my hand firm at her nape. My other hand slides from the wall to her waist, then lower to grasp her hip, pulling her more firmly against me. The heat of her body sears through our clothing, igniting a fire in my blood that threatens to consume all rational thought.
When my thumb brushes the underside of her breast, she gasps into my mouth, her body arching slightly into the touch. I take advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss, my tongue stroking against hers in a rhythm that mimics what I want to do to her body.
The taste of her is addictive—sweet with an underlying spice that's uniquely Holly. I explore her mouth thoroughly, learning what makes her breathing hitch, what draws those small sounds from her throat that drive me wild. When I nip at her lower lip, she moans softly, the sound sending a jolt of pure desire through me.
Mine, I think as I press her more firmly against the wall. This mouth, these sounds, this body—all mine.
Her surrender is intoxicating. The way she yields to my kiss, responds to my touch, matches my hunger with her own—it feeds something primal in me, something possessive and fierce. I've had women far more experienced, more sophisticated, more knowledgeable in the art of pleasure. None have affected me like Holly's genuine, uninhibited response.
When I finally break the kiss, she's breathless, her lips swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. I don't move away, keeping her pinned between my body and the wall, my hand still tangled in her hair.
"That," I murmur against her lips, "was just the appetizer."
Her pupils dilate further at my words. "Dominic?—"
