Page 18 of His for Christmas
The car turns between the familiar gates of Sterling Estate, the driveway curving through manicured grounds now dusted with evening snow. Christmas lights twinkle in the distance—not my work yet, but the existing landscape lighting that makes the massive house glow like something from a fairy tale. A dangerous fairy tale, where the castle's owner demands more than most are willing to give.
But I am willing. That's the truth I've been circling all evening. Despite all the reasons to walk away, despite the warnings blaring in my mind about mixing business and pleasure, despite the intimidating intensity of his interest—I want this. Want him. Have wanted him from the first moment he looked at me with those penetrating blue eyes.
As the car stops at the front entrance, I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. Tonight will change everything—my professional relationship with Dominic, my carefully constructed boundaries, perhaps even the direction of my career. Once I step inside, there's no going back to the safe, predictable life I've built.
The door opens, and Dominic himself stands there rather than a servant or his ever-present assistant. His eyes darken visibly when they take in the green dress, his expression oneof pure male appreciation mixed with something deeper, more possessive.
"Holly," he says, my name on his lips sounding like both a greeting and a claim.My breath tangles in my throat. "Hi," I manage, because that's all I've got left in my vocabulary when he looks at me like this.
He doesn’t answer right away, just stands in the doorway and absorbs me. The silence stretches, thick and expectant, until I feel my cheeks burning. The green dress was a good call—he's devouring it with his eyes, and if he doesn't like it, then my instincts are officially broken. I see the flex of his jaw, the way he swallows once, and I know he wants to touch me but he's holding back. For now.
He offers his arm, a courtly gesture that feels wildly out of place in the modern entryway. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, and the muscle beneath his shirt is as hard as the marble beneath my heels. He leads me in, and the doors boom shut behind us. Trapped. Exactly where I want to be.
The house smells faintly of wood polish and fir. The corridors are empty, the usual parade of staff mysteriously absent. My heels echo on the tile. He says nothing as we walk, but his hand covers mine, anchoring me tightly against his side, as if I might bolt. Or as if he can't bear to let me go.
The private dining room is small by mansion standards—just a table for six, an ornate chandelier, a wall of windows turned black by night. Candles flicker on the table, playing shadows over crystal and silver. A single place setting, at the head of the table. A second, right next to it. No room for polite distance. I don't know if that's what he intended, but with Dominic, nothing is an accident.
He pulls out my chair, waits until I've sat to pour me wine. The color glows deep, garnet in the candlelight. For a moment, I stare at the glass, unsure if my hands are steady enough to liftit. He sits, pushes his chair close enough that our knees almost touch. He doesn't touch me. He just waits.
"I'm not sure what happens next," I confess, breaking the silence.
A flicker of amusement. "You eat. You drink. You tell me about yourself, beyond the curated professional profile. I want to know you, Holly. Not just your work."
This should be comforting, the low-pressure opening gambit. It isn't. My pulse hammers harder. He wants the real me, the one I keep carefully hidden. I don't know how to give him that. I don't even know if I have access to that version of myself anymore.
He watches me struggle and, to my surprise, softens. "We don't have to do this like a negotiation. There's no contract at stake."
"Feels like there is," I whisper, forcing a smile.
His hand lands on my knee, heavy and warm through the thin silk. "Not a contract. A promise. I won't hurt you, Holly. Not unless you want me to."
My face goes hot enough to flash-fry the wine. I take a gulp, nearly spilling it down my dress, and set the glass aside before my hands betray me further.
Maybe he senses my distress because he backs off. Momentarily anyway.
The rest of dinner is a masterpiece of tension and restraint. We discuss the decorating plans, the upcoming installation schedule, the Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala—all perfectly professional topics while his eyes devoured me across the candlelit table.
Now we stand in the library, where a fifteen-foot noble fir has been installed but left bare for us to decorate. "A personal touch," he said when suggesting we adorn it together, though the look in his eyes made it clear this was another calculated moveto keep me close. The antique ornaments I cataloged yesterday are arranged on tables around the room, waiting for placement. It's such a normal, almost domestic activity—decorating a Christmas tree—yet the air between us crackles with anything but domesticity.
"I thought we might add a personal touch to the decorations," Dominic explains, his voice low and smooth like expensive bourbon. "Some things shouldn't be delegated."
The way he looks at me makes it clear I'm one of those things—something he has no intention of delegating or sharing. I swallow hard and turn toward the boxes of decorations, trying to maintain some semblance of professional composure.
"We should start with the lights," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The antique pieces will show better against a backdrop of warm light."
Dominic nods, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. Such a simple action shouldn't be so captivating, but I find my gaze drawn repeatedly to the exposed skin, imagining those arms wrapped around me.
"I defer to your expertise," he says, lifting a strand of small, warm white lights from a nearby box. His tone is neutral, but his eyes hold promises that have nothing to do with Christmas decorations.
I take one end of the strand, and we begin circling the tree, passing the lights between us. The first time our fingers brush in the exchange, it's like an electric current passes between us. I nearly drop the strand, my focus fragmenting at even this casual contact.
"Careful," he murmurs, his hand closing over mine to steady it. "These are irreplaceable."
He doesn't immediately release my hand, instead letting his thumb stroke across my knuckles in a slow caress. We'restanding close—too close—the massive tree partially shielding us from view of the doorway, creating an intimate bubble in the vast library.
"I've been thinking about that dress all evening," he says, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. "About how the silk will feel sliding off your skin."
Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck and chest. His eyes track the flush, satisfaction evident in his slight smile.
