Page 19 of His for Christmas
"The tree," I remind him, trying to regain some professional footing. "We should continue with the lights."
He releases my hand, his fingers trailing across my palm as he does so. "By all means."
We add three more strands of lights, working in a rhythm that feels strangely synchronous for two people who barely know each other. With each circuit around the tree, his body brushes against mine more frequently—his chest grazing my back as he reaches past me to adjust a section of lights, his hand settling briefly on my waist to steady me as I stretch to reach a higher branch.
"You have an eye for balance," he observes as we complete the lighting. "Knowing exactly where each strand should go for the perfect effect."
"It's my job," I reply, though we both know this is far beyond professional obligation now.
When the lights are complete, we step back to assess our work. The tree glows with a warm, golden light that transforms the massive fir into something magical.
"Beautiful," I say, professional pride momentarily overriding the tension between us.
"Yes," he agrees, though when I glance at him, he's looking at me rather than the tree. "Now for the ornaments."
He selects one of the Bohemian glass pieces—a delicate star that catches the light in facets of blue and gold. Insteadof hanging it himself, he offers it to me, holding it between us. When I reach for it, his fingers close over mine again, deliberately this time.
"Do you know what I thought when I saw you in my collection room that first day?" he asks, the ornament suspended between us, a fragile barrier.
I shake my head, words momentarily beyond me.
"Mine," he says simply. "One look at you, and something in me recognized what I didn't know I was searching for."
The possessiveness should alarm me. Instead, it sends a thrill through my body, a primal response to his claim. He releases the ornament to my care, letting me hang it on a prominent branch while he selects another.
We fall into a pattern—selecting ornaments, placing them carefully, our bodies moving in a dance of approach and retreat. But with each exchange, he stands closer, his touches linger longer, his voice drops to an intimate murmur.
As I reach up to place a crystal snowflake, his body presses against my back, his hands settling on my waist. "I can feel your heart racing," he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. "It's been racing all evening."
"You make me nervous," I admit, my voice barely audible.
His hands tighten slightly on my waist. "Good nervous or bad nervous?"
I turn in his arms, the ornament forgotten as I face him. "I don't know. I've never felt this before."
Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction mixed with hunger. "I've never felt it either." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But I intend to explore it thoroughly. Every inch of it. Every inch of you."
His other hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me closer until I feel the hard planes of his body against mine. "By the time Christmas arrives," he whispers againstmy temple, "you'll understand that you've been mine since the moment you stepped into my house. Every decoration you hang, every room you transform—you're marking my territory with your presence. Just as I intend to mark you with mine."
His words should sound possessive, controlling, even frightening. Instead, they ignite something in me I've never felt before—a desire to be claimed, to belong to someone in this primal, undeniable way.
"The tree isn't finished," I say weakly, a last attempt at maintaining the pretense that we're just employer and employee.
"The tree can wait," Dominic replies, his fingers tangling in my hair as he tilts my face up to his. "You can't."
His mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath. This isn't the controlled kiss we shared under the mistletoe—this is raw possession, his lips demanding a response I can't help but give. My hands clutch his shoulders as the world tilts beneath me. The Christmas tree glitters forgotten beside us, ornaments still waiting in their boxes as Dominic pulls me tighter against him, one hand tangled in my hair, the other pressing against the small of my back.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm dizzy, clinging to him for balance. His blue eyes have darkened to stormy indigo, his breathing as unsteady as mine.
"Come with me," he says, his voice rough with desire. Not a request—a command.
I should hesitate, should remind him that I'm here to work, that crossing this line will complicate everything. Instead, I nod, a simple surrender that feels anything but simple.
He takes my hand, leading me from the library through corridors I haven't yet decorated. The mansion feels different at night—more intimate, the shadows creating pockets of privacy between pools of warm light. We pass staff who keep their eyesaverted, their faces carefully neutral. They know where we're going, what we're about to do. The knowledge should embarrass me, but all I feel is a mounting anticipation that drowns out everything else.
Dominic's bedroom suite occupies the entire west wing of the second floor. He opens a set of double doors, revealing a space that's surprisingly warm despite its grandeur. Deep blues and charcoal grays dominate, with touches of burnished gold in the light fixtures and occasional accents. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of snow-covered grounds, moonlight spilling across the landscape like liquid silver.
But it's the bed that captures my attention—massive, with a dark wooden frame and linens that look soft enough to drown in. This is his most private space, a sanctuary few people ever see. The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold.
