Page 20 of His for Christmas
"Having second thoughts?" Dominic asks, closing the door behind us with a soft click that sounds somehow final.
"No," I answer honestly. "Just...processing."
He approaches slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal they don't want to startle. "We can stop at any time, Holly. I want you willingly or not at all."
The consideration in his words contrasts with the barely leashed hunger in his eyes. I reach up and touch his face, the slight stubble rough against my palm.
"I'm here because I want to be," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.
Something flashes across his face—relief mixed with triumph. He captures my hand, turning it to press a kiss to my palm that's somehow more intimate than our passionate embrace in the library.
"Turn around," he instructs softly.
I obey, feeling his presence behind me like a physical touch. His fingers find the zipper of my green dress, drawing it down with deliberate slowness. Cool air kisses my exposed skin, raising goosebumps that have as much to do with anticipation as temperature. He pushes the straps from my shoulders, and the silk slides down my body to pool at my feet.
I resist the urge to cover myself, standing in only my lace underwear while his gaze travels the length of my body. I've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable—or so desired.
"Even more beautiful than I imagined," he murmurs, his hands settling on my shoulders, turning me to face him.
His eyes devour every inch of me, lingering on the curves I usually try to downplay. There's no judgment in his gaze, only raw appreciation that makes me feel suddenly, unexpectedly powerful despite my near-nakedness.
"You're overdressed," I whisper, surprising myself with my boldness.
A smile curves his mouth. "Fix that for me."
My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for his shirt buttons, unfastening them one by one. His chest is muscled and tanned, dusted with dark hair that narrows to a line disappearing beneath his waistband. I push the shirt from his shoulders, letting my hands explore the warm skin and hard muscle beneath.
When I reach for his belt, his hand closes over mine, stopping me. "Not yet," he says. "I want to taste you first."
Before I can process his words, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me to the bed and laying me down with surprising gentleness. The linens are as soft as they looked, cool against my heated skin. Dominic stands above me, his expression making it clear I'm being admired, studied, memorized.
"I've thought about this moment since I first saw you in my collection room," he says, removing his belt with deliberate slowness. "About how you would look spread across my bed. About the sounds you would make when I touch you."
He kneels on the bed beside me, one hand skimming down my body from collarbone to hip. Just that light touch sets every nerve ending aflame.
"I'm going to learn every inch of you, Holly," he promises, his voice low and intense. "Every spot that makes you sigh, every touch that makes you tremble. And when I'm done, you'll understand what it means to be thoroughly, completely claimed."
My back arches involuntarily when his mouth finds my breast through the lace of my bra. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth—sensations spiral outward, making me gasp his name. He unclasps my bra with practiced ease, tossing it aside before returning his attention to my now bare skin.
"Sensitive," he murmurs against my flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pleasure. "I'll remember that."
His hands and mouth move over my body with focused intent, learning what makes me respond, what draws sounds from my throat I've never heard myself make before. When his fingers trace the edge of my panties, I tremble with anticipation.
"Tell me what you want, Holly," he commands softly.
"Touch me," I whisper, beyond pride or hesitation.
"Where?" His voice is gentle but unyielding. He wants me to say it, to articulate desires I've barely acknowledged to myself.
"Everywhere," I manage. "Please, Dominic."
He slides my panties down my legs with torturous slowness, his eyes never leaving mine as he exposes the last of me. I should feel self-conscious, but the naked hunger in his gaze leaves no room for doubt or shame.
"Perfect," he says, and for the first time since I've known him, his voice holds something like reverence.
What follows is a revelation. His mouth and hands explore me with a thoroughness that leaves me gasping, writhing beneath his touch. He finds places I didn't know could bring pleasure, draws responses from my body I didn't know I was capable of. When his mouth finds the center of me, I cry out, my hands clutching the bedsheets as sensation overwhelms me.
"That's it," he encourages against my most sensitive flesh. "Let go for me, Holly. Let me see you come apart."
