Page 25 of His for Christmas
"I cancelled every meeting tonight," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing the mark I left yesterday, reinforcing my claim. "Cleared my schedule entirely. Do you know why?"
She shakes her head, her hands clutching my shoulders as I press open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat.
"Because the thought of you working late in my house, then leaving without me touching you again was unacceptable," I tell her, my hands sliding beneath her sweater to find warm skin. "Completely unacceptable."
Her head falls back, offering more of her throat to my mouth as my hands explore higher, finding the lace of her bra, feeling the peaks of her nipples already hard against my palms. "We shouldn't—not here," she protests weakly, even as her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Here. Everywhere. Every surface in this house will know the weight of us together before Christmas arrives." I capture her mouth again, swallowing her gasp as my fingers tease her sensitive flesh. "Tell me you haven't thought about this all day. Tell me you haven't remembered how I felt inside you."
"I can't," she admits, the words breaking on a moan as I push her sweater up, replacing my hands with my mouth. "I've thought of nothing else."
Victory and desire surge through me in equal measure. I reclaim her mouth, the kiss deeper, more demanding as my hands move to the waistband of her trousers. "Mine," I growl against her lips. "Say it, Holly."
"Yours," she whispers, surrender in her voice and in the way her body melts against mine. "God help me, I'm yours."
The confirmation unleashes something primal in me. I lift her from the counter, her legs still wrapped around my waist, and carry her toward the nearest wall. Her back meets it with a gentle thud as I press against her, letting her feel the full extent of my need.
"Not just tonight," I tell her, my voice rough with desire. "Not just this week, or until the decorations are complete. You're mine now, Holly. In every way that matters."
Instead of protesting, she pulls my mouth back to hers, her kiss as hungry and demanding as my own. And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty that Holly Parker has claimed me as thoroughly as I've claimed her—a realization as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
Chapter
Seven
HOLLY
The precise placementof gold beaded garland requires total concentration. At least, that's what I tell myself as I adjust the swag for the fifth time, pretending my mind isn't replaying last night's encounter in the kitchen on constant loop. I've been at work since seven this morning, deliberately arriving before Dominic would be awake, leaving a note on his pillow about "early delivery schedules" rather than facing him over breakfast again. Professional boundaries. That's what I need—clear delineation between Holly the decorator and Holly the…whatever I am to him now. Lover seems inadequate. Girlfriend sounds juvenile. And "woman Dominic Sterling has claimed as his personal property" is too unwieldy for casual conversation, even if it's the most accurate description.
"Ms. Parker? The floral delivery is here. Where do you want the poinsettias?" My assistant, Jen, stands in the doorway of the grand salon, clipboard in hand, mercifully interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
"Library, dining room, and main staircase, according to the placement chart," I reply, grateful for the mundane logistical question that grounds me back in my professional role. "Makesure they check each plant for brown spots before bringing them in."
She nods and disappears, leaving me alone with the garland and my unruly thoughts again. This isn't me. I don't lose focus over men, don't let personal entanglements interfere with work. I've built a reputation for being professional, reliable, discreet. Yet here I am, jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, wondering if it's him.
The worst part is how desperately I want it to be him. Despite my early-morning resolve to establish boundaries, despite recognizing the manipulation in his fake dinner meeting, despite knowing how quickly this is moving—I want him to walk through that door and look at me with those intense blue eyes that see straight through my professional façade.
"Get it together, Holly," I mutter to myself, aggressively fluffing a section of garland that doesn't need fluffing.
My phone buzzes with a text message. My heart leaps embarrassingly before I even check the screen. It's from him, of course.
*The empty bed was disappointing. The note was unnecessary. Next time, wake me.*
No greeting, no sign-off. Just direct statements that assume future nights together as a given. I should be irritated by his presumption. Instead, I'm fighting a ridiculous smile as I read the message again.
No. Boundaries. I set the phone down without responding and return to the garland, determined to focus solely on work for at least the next hour.
My resolve lasts approximately twelve minutes before my phone chimes again. This time it's an email from Ms. Winters with "URGENT: Gala Approval Required" in the subject line. I open it to find detailed information about a custom gown being designed for me to wear to the Sterling Enterprises ChristmasGala. The sketches show an emerald green creation that would cost more than three months of my rent. At the bottom is a simple note: "Mr. Sterling requests your sizing confirmation by noon for rush production."
I close the email without responding, a mixture of emotions churning through me. Irritation at his high-handedness. Uncertainty about what accepting such an expensive gift would mean. And beneath it all, a completely inappropriate flutter of pleasure that he wants to present me so publicly as his chosen companion.
"Ms. Parker?" Jen again, appearing at my elbow. "These just arrived for you."
She holds out a small velvet box with no card or wrapping. I take it with a sense of inevitability, already knowing who it's from. Inside rests a pair of earrings—emeralds surrounded by diamonds, elegant and obviously expensive. Designed to match the dress I haven't even agreed to accept.
"There's no card," Jen notes, curiosity evident in her voice.
"There wouldn't be," I murmur, closing the box and slipping it into my pocket. "Thank you, Jen. Could you check on the team hanging wreaths in the east wing? Make sure they're using the reinforced hooks, not the temporary ones."
