Page 27 of His for Christmas
I secure another section of garland before responding. "My team is handling the ballroom installation. This part is delicate—I prefer to do it myself."
He's halfway up the staircase now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—that distinctive blend of sandalwood and something darker that I've come to associate exclusively with him. I fumble slightly with the wire, my fingers suddenly less steady.
"Allow me to assist," he says, now just a few steps below me. Not a question or offer—a statement of intent.
"That's not necessary," I begin, but he's already beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he reaches for the section of garland I haven't yet secured.
"I insist," he says quietly. "I can't have you falling and breaking that lovely neck."
The possessive undertone in his voice sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the drafty stairwell. He takes the spool of wire from my hand, our fingers brushing in a contact that feels deliberately prolonged.
"Show me what to do," he instructs, standing so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
I clear my throat, trying to sound professional. "You wrap the wire around the banister and the garland base, then twist it tight enough to secure but not so tight that it damages the greenery."
He follows my instructions with surprising dexterity, his large hands more capable than I expected. We work in silence for a few moments, moving up the remaining steps together, me holding the heavy garland in place while he secures it. The domesticity of the task feels strangely intimate—more so, somehow, than the passionate encounters we've shared.
"You have an eye for beauty," he comments as we reach the top landing. "This design is exquisite."
"Thank you," I murmur, oddly touched by his appreciation of my work. "The garland is the foundation of the entire decorating scheme. Everything else builds from this."
As I adjust the final swoop of greenery, his hand covers mine on the banister. "Like relationships," he says, his voice dropping lower. "They need a solid foundation."
I look up, caught by the unexpected seriousness in his tone. His eyes hold mine, searching for something beyond the physical attraction between us. The moment stretches, charged with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to acknowledge.
"I'm not sure what we have could be called a foundation," I finally reply, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's been less than two weeks, Dominic."
His fingers intertwine with mine, the wire forgotten between our palms. "Time is a poor measure of significance, Holly."
Before I can respond, he reaches up with his free hand, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture has become familiar between us, yet it still sends warmth spreading across my skin. This time, though, his touch lingers, fingertips trailing down my neck to the collar of my blouse.
"You're wearing a different perfume today," he notes, leaning closer to breathe in the scent at my pulse point.
"I ran out of my usual," I explain, my voice embarrassingly breathless as his proximity scrambles my thoughts. "This is just something from the drugstore."
"I like it," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "Though I prefer how you smell without any perfume at all. Just your skin, warm from sleep."
Heat floods through me at the intimate observation. His hand slides from my collar to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he holds me in place, not forcefully but with unmistakable intent. We're at the top of the grand staircase, visible to anyone who might walk through the foyer below, yet he seems unconcerned about appearances.
"Dominic," I whisper, a weak protest that sounds more like encouragement to my own ears. "Someone could see."
"Let them," he replies, his mouth moving to my neck, placing a kiss just below my ear that makes my knees weaken. "Everyone in this house already knows you're mine."
I should object to his possessiveness, assert my independence. Instead, I find myself tilting my head to give him better access, my body betraying my mind's reservations. His grip tightens in my hair, just enough to establish control without causing pain, and the small, authoritative tug sends a jolt of pleasure through me that's as surprising as it is intense.
"Do you know what I thought about in my morning meeting?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against my skin. "How you looked last night, spread across my kitchen counter. How you gasped my name when
"Do you know what I thought about in my morning meeting?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against my skin. "How you looked last night, spread across my kitchen counter. How you gasped my name when I touched you. How completely you surrendered."
My face flames at his words, memories flooding back with visceral clarity. "That's not appropriate to think about during meetings," I manage, though my body is already responding to the images he's evoking.
"I decide what's appropriate for me," he counters, his free hand sliding to my waist, pulling me closer against him. "Just as I decide what I want. And what I want, Holly, is you. Not just in my bed, but in every aspect of my life."
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the possessiveness of his words. I respond without hesitation, my hands moving to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath expensive fabric. The wire spool clatters to the floor, forgotten as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine with deliberate sensuality.
When his thigh presses between my legs, pushing the fabric of my skirt higher, I break the kiss with a gasp. "We can't—not here."
"We can do whatever I want, wherever I want," he contradicts, though he doesn't push further physically. His hand remains firm at my waist, his thigh a solid pressure exactly where I'm beginning to ache for him. "That's the beauty of owning the house."
