Page 31 of His for Christmas
"Entirely," I confirm, resisting the urge to reclaim my physical hold on her in front of the workers. "He was taking liberties."
"He was doing his job," she counters, though there's no real heat in her objection. "The same job I'm paying him to do with the budget you approved."
"His job doesn't include standing close enough to count your eyelashes," I observe, my voice dropping lower despite our relative privacy. "Or finding excuses to touch you."
"You're being ridiculous," she says, though the flush deepening on her cheeks suggests she's not entirely oblivious to Mark's attention. "He's a respected lighting engineer. Our relationship is completely professional."
"As was ours, initially," I remind her, allowing a small smile that I know affects her. "Until it wasn't."
She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that unconscious gesture I find endlessly endearing. "Dominic, you can't be jealous of every man I work with."
"I'm not jealous," I correct her, though we both know it's a lie. "I'm protective of what's mine."
Instead of the indignation I half expect, something softens in her expression. "And am I yours? Just like that?"
"Just like that," I confirm, allowing some of my genuine possessiveness to show. "From the moment you stepped into my house, though neither of us recognized it immediately."
She shakes her head slightly, but I can see the pleased flush beneath her exasperation. "I have work to finish here," she says, gesturing to the partially completed installation. "Work that would progress more efficiently without my employer glaring at my lighting engineer."
"I don't glare," I protest mildly. "I observe with appropriate concern."
This draws a reluctant laugh from her. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks remarkably like a wolf marking its territory."
The analogy pleases me more than it should. "Perhaps I am," I acknowledge. "Does that bother you, Holly? Knowing how completely I consider you mine?"
Her laughter fades, replaced by something more serious, more thoughtful. "It should," she admits quietly. "But it doesn't. Not nearly as much as it probably should."
The honesty in her response sends a surge of satisfaction through me more potent than any business victory I've ever achieved. I step closer, not touching her but near enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
"Finish your work," I tell her, my voice for her ears alone. "Then come to my office when you're done. I want to show you exactly why you don't need to look twice at lighting engineers or anyone else."
The shiver that runs through her has nothing to do with the December cold. She nods once, her eyes darkening with anticipation before she turns back to the installation. I walk away, satisfied for the moment, though I make a mental note to have Patricia reassign Mark to one of our commercial properties, effective immediately.
No one touches what's mine. Not if they value their continued employment—or their continued access to my good graces, which in this city amounts to much the same thing.
The acquisition proposal from Berlin sits untouched on my desk. I've been pretending to review it for the past forty minutes, but my mind refuses to focus on German pharmaceutical patents when Holly is still outside with that lighting specialist. Through my window, I can see that Mark has at least maintained an appropriate distance since my intervention, but he's still there, still looking at her with that transparent appreciation that makes my jaw clench. She's been nothing but professional—I've watched her like a hawk to confirm this—but the mere fact thatanother man dares to look at her with desire makes something primal and possessive rise in me that I've never experienced before.
My intercom buzzes. "Sir, Ms. Parker is heading inside now," Patricia informs me, her tone neutral though I'm certain she understands exactly why this information is relevant.
"Thank you," I reply, already rising from my chair.
I move to the doorway of my office, watching the main corridor for Holly's approach. The rational part of my brain recognizes that this behavior is unprecedented for me—I've never monitored a woman's movements through my home, never felt this consuming need to assert my claim. The irrational part simply doesn't care. Holly Parker has awakened something in me that defies rational analysis.
When she appears at the end of the corridor, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, hair slightly tousled by the December wind, the sight of her hits me with physical force. She's removed her coat, revealing the simple gray sweater and black trousers she was wearing this morning when I watched her dress in my bedroom. Knowing what lies beneath those modest clothes—skin I've tasted, curves I've explored, responses I've memorized—sends heat coursing through me.
She hasn't seen me yet, her attention on her tablet as she walks. I step into the hallway, intercept her path before she reaches my office. When she looks up, surprise flickers across her face, followed by a smile that transforms her features from merely lovely to breathtaking.
"Dominic," she says, her voice warming with my name. "I was just coming to find you. The exterior installation is running ahead of schedule, and?—"
I don't let her finish. Taking her elbow, I guide her firmly toward a door on our right—the small antechamber where I had her catalog antique ornaments last week. Before she canquestion me, I usher her inside, closing the door behind us with a definitive click.
"Dominic, what?—"
My mouth silences her question, claiming her lips with a hunger that's been building since I saw that man standing too close to her. It's not a gentle kiss—it's possession, pure and simple, my hands framing her face to hold her steady as I devour her mouth. For a heartbeat she's frozen in surprise, then melts against me, her tablet clattering to the floor as her hands clutch my shoulders.
When I finally break the kiss, she's breathless, her lips swollen, eyes wide with a mixture of desire and confusion. "What was that for?" she asks softly.
"Mine," I growl, the word emerging from some primal place I've never accessed before meeting her. My hands slide from her face to her shoulders, then down her back to her waist, pulling her flush against me. "You're mine, Holly. No one else's."
