Page 36 of His for Christmas
What I do know is that Megan is right. I need to remember who I am outside of Dominic Sterling's orbit. The question is whether he'll allow that independence—and what it means for us if he doesn't.
The private dining room in Dominic's suite feels too warm tonight, though the temperature hasn't changed from our previous dinners together. I push my salmon around the plate, rehearsing different ways to mention the Christmas party while Dominic reviews quarterly reports between bites of his perfectly cooked steak. This domestic routine we've established in just two weeks feels simultaneously brand new and oddly familiar—as if we've been sharing meals and beds for years rather than days.
"You're distracted," Dominic observes without looking up from his tablet. His perception is uncanny and sometimes unsettling. "The children's wing designs troubling you?"
"No, the designs are finalized," I reply, setting down my fork. "Actually, I got a call from my friend Megan today."
Now he looks up, his blue eyes focusing on me with that laser-like attention that still makes my pulse quicken. "Megan," he repeats, as if cataloging the name. "The interior designer friend you mentioned."
"Yes." I'm surprised he remembers this detail from a casual conversation days ago. "She called about our annual Christmas party this Saturday at our friend Nora's apartment. It's a tradition we've had since college."
Something flickers across his expression—so brief I almost miss it before his features settle into neutral interest. "This Saturday? I believe I mentioned the symphony that evening. The Berlin Philharmonic is performing for one night only."
His tone is casual, but there's an underlying note that raises my defenses. Not quite a command, but certainly an expectationthat his previously mentioned desire would take precedence over any other plans.
"You mentioned you were thinking about taking me," I acknowledge carefully. "But we didn't have firm plans. I've never missed this party—it's an important tradition with my closest friends."
Dominic sets his tablet aside, giving me his full attention. The weight of his gaze feels physical, assessing. "I see. And these friends—they're important to you?"
"Of course they are. I've known Megan and Nora since college. We've been through everything together." I take a sip of wine, gathering courage. "I've barely seen them since I started working here. They're beginning to think I've fallen off the face of the earth."
He leans back in his chair, watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher. "You've been occupied with the installation. And with me." There's a possessive undercurrent to his words that sends a shiver through me—part desire, part warning.
"Yes," I agree, meeting his gaze directly. "And I've enjoyed every minute. But I need to maintain other relationships too."
"Need?" He picks up his wine glass, swirling the ruby liquid thoughtfully. "That's a strong word, Holly."
"It is," I confirm, my resolve strengthening. "These people are my support system. My chosen family."
He considers this for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he rises from his chair with fluid grace, circling the table to stand behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles at the base of my neck. Despite my determination to stand firm, my body responds instantly to his touch, relaxing into his skilled fingers.
"I understand the importance of traditions," he says, his voice a low rumble above me as his thumbs work small circlesthat send pleasure radiating down my spine. "But I had plans for us this weekend, Holly. Important plans."
"The symphony?" I ask, trying to maintain my focus as his hands slide from my shoulders down my arms in a caress that's both soothing and arousing.
"The symphony was just the beginning," he murmurs, bending to speak directly into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "I've arranged for the east wing guest suite to be transformed into a winter wonderland, following the designs you created but never implemented for the Harriman estate last year."
I turn in surprise, dislodging his hands. "How did you know about those designs? The Harrimans rejected them as too elaborate."
A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I have my sources. And unlike the Harrimans, I appreciate your vision in its fullest expression." He cups my cheek, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "I wanted to surprise you—to show you what your creativity looks like when budget is no constraint."
The gesture is thoughtful, romantic even—and completely calculated to make declining difficult. I feel my resolve wavering in the face of his consideration, his apparent desire to celebrate my talent.
"That's incredibly sweet," I say honestly. "But I could see it on Sunday instead. The party is just one evening?—"
"I had the chef planning a menu inspired by your favorite holiday foods," he continues, his hand sliding into my hair, cradling the back of my head in a touch that's both tender and controlling. "The wine cellar opened for vintages that complement each course perfectly. The bed strewn with winter roses. Every detail arranged specifically for you."
His other hand settles on my waist, drawing me to my feet and against him in one smooth motion. "Do you knowhow rarely I plan evenings focused entirely on someone else's pleasure, Holly?" His voice drops lower, taking on that edge that never fails to send heat pooling in my abdomen. "How unprecedented it is for me to design experiences around another person's desires rather than my own?"
Put that way, it does seem significant—this powerful man who controls empires, arranging his home, his staff, his resources to create something special for me. My body responds to his proximity, to the possessive yet caring touch of his hands, even as my mind rebels against the manipulation beneath the romance.
"I appreciate the thought," I say, placing my hands on his chest, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer. "Truly. But my friends are expecting me. I've already told Megan I'll be there."
His expression shifts, the warmth cooling several degrees. "I see. So your decision was made before our discussion." There's a dangerous softness to his tone now. "You weren't asking permission or considering my feelings—you were merely informing me of your plans."
"Permission?" I repeat, taking a step back, his hands falling away from my body. "Dominic, I don't need permission to see my friends."
"Of course not," he agrees smoothly, though his eyes remain cold. "You're free to make your own choices, Holly."
