Page 37 of His for Christmas
Despite his words, there's something in his tone that suggests my choice is disappointing, perhaps even a betrayal of sorts. He moves back to his chair, picking up his tablet again—a clear dismissal.
"We could compromise," I offer, hating the conciliatory tone that creeps into my voice. "I could go to the party for a couple of hours and then meet you afterward for a late symphony performance."
"The tickets are for the eight o'clock seating," he says without looking up. "The same time as your party, I believe."
The temperature in the room seems to drop further. I stand awkwardly beside my chair, caught between frustration at his passive-aggressive response and guilt for disrupting his plans.
"I'm sorry about the surprise you planned," I say finally. "It sounds wonderful, and I'm touched that you would go to such trouble for me. But these friends are important, and I need to?—"
"Maintain your relationships," he finishes for me, finally looking up. Something shifts in his expression, the coldness giving way to a more calculated look that I'm beginning to recognize—the strategist reassessing his approach. "You're right, of course. Those connections are valuable to you."
His sudden agreement catches me off guard. "Thank you for understanding," I say cautiously.
Dominic rises again, approaching me with that predatory grace that never fails to make my heart race. "I do understand, Holly. Better than you might think." He circles me slowly, his presence making me acutely aware of my body, my breathing. "You value loyalty. Constancy. Connections formed over time."
"Yes," I agree, turning to keep him in my sight as he moves around me.
He stops directly behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, though he doesn't touch me. "Admirable qualities," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at my nape. "Qualities I value as well. Perhaps more than you realize."
His hands settle on my shoulders again, this time with firmer pressure. "Do you know what I thought when I first saw you in my collection room?" he asks, his thumbs tracing my collarbones through the thin fabric of my blouse. "I thought: finally. Something I didn't know I was searching for until I found it."
The echo of words he's said before still affects me, still sends a flutter of pleasure through my chest. His hands slide down my arms, then around my waist, drawing me back against him.
"I've never felt this connection with anyone before," he continues, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. "This immediate recognition of something essential. Have you?"
"No," I admit, the truth slipping out before I can consider whether honesty serves me in this moment.
His arms tighten around me, one hand splaying across my stomach, the other rising to tilt my chin up and to the side so he can see my profile. "Then perhaps you understand why I'm reluctant to share even a single evening of our limited time together."
His mouth traces a line down my neck, teeth grazing my skin in a way that draws an involuntary gasp from me. "The installation will be complete in less than two weeks," he reminds me. "The holiday will pass. Your contract will end." His hand slips beneath the hem of my blouse, finding bare skin. "These moments are precious, Holly. Finite."
My body betrays me, melting back against him as his skilled fingers trace patterns on my skin. "The party is just one evening," I manage, though my voice lacks conviction.
"One evening I wanted to spend showing you how much you've come to mean to me," he counters, turning me in his arms to face him. His blue eyes burn with an intensity that's hard to withstand. "One evening devoted entirely to your pleasure."
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But if your friends are more important right now, I understand." The words are reasonable, but the underlying message is clear—I'm choosing others over him, and he's disappointed.
"That's not fair," I protest weakly. "It's not a competition."
"Life is competition, Holly." His thumb continues its maddening caress of my lip. "Time is limited. Choices must be made. Priorities established."
He bends to replace his thumb with his mouth, kissing me with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. When he pulls back, I'm breathless, clinging to his shoulders for support.
"Go to your party," he says, his voice low and controlled again. "Enjoy your friends. I'll make other arrangements for Saturday evening."
The reasonable words are belied by the cold finality in his tone. This isn't acceptance—it's retreat. The Dominic Sterling I've come to know doesn't concede; he strategizes. This apparent surrender feels more threatening than his earlier attempts at persuasion.
"What will you do instead?" I ask, dreading the answer yet needing to know.
A slight smile curves his mouth, not reaching his eyes. "I'm sure I can find suitable entertainment for the evening. Perhaps Alessandra is still in town."
The casual mention of the woman he spoke of at breakfast our first morning together hits its target with precision. Jealousy flares, hot and immediate, just as he intended.
"That's manipulative," I say, stepping back from his embrace, anger finally cutting through the haze of desire he so skillfully created.
"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow, watching me with calculated interest. "Or is it simply making alternative plans when my first choice becomes unavailable?"
"You know exactly what you're doing," I accuse, crossing my arms protectively over my chest. "Trying to make me jealous. Trying to control my choices."
