Page 39 of His for Christmas
Before I can formulate a response, he bends and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that's brief but claiming—a reminder of the connection between us, the desire that hasn't diminished despite the tension. When he pulls back, his expression has softened slightly.
"Enjoy your party," he says, his hand dropping away from my face. "Remember who you're coming back to."
Not if, but when. The assumption should irritate me more than it does. Instead, I find myself caught between resentment at his certainty and relief that he still wants me despite my resistance to his control.
As he turns and walks toward the door, I find my voice. "Dominic." He pauses, looking back over his shoulder. "Will you really be spending Saturday with Alessandra?"
A small smile curves his mouth—not warm, but satisfied, as if my question confirms something for him. "Would that concern you?"
"Yes," I admit, hating the vulnerability in my voice but unable to hide it.
He studies me for a moment longer. "Then perhaps you understand my feelings about your party better than you think." Without waiting for my response, he exits, leaving me alone with the angel ornaments and my increasingly troubled thoughts.
I pick up the glass angel again, its delicate beauty at odds with its fragility. One wrong move, one moment of carelessness, and it would shatter beyond repair. The metaphor isn't lost on me as I place it carefully back in its protective wrapping.
Whatever is growing between Dominic and me feels equally beautiful and equally fragile—a connection of rare intensity thatcould either become something extraordinary or break us both. The question I can't answer yet is whether his possessiveness is an expression of genuine love or something darker, something that will ultimately suffocate what makes me who I am.
Saturday's party isn't just about seeing my friends anymore. It's become a test—of his ability to respect my independence, and of my ability to maintain it in the face of his overwhelming presence in my life.
Chapter
Ten
DOMINIC
She thinksI don't notice the subtle changes, but I catalog each one with painful precision. The way Holly leaves my bed before dawn now, when just days ago she would linger until the last possible moment. How her smiles no longer reach her eyes when I enter a room. The slight stiffening of her body when I touch her—a momentary resistance before she yields. Most telling is the distance in her gaze when she thinks I'm not watching—as if she's already planning her escape. I recognize the signs because I've seen them before, in other women who decided the intensity of my attention, my expectations, was ultimately too much to bear.
I stand in the doorway of the ballroom, observing her direct the installation of the final crystal elements for the gala. She's entirely focused on her work, professional and composed as she guides her team with quiet authority. Nothing in her demeanor suggests the woman who came apart in my arms just last night, who whispered my name like a prayer as pleasure overtook her. That dichotomy—the passionate lover and the increasingly distant professional—feeds my growing certainty that she's pulling away.
The realization shouldn't affect me this deeply. Women come and go in my life without leaving a trace—beautiful, sophisticated women who understand the temporary nature of my interest. None have ever occupied my thoughts the way Holly does. None have ever made me rearrange my schedule, my priorities, my expectations. And none have ever made me feel this creeping dread at the prospect of their departure.
I step back before she notices me, retreating to my office where Patricia waits with the Tokyo acquisition paperwork. She eyes me with that knowing look that occasionally makes me regret hiring someone so perceptive.
"The final contracts are ready for your signature," she says, sliding a folder across my desk. "And Ms. Parker requested approval for the additional lighting for Saturday's children's event."
The mention of Saturday—the day of Holly's party, the day she's choosing friends over me—sends a fresh wave of irritation through me. "Approved. Whatever she needs."
Patricia studies me for a moment longer than necessary. "Is there anything else you require, sir?"
What I require is for Holly Parker to look at me the way she did that first week—with wonder and desire uncomplicated by doubts. What I require is the certainty that she belongs to me completely, that she won't walk away when the decorations are complete and her professional obligations fulfilled. What I require is to not feel this unfamiliar vulnerability, this fear of loss that I haven't experienced since childhood.
"That will be all," I say instead, dismissing her with a nod.
When the door closes behind Patricia, I move to the window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. The last woman who managed to affect me so deeply was Elise, six years ago. She, too, began with passion that seemed to match my own, with acceptance of my intensity that felt like understanding. Untilgradually, inevitably, she started pulling away—making plans that didn't include me, questioning my "controlling tendencies," suggesting I seek therapy for my "unhealthy attachment style." Three months in, she left my bed for the last time, telling me that love shouldn't feel like possession.
I didn't correct her assumption that what I felt was love. I didn't know what love was then, and I'm not certain I know now. But what I feel for Holly transcends anything I experienced with Elise or any woman before or since. This bone-deep certainty that she belongs with me, to me, isn't something I'm willing to relinquish because of her sudden hesitation.
My phone chimes with a text message from an unknown number. When I read it, a cold smile forms on my face.
*Mr. Sterling - Mark Winters here. Thank you for the recommendation to the Blackwell commercial project. Wanted to express my gratitude for the opportunity.*
The lighting specialist who dared to look at Holly with appreciation, now expressing gratitude for being reassigned to a project that will keep him occupied through January. In another city. One small threat to my relationship with Holly, efficiently neutralized.
If only her doubts could be as easily removed. Whatever caused this shift in her—this pulling away—happened despite my careful attention, my generous gifts, my thorough claiming of her body and her time. Perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps I've been too giving, too accommodating. Allowed her to take my interest for granted.
The thought solidifies as I watch snow begin to fall outside, transforming the precisely maintained grounds into something softer, less controlled. Holly entered my life and disrupted my carefully ordered world in less than two weeks. Now she's contemplating leaving it, returning to her small apartment, her modest career, her friends who couldn't possibly understandwhat exists between us. The idea is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.
I've built an empire on identifying what I want and systematically acquiring it, whether it's a company, a property, or a rare artifact for my collection. Holly is infinitely more valuable than any acquisition I've ever pursued. She requires a more nuanced approach, but the principle remains the same: what I value, I keep.
