Page 42 of His for Christmas
Her breath catches, betraying the desire that still exists despite her anger. "Physical response isn't the same as emotional submission," she argues, though she doesn't pull away from my touch. "I can want you physically while still maintaining my autonomy."
"Can you?" I let my thumb trace her lower lip, feeling her involuntary shiver. "Because every time I touch you, Holly, you surrender completely. Every time I claim your body, you give yourself without reservation. That isn't just physical response—it's submission in its purest form."
She steps back abruptly, breaking contact. "That's in bed," she says, her voice shaking slightly. "What happens between usintimately doesn't give you the right to control the rest of my life."
"Doesn't it?" I counter, letting her see the full extent of my possessiveness for the first time. "When you gave yourself to me, you didn't specify limitations. You didn't place boundaries around which parts of you I could claim."
"Because I didn't think I needed to!" Her voice rises, genuine distress breaking through her composure. "I didn't think I needed to explain that being your lover doesn't make me your possession. That sharing your bed doesn't mean surrendering my independence."
We stare at each other across the small space between us, both breathing harder, the air charged with anger and desire and something deeper, more painful. I see tears forming in her eyes and feel an unfamiliar pang of regret for causing her distress.
"Holly," I begin, my tone softening despite my resolve to maintain control of the situation. "I don't want to own you. I want to cherish you. Protect you. Keep you safe from anything that might hurt you—including separation from me."
She shakes her head, a tear spilling over despite her visible attempt to contain it. "That's the problem, Dominic. You can't distinguish between protection and possession. Between caring and controlling." She wipes the tear away with an angry gesture. "I need to go. I can't have this conversation right now."
As she moves toward the door, panic flares again—the certainty that if she walks away now, something fundamental will break between us. I reach for her arm, catching her wrist in a grip that's firm but not painful.
"Don't leave," I say, the words emerging more plea than command despite my intention. "Not like this."
She looks down at my hand on her wrist, then up at my face. "Let go, Dominic."
Three simple words, yet they carry the weight of everything at stake between us. If I refuse, I confirm her worst fears about my controlling nature. If I comply, I risk her walking away permanently. The choice paralyzes me momentarily, fear warring with pride.
Slowly, deliberately, I release her wrist. "This conversation isn't finished," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel.
"No," she agrees, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. "But it's finished for tonight."
She turns and walks to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "I'm still going to the party on Saturday," she says without looking back. "Not because I'm pulling away from you, but because I need to prove to myself that I still can."
The door closes softly behind her, leaving me alone in the library with the scent of her perfume lingering in the air and the cold certainty that I'm losing her despite all my efforts to hold on—or perhaps because of them.
For the first time in years, I feel genuinely afraid. Not of business failure or financial loss, but of something far more devastating: the possibility that Holly Parker might walk out of my life as completely as she walked into it, leaving me with nothing but memories of what might have been.
The bedroom seems emptier than usual as I loosen my tie, the silence more profound without Holly's presence. After our confrontation in the library, I expected her to sleep elsewhere tonight—perhaps in one of the guest rooms, or even returning to her apartment despite the late hour. I've reviewed our argument repeatedly in my mind, analyzing where I might have approached the situation differently, what I might have saidto prevent her retreat. The exercise is pointless. I meant every word, even as I regret their effect.
The door opens without a knock, surprising me. Holly stands in the threshold, still fully dressed in the outfit she wore earlier—simple black trousers and a cream sweater that somehow makes her look both professional and vulnerable. Her expression is unreadable, a complex mixture of emotions I can't quite decipher.
"I thought you'd gone," I say, my voice deliberately neutral despite the surge of relief at her appearance.
"I considered it," she admits, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "I even called for a car."
"What changed your mind?" I remain where I am, giving her space, though every instinct urges me to close the distance between us.
She moves further into the room, her movements hesitant yet purposeful. "I don't know," she says finally, stopping several feet away from me. "Maybe I'm not ready to leave things as they are between us. Maybe I needed to see you once more before Saturday. Or maybe..."
"Maybe?" I prompt when she trails off.
Her eyes meet mine directly. "Maybe despite everything—despite the arguments and your possessiveness and my concerns—I still want you. Still need you. And that terrifies me more than anything."
The raw honesty in her voice breaks something in me—some last vestige of control I've been maintaining since our fight. I close the distance between us in three long strides, my hands framing her face as my mouth claims hers with bruising intensity. She responds immediately, her body arching into mine as if we've been separated for weeks rather than hours.
There's nothing gentle in this kiss—it's possession and surrender, anger and desire, conflict and connection all at once.My hands move from her face to her waist, lifting her against me as her legs wrap around my hips in a motion that's become familiar yet never loses its power to inflame. I carry her to the bed, our mouths still fused, my grip tighter than necessary as if I could physically prevent her from leaving through sheer force of will.
When I lay her down, I finally break the kiss, looking down at her flushed face, her swollen lips, her eyes dark with desire despite the wariness that still lingers in them. "Tell me to stop," I challenge, echoing words from our first night together. "Tell me you don't want this—want me—and I'll let you go right now."
"I can't," she whispers, her hands already working at the buttons of my shirt with urgent need that matches my own. "God help me, I can't."
Permission granted, I reclaim her mouth, my hands making quick work of her clothing, needing to feel her skin against mine, to reestablish the physical connection that seems to be the one certainty remaining between us. She's equally urgent, pushing my shirt from my shoulders, her nails scraping lightly down my back in a way that sends electricity through my veins.
