Page 53 of His for Christmas
The glimpse into his past—offered without calculation or manipulation—feels like a gift more precious than any material offering. I rise on tiptoe, pressing a flour-dusted kiss to his lips in response. He responds immediately, his arm circling my waist to pull me closer, the cookie preparation forgotten as our mouths connect with familiar hunger.
The kiss deepens, his hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, loosening the ponytail I'd tied to keep flour at bay. I taste cinnamon and vanilla on his tongue, the sweetness of the cookies mingling with his natural flavor in a combination that's unexpectedly intoxicating. My hands find their way inside his open collar, touching warm skin and eliciting a low sound from his throat that vibrates against my palms.
"The next batch will burn," I murmur against his mouth, making no move to pull away.
"Henri would be devastated," Dominic agrees, similarly unmoving, his hands now roaming my back, pulling me more firmly against him.
The timer chimes insistently, finally breaking the moment. I reluctantly step back, flustered and breathing hard, to rescue the cookies from the oven. When I turn back, Dominic is watching me with an expression that combines desire with something softer, more contemplative.
"We should finish these," I suggest, gesturing to the remaining dough, though what I really want is to continue what our kiss started.
He nods, stepping back to the island, though his eyes never leave mine. "We should. And then perhaps you can show me other Christmas traditions I've missed."
The simple request—so ordinary, yet revealing such vulnerability—makes my heart swell with unexpected tenderness. This man, so powerful and controlled in his business life, so dominant in our intimate moments, is standing in his kitchen with flour on his three-thousand-dollar shirt, asking me to share the simple joys of Christmas he never experienced.
"I'd like that," I tell him softly, returning to his side, our shoulders touching as we work together to shape the remaining cookies. This quiet domesticity feels like another kind of intimacy—different from the passion we share in bed, but equally meaningful. Perhaps more so, for it reveals a side of Dominic few ever see, a willingness to participate in everyday experiences for no reason except that they matter to me.
As we work side by side, I realize that this—more than grand gestures or passionate declarations—is what real connection looks like.
I’ve taken over a corner of the library, the table covered in ribbons, paper, and a few half-wrapped gifts. Afternoon light spills through the tall windows, turning everything gold. It smells like pine and cinnamon in here—Christmas, the way it’s supposed to feel.
None of these are fancy gifts. Just small things that matter—handmade ornaments for my best friends, a few tokens for mycrew, little treats for the kids at the hospital. But wrapping them is my favorite part. The folds, the ribbons, the quiet care of it—it’s my peace. My little ritual.
The door opens, quiet but deliberate.
Dominic.
He fills the space just by being in it. No suit today, just dark trousers and a blue sweater that makes his eyes look unreal. Dangerous. Beautiful.
“Don’t tell me you’re working on Christmas Eve eve,” he says, voice low and amused as he closes the door behind him.
“Not work,” I tell him, smiling as I lift a half-wrapped box. “Just my annual wrapping therapy session.”
He comes closer, his eyes sweeping over the table. The packages—brown paper, velvet ribbons, sprigs of pine. He touches one, reverent. “They’re beautiful. Too beautiful to open.”
“That’s the point,” I tease. “Half the magic is in the anticipation.”
He picks up one of my ornaments—delicate glass, painted by hand. The light glints off it as he turns it in his fingers. “You made this?”
“Every year,” I say softly. “For my closest friends. It’s our thing.”
He looks at me then—not just at me, into me. “You have remarkable hands.”
The words are simple, but from him, they hit deep. Heat blooms under my skin. “Thank you. You could help, you know. If you’re brave enough.”
His lips twitch. “I doubt I meet your standards.”
“Then I’ll teach you,” I counter. “Another holiday first.”
Something shifts in his expression. A crack in the armor. He moves to sit beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat.
I show him how to fold the paper, smooth the corners. His hands are steady, precise—of course they are. He could probably take over my job if he wanted to.
“You’re a natural,” I say when he finishes his first one.
“I like precision,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I can’t remember the last time I wrapped anything myself.”
“Who wraps your gifts?”
