Page 58 of His for Christmas
The question cuts straight to the heart of the matter—the understanding I've been working toward since our conflicts began. "I did this because I finally understood what you've been trying to tell me," I say, moving toward her now, drawn by the emotion in her expression. "That you deserve everything, Holly. Yes, I want to possess every part of you, but I love you too, and part of loving you is giving you what you need ."
The word—love—slips out before I intended, before the dinner and the more formal declaration I had planned. But seeing it register in her eyes, watching the comprehension dawn alongside the tears, I don't regret the premature revelation.
"You had this created in three days?" she asks, glancing around at the comprehensive transformation.
"When properly motivated, I can accomplish rather a lot in a limited timeframe," I acknowledge, allowing a small smile. "Though I should credit Patricia and the contractors with extraordinary efficiency."
Holly moves to the bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines of volumes I know she's mentioned wanting to study. "Some of these are rare editions," she notes, pulling out a historical treatise on Victorian decorative arts that I had imported from London.
"Only the best for your professional development," I say, watching as she continues to explore, her wonder evident inevery movement, every expression. The sight of her in this space—the space I've created specifically for her unique needs—fills me with a satisfaction deeper than any business acquisition has ever provided.
When she reaches the reading nook with her grandmother's quilt, she stops, her hand covering her mouth. "How did you get this?" she asks, touching the fabric with reverent fingers. "It was at my apartment."
"I had it collected while you were supervising the children's hospital installation," I admit. "Along with a few other personal items I thought would make this space truly yours. Was that overstepping?"
Instead of answering, she turns and crosses the room to me in quick steps, throwing her arms around my neck with such force that I have to steady us both. Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that tastes of salt from her tears and sweetness from her inherent Holly-ness—a combination more intoxicating than the finest champagne.
When she pulls back, her eyes are still wet but luminous with emotion. "No one has ever understood me like this," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "No one has ever seen so clearly what I need rather than imposing what they think I should want."
I brush away a tear with my thumb, cradling her face between my hands. "I'm still learning," I tell her honestly. "Still unlearning patterns established over a lifetime. But Holly—" I pause, making sure she's looking directly into my eyes for what comes next. "I meant what I said. I love you. Not as an extension of myself or an object to possess. I love you as you are, with your independence and strength and gentle defiance of my controlling tendencies."
Fresh tears spill over at my words. "I never thought those would be the qualities that would make someone love me," sheconfesses with a watery laugh. "Especially not someone like you."
"Someone like me?" I echo, curious about her perception.
"Someone so powerful, so used to controlling everything in their orbit," she clarifies. "I thought men like you wanted compliance, not…me."
The vulnerability in her admission cuts through me, revealing insecurities I hadn't fully recognized beneath her quiet strength. "Men like me don't know what they need until they find it," I tell her, drawing her closer again. "And what I need, what I love, is exactly you—stubborn independence included."
She rises on tiptoe to kiss me again, this one softer but no less affecting. Against my lips, she whispers the words I haven't dared to hope for yet: "I love you too, Dominic. God help me, I do."
The simple declaration transforms something fundamental within me—a lock breaking open, a light entering spaces long kept dark. As I hold her in this room designed to honor her independence rather than restrict it, I understand that I've received the greatest gift possible: love freely given rather than extracted or commanded.
And for the first time in my adult life, I feel not just powerful or successful or in control, but truly, completely fortunate.
Dinner was a quiet affair, intimate in a way that transcended the physical setting—Holly and I exchanging glances charged with new meaning after our declarations in the studio. The conversation flowed easily between professional discussions of the Christmas installations and more personal revelations—childhood memories, formative experiences, the small detailsthat have shaped us into the people we are today. Throughout the meal, I found myself watching her with fresh awareness, noting how the candlelight caught in her eyes, how her hands moved expressively as she spoke, how her laughter seemed freer, more uninhibited now that certain barriers between us have fallen.
Now, as I guide her into my suite, her hand warm in mine, I feel an anticipation unlike any I've experienced in our previous encounters. We've shared passionate nights, intense connections that transcended the physical, but this is different—colored by the words we've exchanged, the love we've acknowledged, the understanding we've reached about what exists between us.
"What are you thinking?" Holly asks as I close the door behind us, her perceptiveness catching the contemplative nature of my silence.
Instead of answering immediately, I move to her, cupping her face between my hands with a gentleness that feels both foreign and essential. "I'm thinking that I've acquired companies worth billions with less deliberation than I'm giving to how I want to touch you tonight."
A smile curves her lips, her eyes warming with understanding. "And how do you want to touch me?"
"In every way possible," I admit, my thumb tracing her lower lip in that gesture that's become habit between us. "With all the possession I naturally feel, but also with the reverence you deserve."
Her breath catches slightly at my words. "You make it sound like worship."
"Perhaps it is," I murmur, bending to press my lips to her forehead, then each eyelid, then finally her mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but deepens as she responds, her body melting against mine with familiar eagerness.
I take my time undressing her, each movement deliberate, savoring the reveal of skin I've touched countless times yet somehow feels new tonight. The emerald dress falls away, followed by lace undergarments that have been teasing my imagination all evening. When she stands before me wearing nothing but the emerald earrings, I step back slightly, allowing my gaze to travel the length of her body not with the assessing eye of possession but with genuine appreciation.
"Beautiful," I tell her, the word inadequate for what I truly feel. "Not just your body, though that remains extraordinary. Everything about you, Holly—your mind, your heart, your stubborn independence that challenged everything I thought I understood about relationships."
She flushes under my words and gaze, still not entirely comfortable with direct admiration despite our intimacy. "Your turn," she says, reaching for the buttons of my shirt with fingers that tremble slightly.
I allow her to undress me, her touch exploring familiar territory with new awareness. When we're both unclothed, I lift her in my arms, carrying her to the bed with careful reverence rather than the urgent passion of previous nights. As I lay her against the pillows, I'm struck again by the trust she places in me—this woman who fought so fiercely for her independence now surrendering not to my control but to our mutual desire.
