Page 7 of His for Christmas
Her footsteps approach—lighter than Patricia's distinctive heel clicks, more purposeful than the household staff's carefultread. I return my attention to the document in my hand, a quarterly report I've already memorized, and wait.
She appears in the doorway, pausing to make a note on her clipboard. Her profile is striking in the late afternoon light streaming through the library windows—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips slightly parted in concentration. She's pinned her hair up since I last saw her, revealing the elegant line of her neck. I want to press my mouth to the pulse point visible there, to feel her heartbeat quicken under my lips.
"Finding everything you need?" I ask, my voice cutting through her concentration.
She startles, her clipboard clutched tighter against her chest—that defensive gesture I'm beginning to anticipate. "Mr. Sterling! I didn't realize you were in here."
"Dominic," I remind her, setting aside the report and rising from my chair. "I think we're well past formalities, don't you?"
Her cheeks flush immediately—another reaction I'm coming to expect and enjoy. "Right. Dominic. I was just finishing up the measurements for this floor before heading out."
I move toward her, deliberate steps closing the distance between us. "And your impressions of the library? It's one of my favorite rooms in the house."
"It's magnificent," she says, genuine appreciation warming her voice. "The proportions, the light quality—it's perfect for subtle holiday touches that won't overshadow the beauty of the books."
"You understand restraint," I observe, now close enough to notice the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. "An unusual quality in your profession."
"My job isn't to impose a generic Christmas fantasy," she says with surprising confidence. "It's to enhance what's already special about a space."
I move closer still, watching her confidence waver as the distance between us shrinks to barely a foot. She doesn't step back—another thing I appreciate about Holly Parker. Despite her obvious nervousness, she stands her ground.
"An enlightened approach." I glance up deliberately, my eyes fixing on the small sprig above us. "It appears someone has already begun the decorating."
Holly follows my gaze, her eyes widening slightly when she spots the mistletoe. "Oh! That must be left from last year's?—"
"Are you familiar with the tradition?" I interrupt, my voice dropping lower.
Her throat works as she swallows. "Of course, but?—"
"I'm something of a traditionalist, Holly." I raise my hand to her face, my thumb gently grazing her cheekbone. Her skin is as soft as I imagined, warm with her blush. "In some matters, at least."
Time seems to suspend as we stand beneath the mistletoe. I can see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, the slight dilation of her pupils as they fix on mine. She doesn't pull away from my touch—if anything, she leans into it fractionally, perhaps without even realizing.
"Traditions are important," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
It's all the permission I need. I lower my mouth to hers, claiming her lips with deliberate pressure. I meant to keep the kiss brief—professional with just an edge of promise. But the moment our lips connect, control fractures.
She tastes like cinnamon and something uniquely her own. Her lips are soft, yielding yet responsive. When my tongue traces the seam of her mouth, she gasps, allowing me to deepen the kiss. My hand slides from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the base of her updo.My other arm wraps around her waist, drawing her body flush against mine.
Her clipboard presses between us until I take it from her unresisting fingers and set it blindly on a nearby table, never breaking the kiss. Without that barrier, I can feel every lush curve of her body against mine. Her hands hesitate before settling lightly on my shoulders, her touch tentative yet eager.
I kiss her thoroughly, possessively, leaving no doubt that this is more than tradition, more than a casual holiday gesture. I explore her mouth, learning what makes her breath catch, what draws the small, helpless sound from the back of her throat that sends desire coursing through me like wildfire.
When I finally pull back, her lips are pink and slightly swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded. I keep her close, my arm firm around her waist.
"That's—" She stops, clears her throat. "That's quite a dedication to tradition."
A smile tugs at my mouth, genuine amusement mixing with satisfaction. "I never do anything halfway, Holly."
Her hands still rest on my shoulders, fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my suit jacket. She seems unaware that she's clinging to me, her body seeking support as she regains her equilibrium.
"I should—I need to finish—" she stammers, her professional composure thoroughly disrupted.
I tuck a strand of hair that has escaped her updo behind her ear, allowing my fingers to trail along her jawline. "Of course. You have work to complete."
I release her waist but capture one of her hands before she can step away. Raising it to my lips, I press a kiss to her palm—a more intimate gesture than she likely realizes. "Until tomorrow morning, Holly."
The kiss has left her breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She nods, retrieving her clipboard with unsteady hands. "Tomorrow. Eight o'clock."
