Page 11 of His for Christmas
"What if I don't want to wait?" The words escape before I can censor them, revealing far more than I intended.
His expression intensifies, desire flashing across his features before he gets it under control. "Patience, Holly. Some things are worth the anticipation."
With that, he exits the library, leaving me standing beside my half-finished arrangement, my heart racing, my body hummingwith unfulfilled desire. I press my fingers to my lips, which tingle despite not being kissed.
I shouldn't be here this late. The small sitting room off the east wing is shadowy, lit only by a single lamp and the glow of my laptop screen. Everyone else has gone home—even Ms. Winters left an hour ago with a pointed look at her watch. But I needed the quiet to finalize the garland designs, needed space to think without feeling Dominic's eyes on me. All day I've felt him watching, felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch. Now it's past nine, and I should pack up, drive back to my apartment. Instead, I keep working, knowing I'm tempting fate. Knowing, on some level I won't admit, that I'm hoping he'll find me here alone.
The past three days have been an exquisite form of torture. Since our moment in the library, Dominic has been everywhere and nowhere—appearing when I least expect him, watching me from doorways, asking pointed questions about my progress. Each interaction charged with an electricity that makes it hard to breathe. Each look promising something he's not yet delivered. The anticipation is maddening. I'm not this person—I don't lose focus over men, don't let attraction interfere with my work. Yet here I am, staying late, half-hoping, half-dreading that he'll appear.
I'm so absorbed in my thoughts that I don't hear him approach. Only when the door clicks shut do I look up, my heart leaping into my throat.
Dominic stands just inside the room, his tie loosened, suit jacket discarded. The white shirt with rolled-up sleeves reveals forearms corded with muscle. He looks less polished than usual,slightly rumpled after a long day, and somehow that makes him even more attractive.
"It's late," he says, his voice low in the quiet room.
I close my laptop, dimming the room further. "I was just finishing up."
"Were you?" He moves closer, his steps silent on the thick carpet. "Or were you waiting?"
The directness of his question steals my prepared excuses. I could lie, but something tells me he'd see right through it. "Maybe both," I admit softly.
He stops beside my chair, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Three days," he says, reaching down to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Three days of watching you work. Of seeing your hands create beauty from nothing. Of smelling your perfume in rooms hours after you've left them."
His fingers trail from my hair to my cheek, then to my jawline. My pulse beats wildly under his touch.
"Three days," he continues, "of extraordinary restraint."
"Is that what you call it?" I whisper, finding courage in the dimness. "Because it feels more like torture."
Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction mixed with hunger. "So you've felt it too."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
The single word seems to break something in him. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me to my feet and against him in one fluid motion. Our bodies collide, soft curves meeting hard planes. For a breathless moment, he simply holds me there, his eyes searching mine.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his mouth hovering above mine.
But I can't. Won't. Instead, I eliminate the last inch between us, pressing my lips to his with all the pent-up desire of the past days.
The kiss ignites instantly. There's nothing tentative about it, nothing restrained. His mouth is demanding, claiming, his tongue sweeping inside when I gasp. I taste mint and something darker, more potent. My hands clutch at his shoulders, needing an anchor in the storm of sensation.
He backs me against the wall, his body pressing the full length of mine, making me achingly aware of every point of contact. One of his hands remains tangled in my hair while the other slides down to my hip, fingers digging in possessively. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel claimed in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Do you have any idea," he growls against my mouth, "what you do to me?"
I can feel exactly what I do to him, hard evidence pressed against my stomach. The knowledge that this powerful, controlled man wants me with such intensity is intoxicating.
His mouth leaves mine to trail hot kisses down my neck, finding the pulse point and sucking gently. I whimper, my head falling back against the wall, giving him better access. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pressing me more firmly against him, making me aware of the ache building between my legs.
"Dominic," I breathe his name like a prayer or a plea.
He captures my mouth again, the kiss deeper, hungrier. My hands find their way under his shirt, touching heated skin, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingers. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me.
When his hand moves to cup my breast through my blouse, my knees nearly buckle. Even through layers of fabric, his touch sends shockwaves of pleasure spiraling through me. My nipple pebbles instantly against his palm. He brushes his thumb across it, swallowing my moan with his kiss.
I'm drowning in sensation, surrendering to feelings I've never experienced with such intensity. This isn't like me—I don't make out against walls with clients, don't lose myself so completely in desire. Yet I can't stop, can't pull away. I want more. Want everything.
His hand moves to the buttons of my blouse, deftly unfastening the top one, then the next. Cool air hits my flushed skin as he exposes the top of my breasts, the edge of my bra. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight.
