Page 22 of His for Christmas
"Good morning," I murmur, injecting just enough huskiness into my voice to remind her of last night. "Leaving so soon?"
She freezes like a startled deer, her hand still on the bathroom door. "I thought I should get home to change before work," she says, professional mask already attempting to slide into place. "The installation team arrives at nine."
I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist, aware of how her eyes track the movement before darting away. "They can wait. Have breakfast with me first."
It's not a request. We both know it. She hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining professional boundaries and the pull between us that we both feel.
"I'm not really dressed for breakfast," she says, gesturing at her rumpled silk dress.
"I'll have something brought for you to wear." I reach for my phone on the nightstand. "What size are you?"
"Dominic, that's not necessary?—"
"What size, Holly?" I repeat, my tone gentle but brooking no argument.
She sighs, relenting. "Eight. Sometimes ten, depending on the cut."
I send a quick text to Patricia, who I know will already be in her office despite the early hour. Unlike Holly, Patricia has no illusions about professional boundaries. She'll understand exactly what clothing delivered to my suite implies.
"Problem solved," I say, setting the phone aside. "Now come back to bed until it arrives."
Her blush is delicious, spreading from her cheeks down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her dress. I remember exactly how far that blush extends, having mapped every inch of her body with my hands and mouth last night.
"I should at least fix my hair," she protests weakly.
"Your hair is perfect," I counter, enjoying how easily I can fluster her. "Exactly how a woman's hair should look after a night in my bed."
Her flush deepens, but she moves toward the bed, perching cautiously on the edge as if afraid I'll pounce. I could. Part of me wants to. But this morning requires a different strategy—one that establishes her place in my life beyond the physical.
A discreet knock at the outer door of my suite interrupts us. "That was fast," Holly says, looking relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
"Patricia is nothing if not efficient." I rise from the bed, unself-conscious in my nakedness, and pull on a robe. Holly's eyes widen slightly before she looks away, that lovely blush intensifying.
The clothing arrives—not from a store, as Holly likely assumes, but from the selection I keep for the occasional female guest. I've never had a woman stay often enough to warrant her own wardrobe. Until now. I make a mental note to have Patricia arrange for a complete selection in Holly's sizes by the end of the week.
"There's a robe in the bathroom you can use," I tell her. "Breakfast will be ready in the morning room in fifteen minutes."
She nods, gathering the clothing with careful hands before retreating to the bathroom again. I dress quickly in casual trousers and a cashmere sweater—weekend attire I rarely wear. Today feels different. Less structured. The realization that I'm altering my routine for her registers, but I push the thought aside.
Twenty minutes later, we're seated in the morning room—a light-filled space overlooking the east gardens that I rarely use, preferring to eat at my desk most mornings. Holly looks charming in the simple blue dress Patricia selected, her hairloose around her shoulders, face freshly washed and free of makeup. There's something intimate about seeing her this way—unadorned, slightly shy in the morning light.
"I don't usually eat breakfast," she admits as the housekeeper serves us coffee and fresh fruit.
"A mistake I'll help you correct," I reply, watching her eyes widen slightly at the implication of future mornings together. "Breakfast is essential for proper functioning."
"You sound like a nutrition pamphlet," she says, a hint of teasing in her voice that pleases me. She's growing comfortable enough to show her personality rather than hiding behind professionalism.
"I'm very passionate about proper…nourishment," I return, letting my gaze drop deliberately to her mouth. Her lips part slightly, remembering, no doubt, exactly how passionate I can be.
The chef delivers our meal himself—something he does only for special guests. Henri has been with me for eight years and knows my preferences intimately. The spread he's prepared is impressive even by his standards—eggs Benedict, fresh pastries, smoked salmon, sliced fruit arranged like artwork on fine china.
"This is beautiful," Holly says, genuine appreciation in her voice. "But far too much food for two people."
"Henri likes to show off for beautiful women," I reply casually, watching her reaction from the corner of my eye as I pour her coffee. "When Alessandra used to stay over, he would practically empty the pantry trying to impress her."
There it is—the tiny flinch, the slight narrowing of eyes, the momentary stillness of her hand reaching for her fork. Jealousy. Exquisite and revealing. I hide my satisfaction behind my coffee cup.
"Alessandra?" Holly asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
