Page 43 of His for Christmas
When we're finally skin to skin, I pause for just a moment, looking down at her beneath me—hair spread across my pillow, body flushed with desire, eyes reflecting the same desperate need consuming me. Mine, I think with fierce possession, bending to press open-mouthed kisses along her throat, her collarbone, lower to the breasts that respond so readily to my touch.
"Dominic," she gasps as my teeth graze sensitive flesh, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer even as her body arches into my mouth. "Please."
I've never been able to deny her when she says my name like that—a plea and a prayer combined. But tonight is different from our previous encounters. There's an edge to ourpassion, a desperation fueled by the knowledge that something fundamental has shifted between us. I take her with an intensity that borders on roughness, claiming rather than making love, my hands holding her with bruising possession that she meets with equal fervor.
Her nails dig into my shoulders as she moves beneath me, meeting each thrust with a hunger that matches my own. We're fighting and surrendering simultaneously, using our bodies to communicate what words have failed to resolve. When she comes apart beneath me, crying out my name with that vulnerability that never fails to move me, I follow immediately, my own release more intense than any I can remember.
In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist, both of us breathing hard as reality slowly returns. I feel her tears before I see them—warm wetness against my skin that she tries to hide by turning her face away.
"Holly," I murmur, gently turning her chin to face me. "Talk to me."
She shakes her head slightly, more tears spilling over despite her obvious attempt to control them. "I don't know what to say. I don't understand how I can be so angry with you, so concerned about what's happening between us, and still want you this desperately."
I brush the tears from her cheeks with my thumb, her distress affecting me more than I want to admit. "Physical desire doesn't always align with rational thought," I say quietly. "What we have transcends normal relationships. Normal expectations."
"That's what scares me," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. "How consuming this is. How completely it's taken over my life in less than two weeks."
I tighten my arm around her, instinctively pulling her closer at the implied threat of separation. "Is that so terrible? To find something—someone—who affects you so deeply?"
"It's terrible if it means losing myself," she says, the words hitting with surprising force. "If it means giving up who I am to become what you want me to be."
"I don't want you to be anything other than what you are," I protest, genuine confusion mixing with frustration. "You're perfect exactly as you are."
"Am I?" She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with those perceptive brown eyes. "Because the Holly I was two weeks ago wouldn't have hesitated to spend an evening with her friends. Wouldn't have worried about a man's reaction to her having plans that didn't include him."
The accuracy of her observation stings. "Perhaps the Holly from two weeks ago hadn't found something worth prioritizing over routine social obligations," I counter, unable to concede the point.
"Or perhaps she hadn't encountered someone whose need to possess would override her right to maintain her own identity," she returns, pulling away from my embrace and sitting up, drawing the sheet around her like armor.
I sit up as well, unwilling to have this conversation from a position of literal or figurative disadvantage. "Is that really how you see me, Holly? As someone trying to erase your identity rather than enhance your life?"
She looks away, her profile illuminated by the bedside lamp—vulnerable yet somehow still strong. "I don't know how to see you anymore, Dominic. Sometimes you're the most attentive, passionate man I've ever known. Other times you're controlling and manipulative in ways that terrify me."
"I am who I am," I say simply. "I make no apologies for wanting you completely. For seeing you as mine. That's not manipulation—it's honesty."
She turns back to me, something resolute forming in her expression. "And I am who I am. Someone who needs autonomy alongside connection. Who can't be owned, no matter how powerful the attraction between us."
We stare at each other across the rumpled sheets, the physical intimacy of moments before giving way to emotional distance that feels insurmountable. Finally, she rises from the bed, gathering her scattered clothing with deliberate movements.
"Where are you going?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"To the blue guest room," she says without looking at me. "I need to think, Dominic. I need space to sort through what's happening between us without your presence overwhelming my ability to process it."
I want to forbid it. Want to demand she stay, to physically prevent her departure if necessary. Instead, I remain silent, watching as she dresses quickly, efficiently, her back to me as if she can't bear to see my expression.
At the door, she pauses, finally turning to face me. "I still intend to go to the party on Saturday," she says, her voice steadier now. "Not to pull away from you, but to remember who I am outside of this intensity between us. I need that clarity before I can decide what happens next."
"And if I asked you to stay?" I can't help but challenge. "If I told you how essential you've become to me in these two weeks?"
A sad smile curves her mouth. "That's the problem, Dominic. You don't ask. You command. You expect. You arrange. But you never simply ask for what you want with the understanding that I have the right to say no."
Before I can formulate a response, she slips out the door, closing it softly behind her. The click of the latch sounds definitively final in the silent room.
I remain sitting in the empty bed, the scent of her perfume and our lovemaking still hanging in the air. Her words replay in my mind, cutting deeper with each repetition. You don't ask. You command. The accusation is accurate—I've never seen the point in asking for what I could simply take or arrange to receive. Yet clearly, with Holly, this approach is failing spectacularly.
For the first time in my adult life, I'm faced with the possibility that my usual methods of obtaining what I want might actually prevent me from keeping what I most desire.
The realization is as unwelcome as it is undeniable.
