Page 44 of His for Christmas
Chapter
Eleven
HOLLY
The blue guestroom is impeccably decorated but feels soulless compared to Dominic's bedroom. I sit in the center of the king-sized bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the elegant wallpaper without really seeing it. My body still hums with the aftereffects of our passionate encounter, even as my mind races with doubts and questions. This dichotomy—the physical certainty alongside emotional uncertainty—has become the defining feature of my relationship with Dominic Sterling. How can I feel so completely claimed by him physically while simultaneously fighting for my independence? How can my body surrender so completely while my mind raises increasingly urgent alarms?
I press my fingers against my lips, still swollen from his kisses. Even now, after our argument, after his possessive declarations that should send me running, I can feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the echo of pleasure he draws from me with such practiced skill. That's part of the problem—the disconnect between what my body wants and what my mind needs. Every time I try to establish boundaries, to assertmy independence, one touch from him dismantles my resolve, leaving me clinging to him as if he's essential to my survival.
And maybe that's what terrifies me most: the growing suspicion that he is becoming essential, that I'm developing a dependency that could ultimately erase the person I was before I met him. His possessiveness isn't just about controlling my actions—it's about claiming my identity, merging it with his until the boundaries between us dissolve completely.
You don't ask. You command. You expect. You arrange. My parting words to him replay in my mind. They were accurate but incomplete. I didn't acknowledge my own role in this dynamic—how I've allowed the boundaries to blur, how I've surrendered not just my body but pieces of my autonomy with every night spent in his bed, every rearrangement of my schedule to accommodate his preferences.
I've never been this person. In previous relationships, I've always maintained clear boundaries, kept parts of myself separate and protected. Even with David, my longest relationship that lasted nearly two years, I never felt this consumed, this overwhelmed by another person's presence in my life. We had separate apartments, separate friends, separate interests that we respected in each other. When it ended, it was sad but manageable—a chapter closing rather than my entire narrative collapsing.
With Dominic, the intensity makes previous relationships seem like pale imitations of connection. The way he looks at me—as if I'm simultaneously precious and essential—awakens something primal and responsive in me that I never knew existed. His focus, when turned fully upon me, feels like standing in direct sunlight after a lifetime in shadow. Exhilarating. Illuminating. And potentially burning if I remain exposed too long.
What would a future with him actually look like? I try to imagine it concretely rather than in the abstract terms of desire and connection. Would I maintain my business, or would he expect me to set it aside? Would I keep my apartment, or would he assume I'd live permanently in his mansion? Would my friends remain important parts of my life, or would he gradually isolate me from anyone who competes for my attention? Would his possessiveness eventually extend to controlling what I wear, who I speak to, how I spend every moment of my day?
The questions multiply, each more concerning than the last. Yet alongside these worries runs a contradictory current of longing for the security he offers, the intensity of his focus, the way he makes me feel simultaneously protected and desired. The man who whispers tender words against my skin in the darkness, who watches me with wonder when he thinks I'm not looking—that Dominic draws me like gravity.
But the man who declared me his possession, who manipulated my emotions to try to control my choices, who sees my independence as a threat to his claim—that Dominic terrifies me. And I'm increasingly uncertain whether these are two different men or simply two sides of the same complex person.
My phone chimes with a text message, startling me from my thoughts. It's from Megan: *Final headcount for Saturday. You're still coming, right? Bringing that wine you promised?*
Such a normal question, so disconnected from the emotional tempest I'm weathering. The party feels like it belongs to another lifetime, another Holly who wasn't caught in this all-consuming relationship that's simultaneously the most exciting and most concerning experience of my life.
I type back: *Absolutely. Wouldn't miss it. Wine and cookies, as promised.*
The simple act of confirming my plans feels like reclaiming a small piece of myself, asserting the existence of Holly Parkerseparate from Dominic Sterling's possession. Saturday's party has become symbolic—a test of whether I can maintain my own identity within the gravity field of our relationship. Whether he can respect my autonomy even when it conflicts with his preferences.
And perhaps most importantly, whether I can resist the pull of his desire long enough to think clearly about what I truly want.
Because that's the heart of the problem, isn't it? I don't know what I want anymore. Two weeks ago, my path seemed clear—build my business, create beautiful spaces for clients, maintain my independence while remaining open to the possibility of connection. Now all those certainties have been upended by blue eyes that see too much, hands that know exactly how to touch me, and a possessiveness that's equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
I lie back on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion finally begins to overtake my racing thoughts. Whatever happens next, I need clarity. I need to understand whether the intensity between us is the foundation of something extraordinary or the warning sign of something destructive. Whether his possessiveness can coexist with my need for autonomy, or whether these opposing forces will ultimately tear us apart.
Saturday isn't just about a party with friends anymore. It's about discovering whether Holly Parker still exists outside of Dominic Sterling's possession. Whether I can stand in my own light rather than being consumed by his.
As sleep finally claims me, one certainty forms in my mind: I can't make any decisions about our future until I've reclaimed enough of myself to know where he ends and I begin. And that separation—that rediscovery of boundaries—starts withkeeping my promise to attend the Christmas party, regardless of Dominic's reaction.
It's a small assertion of independence in the grand scheme of things. But right now, it feels like the most important choice I've made since I first walked through the doors of Sterling Mansion and into the most transformative experience of my life.
The children's hospital decorations are coming together beautifully, each element carefully designed to delight young patients who will visit Sterling Mansion tomorrow for the annual Christmas party. I arrange miniature carousel horses on a tabletop display, each one painted in bright colors with holiday motifs. The work is precise, requiring total concentration—exactly what I need after a night of fragmented sleep in the blue guest room, my dreams haunted by Dominic's words and touches in equal measure.
I stayed away from his bedroom this morning, rising early to shower in the guest bathroom before heading directly to work. Ms. Winters raised an eyebrow when she saw me emerging from the east wing rather than Dominic's suite but made no comment. The household staff are too professional to acknowledge the obvious shift in our relationship, though I feel their awareness like a physical presence as I move through the mansion.
The door to the children's wing opens quietly, but I know immediately who has entered. That awareness—that sixth sense I've developed for Dominic's presence—hasn't diminished despite our conflict. My hands still on the carousel display, though I don't turn around.
"That looks magical," he says, his voice carefully modulated to sound casual, though I hear the tension underneath. "The children will be enchanted."
I continue arranging the tiny horses, giving my hands something to do besides reach for him, which is still my body's instinctive response despite everything. "That's the goal. Many of these kids spend too much time in hospital rooms. I wanted to create something truly special for them."
He moves closer, stopping a few feet away—giving me space in a way that feels deliberate, considered. "Your compassion is one of the many things I admire about you, Holly."
Now I do look at him, turning to find him impeccably dressed as always, though subtle signs of strain show in the tightness around his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. He didn't sleep well either.
"Thank you," I say simply, unsure where this conversation is heading.
