Page 47 of His for Christmas
He moves to the chair opposite mine, sitting with none of his usual commanding presence—just a man tired from a long day, concerned about something important to him. "May I ask what thoughts specifically?"
The quiet request—not a demand—encourages honesty. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. That you've never felt this way before."
He nods slowly. "It's true."
"For me as well," I confess, the admission feeling significant in the firelit quiet. "That's what makes this so complicated. If it were just physical attraction, just a casual affair, the intensity wouldn't matter so much."
"But it's more than that," he says, his voice dropping lower. "For both of us, I think."
"Yes." I draw my knees up to my chest in the oversized chair, making myself smaller, more contained, as I struggle to articulate feelings I'm still trying to understand. "And that's what scares me, Dominic. That it's so much more, so quickly."
He watches me across the space between us, his usual mask of control softened by the late hour and the intimate setting. "What specifically frightens you, Holly? Beyond the pace?"
The direct question deserves a direct answer. "That I'll lose myself in you," I say quietly. "That your need to possess will overwhelm my need to exist independently. That one day I'll look in the mirror and not recognize the person looking backbecause she'll just be an extension of Dominic Sterling rather than Holly Parker."
He flinches slightly at my words, genuine pain flashing across his features before he masters it. "Is that truly how you see my feelings for you? As something that would erase rather than elevate you?"
"Not intentionally," I clarify, sensing I've hurt him in a way I didn't intend. "I don't think you want to diminish me, Dominic. I think you want to encompass me. To make me so thoroughly yours that there's no separation between us. And that's beautiful in theory, but terrifying in practice."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying the fire rather than looking at me. "My father," he says after a long pause, "was not a demonstrative man. He built this empire through single-minded focus, unwavering determination, and complete emotional control. He taught me that attachment was weakness, that vulnerability was failure, that anything worth having was worth controlling completely."
The unexpected glimpse into his background catches me off guard. Dominic rarely speaks of his family, his past.
"When my mother left him," he continues, his voice even but with an undercurrent of old pain, "he showed no visible reaction. Simply removed every trace of her from the house and never spoke her name again. I was twelve. I learned then that loving someone means eventually losing them, and that the only defense is complete control—of yourself, of your environment, of the people you allow close to you."
My heart aches at this revelation, this glimpse of the wounded child beneath the controlled man. "Dominic," I say softly, "that's a terrible lesson for a child to learn."
"But an effective one," he counters, finally looking up at me. "It built this empire. It protected me from the kind ofdevastation I saw in my father's eyes just once, when he thought no one was watching."
I rise from my chair without conscious decision, crossing the space between us to kneel beside his chair, taking his hand in mine. The physical contact feels different from our usual charged interactions—comforting rather than possessive, connecting rather than claiming.
"But at what cost?" I ask gently. "A life without real connection? Without the vulnerability that makes love possible?"
His fingers tighten around mine. "Until you, I never questioned the cost," he admits. "It seemed a fair exchange—control for security, isolation for invulnerability."
"And now?"
"Now I find myself terrified of losing you," he says with raw honesty that takes my breath away. "Not just physically, but emotionally. Of driving you away with the very behaviors I thought would keep you close. It's…unfamiliar territory."
I move to sit on the arm of his chair, still holding his hand, our bodies close but not entwined as they usually are. This proximity feels more intimate somehow than our passionate encounters—a chosen closeness rather than an overwhelming need.
"I'm scared too," I confess. "Of how much I want you despite my concerns. Of how easily I surrender to you physically while fighting to maintain my independence emotionally. Of how quickly you've become essential to me."
His free hand rises to cup my cheek, the touch gentle rather than possessing. "Perhaps we're both learning," he suggests, his voice barely above a whisper. "You, how to maintain your identity within intense connection. Me, how to connect without controlling."
For the first time since our conflicts began, hope flickers within me—not the overwhelming certainty of desire, but the quieter optimism of potential understanding. When he draws me gently onto his lap, I go willingly, curling against his chest like a child seeking comfort rather than a lover seeking passion.
His arms wrap around me, secure but not confining. We sit in silence, watching the fire, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. After several minutes, he presses a kiss to the top of my head—a gesture so tender, so unlike our usual heated exchanges, that unexpected tears prick my eyes.
"I don't know if I can be what you need," he murmurs against my hair. "I don't know if I can unlearn the lessons of a lifetime. But Holly—" His arms tighten slightly, a brief increase in pressure that feels like emphasis rather than possession. "I want to try. For you. For us."
I tilt my face up to his, finding his expression more open, more vulnerable than I've ever seen it. When our lips meet, the kiss is gentle, almost chaste compared to our usual passionate exchanges. Yet something in this quieter connection feels more significant, more real than all the heat that came before.
"Saturday," I say when we part, needing to address the immediate issue between us. "I still need to go."
He nods, the movement slight but definitive. "I know. And I'll respect that need, though I won't pretend to like it."
The honest acknowledgment of his feelings without manipulation or demands feels like progress—small but meaningful. "Thank you," I whisper, resting my head against his shoulder again.
