Page 49 of His for Christmas
For most of my life, I've equated love with possession—with controlling, protecting, encompassing what I value. But watching Holly now, seeing how she flourishes in freedom, I'm beginning to understand that true love might be something else entirely. Something that nurtures rather than confines. Something that celebrates independence rather than demanding submission.
I'm not certain I know how to love that way. Not certain I can unlearn the lessons ingrained since childhood. But for Holly—for the chance to keep her in my life—I'm willing to try.
On Christmas Eve, I'll discover whether that willingness is enough.
The Christmas Eve surprise needs a prelude—something to signal my intentions without revealing the full extent of my plans. Holly has been busy with the staff Christmas party preparations today, moving through the mansion with focused efficiency, rarely crossing paths with me except for brief professional updates. This distance feels deliberate on both our parts—she maintaining the independence she values, merestraining the possessiveness that concerns her. But tonight, I want to begin bridging that distance, to signal both my respect for her autonomy and my undiminished desire for her.
A note. Something handwritten rather than texted—more personal, more deliberate. I sit at my desk, fountain pen poised over heavy cream stationery embossed with my initials. The last time I handwrote anything other than a signature was years ago, yet this feels necessary, appropriate for what I'm trying to convey.
Words have never been difficult for me. I dictate contracts, acquisition offers, corporate communications with precision and impact daily. Yet this small note presents an unusual challenge: how to be playful without seeming trivial, dominant without being possessive, romantic without veering into sentimentality I'd find foreign and Holly would find suspicious.
I begin writing, my penmanship more elegant than might be expected from someone who rarely puts pen to paper:
*Holly,*
*Your absence from my bed last night was noted and not appreciated. Consider this your formal notification that such dereliction will not be tolerated two nights in succession.*
*However, I am prepared to be merciful if you present yourself to my suite at precisely 10 PM tonight. Wear the emerald earrings. Nothing else is required—or perhaps nothing else is permitted. I'll leave that for you to interpret as you see fit.*
*Anticipating your compliance (or perhaps hoping for your defiance),*
*Dominic*
I read over the words, considering their effect. The dominant tone remains—that's essential to who I am, and pretending otherwise would ring false to both of us. But there's a playfulness in the formal language that signals this is invitation rather thancommand, a game rather than a demand. The suggestion about attire is deliberately provocative, designed to bring color to her cheeks when she reads it. And the final line acknowledges her independence—her right to comply or defy as she chooses—while making it clear that either choice holds appeal for me.
It's a delicate balance, but one that I hope signals my understanding of our recent conversations while maintaining the intensity that drew us together initially.
I fold the note and seal it in an envelope marked simply with her name. Rather than having it delivered by staff, which would feel too formal and potentially embarrassing for Holly, I decide on a more personal approach. The staff Christmas party is underway in the main ballroom—a catered affair with an open bar and live music that will continue well into the evening. Holly has been moving between the party and her final decoration adjustments, ensuring everything meets her exacting standards.
I find her in a quiet hallway adjacent to the ballroom, consulting her tablet as she makes notes on something. She's wearing a simple red dress that complements her coloring perfectly, her hair loose around her shoulders rather than in the professional updo she typically adopts for workdays. The sight of her—focused, beautiful, entirely herself—sends the familiar surge of desire through me, tempered now by new awareness of the responsibility that accompanies such powerful feelings.
She looks up as I approach, surprise and something warmer flickering across her features before her professional mask slips into place. "Dominic. I thought you were avoiding the staff party."
"I am," I confirm, stopping before her. "But I wanted to give you this."
I extend the envelope, watching her expression shift from professional politeness to curiosity. She takes it, her fingersbrushing mine in a contact that still sends electricity through me despite its brevity.
"What's this?" she asks, turning the envelope over in her hands.
"Open it and find out," I suggest, allowing a hint of command to enter my tone—not controlling, but confident. "Though perhaps not here in the hallway."
Her eyebrow raises slightly at this suggestion, but curiosity clearly wins over caution. She slips the envelope into her small evening bag. "I'll read it later, when I'm finished overseeing the party."
"Of course," I agree smoothly. "Your professional responsibilities must come first."
She studies my face, clearly trying to decipher my unusually accommodating response. "You're being very…understanding lately."
"Am I?" I allow a small smile. "Perhaps I'm simply evolving my approach."
"To what?" she asks, wariness and interest mingling in her expression.
"To us," I reply simply. "To what exists between us beyond the physical, beyond the professional."
A flush spreads across her cheeks, that tell-tale sign of emotional impact she can never quite control. "I should get back to the party," she says, though she makes no move to leave.
"You should," I agree, stepping closer, into her personal space but not touching her. "But I hope you'll find time to read my note. And consider its contents carefully."
Her breath catches slightly at my proximity, her pupils dilating in that instinctive response I've come to anticipate and enjoy. "I will."
