Chapter 4
W hen I woke up the next day, for some reason, I expected Nicholas to be there. When he wasn’t, I didn’t want to get out o bed at all. My bed was too warm, and the space beside me was too cold. I reached out, my fingers brushing against emptiness where Nicholas had been. For a second, my stomach dropped. He was gone.
The night before came back in soft waves—his voice reading to me, low and steady, until my eyelids grew heavy. The way his hand smoothed over my hair. The warmth of him sitting close. I swallowed hard, the ache of missing him settling uncomfortably in my chest.
I stretched, my arm brushing something that crinkled under my palm. Frowning, I turned and spotted it: a folded note resting neatly on his pillow. I sat up, my heart giving an eager little jump as I grabbed it. My fingers were clumsy, suddenly too excited, as I unfolded the paper.
"Good morning, Gemma," it read in clean, elegant handwriting. "I hope you slept well. Meet me at the grotto this evening—I have something special planned. Don’t be there before 8pm. Yours, Nicholas."
Yours.
I read it three times before the words really stuck. The flutter in my chest spread, warming me all over. I pressed the note to my chest and let out a shaky breath. What could he have planned? I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified. Probably both.
T he day dragged like a slow-loading web page.
At the shop, I tried to keep busy, but my head wasn’t in it. I must’ve rearranged the same table of paperbacks four times, shuffling covers around until even I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. Nicholas’s note had been burning a hole in my pocket all day, its edges worn from me pulling it out to reread every ten minutes. The words stayed the same, but they still made my stomach flip every time: "Meet me at the grotto this evening—I have something special planned."
"Special" could mean anything. A gift? Dinner? Something else? My mind kept circling back to his voice, low and warm, the way he’d read to me last night. The way he’d tucked the blanket around me before I fell asleep. It was too much—too good. And now, he wanted more time with me.
"Gemma," Mr. Henson said, snapping me out of it. He stood at the counter holding a paperback copy of A Christmas Carol . His eyebrows lifted over his glasses. "You alright, dear? You’ve stacked that shelf behind you so high, it’s about to topple."
Most days, I worked in the small store alone. Mr. Henson was my boss, but he almost never came in. When he did, it always put me on edge.
"Sorry!" Heat rushed to my cheeks as I hurried over, smoothing the wobbling tower of novels. "Guess I’m just a little distracted today."
"Someone’s in a good mood," he teased, slipping the paperback on top of a pile. He winked, and I felt my face go hotter. "Big plans tonight?"
"Something like that," I mumbled, giving him his receipt. He chuckled as he left, leaving me standing there, face flaming, heart pounding.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was practically vibrating with nerves. I closed shop a few minutes early—not that anyone was going to notice—and bolted upstairs to my tiny apartment. I had time to prepare before heading back to the grotto for 8pm.
"Okay, okay," I muttered, pacing in front of my closet. What does one wear to meet a man who might be . . . well, whatever Nicholas was? I grabbed a soft sweater dress, dark green like a pine tree, and paired it with thick tights and ankle boots. Simple, cozy, but not boring. At least, I hoped not.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair needed work. Grabbing a brush, I ran it through the waves quickly, then pinned a section back with a silver clip shaped like a snowflake. My fingers trembled.
"Calm down," I whispered to myself. Easier said than done.
The mall was quieter than usual when I arrived. Most of the stores had already closed for the day, their displays dimmed and gates pulled halfway down. The only sound was the faint hum of holiday music playing over the speakers, tinny and distant.
My boots clicked softly against the tile as I walked past rows of darkened shops, heading toward the grotto. Usually, this part of the mall was bustling with kids lined up to meet Santa, parents juggling shopping bags and sticky-faced toddlers. Not tonight. The space was empty, quiet in a way that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
When I rounded the corner, my breath hitched.
The grotto looked different. No elves, no fake snow scattered across the floor. Just the entrance, glowing faintly under strings of soft white lights. It felt . . . private. Like it was waiting for me.
I hesitated, swallowing hard. My heart thudded painfully fast.
"Okay," I breathed, stepping forward. The velvet curtain brushed against my fingertips as I reached out to push it aside.
The curtain felt heavier than I expected, its velvet brushing against my arm as I pushed it aside. My breath caught the second I stepped through.
Lanterns hung low from invisible wires, their warm light pooling across the floor in soft circles. Candles flickered on every surface—small ones, tall ones, thick ones melted into uneven shapes that looked like they’d been burning forever. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting and shifting with each flicker of flame. It was nothing like the grotto I'd seen before.
The playful decorations—the oversize candy canes, the plastic snowmen, even the fake reindeer—they were all gone. In their place was something softer, quieter. A hush settled over me, lingering on the air like the scent of pine and cedar. My chest tightened.
"Gemma."
His voice broke the stillness. Warm. Steady. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
I turned. He stood near the center of the space, illuminated by the glow of a lantern hanging just above him. My stomach flipped.
Nicholas wasn't wearing his usual festive sweater or anything remotely casual. Instead, he was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, the deep green vest underneath catching the light just enough to give away its richness. A silver pocket watch glinted from his vest, an elegant chain looping across the fabric.
Even in this striking outfit, he still looked festive. Just . . . super sexy, too.
"Hi," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. My cheeks felt hot, and I fought the urge to tuck my hair behind my ear.
"You're here," he said, taking a step toward me. His smile widened, and his eyes—green, piercing, impossibly kind—held mine like they weren’t letting go anytime soon.
"Yeah," I breathed, trying not to fidget under his gaze. "I got your note."
"Good." He stopped a few feet away, his hands sliding casually into his pockets. "I'm glad you came."
The heat in my cheeks spread down my neck. I forced myself to look around, gesturing vaguely at the transformed space. "This is . . . different."
"Do you like it?"
"Like it?" I let out a soft laugh, nervously smoothing my dress. "It’s beautiful. What’s all this for?"
"Just thought we could use a little privacy tonight," he said, his tone easy but deliberate. His eyes sparkled, though his expression stayed calm, measured. "You deserve something special."
Special. The word clung to me, warm and heavy. Something about the way he said it made my pulse quicken.
I stood there for a beat too long, my fingers tangling in the hem of my dress. The scent of pine and something faintly spicy—him—wrapped around me. He was close enough now that I could see the fine stitching on his vest, the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline.
"Walk with me," he said, his voice low but steady.
"Okay." My throat felt dry as I followed him further into the grotto. The lanterns cast warm pools of light on the stone floor, their flickering making the shadows dance like they were alive. My heels clicked softly, the sound swallowed up by the space. As we walked, I couldn’t stop glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He moved with an easy confidence, shoulders relaxed, hands still tucked casually in his pockets. Like he wasn’t about to say something that would turn my world upside down.
He stopped near a cluster of candles set atop a low table. Turning to face me, he tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was trying to figure out where to start. "There are things I'd like to discuss with you."
"Things?" I repeated, though it came out more like a squeak. My gaze darted to the candles, then back to his face. His expression gave nothing away, but there was a weight to his words that made my stomach twist. "Is everything okay?"
"Better than okay," he said, smiling gently. Then his smile softened further, and so did his eyes. "I wanted to talk about last night—about you being a Little."
The air seemed to shift between us, heavy and electric all at once. My heart thudded hard against my ribs. "Oh." It barely came out louder than a whisper. I dropped my gaze to the floor, heat crawling up my neck and spreading across my cheeks. "I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable."
He stepped closer, closing the small distance between us. His hand lifted, fingertips brushing under my chin. Gently, he tilted my face up until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Not at all," he said. He stepped closer, closing the small distance between us. His hand lifted, fingertips brushing under my chin. Gently, he tilted my face up until I had no choice but to meet his eyes. His touch was warm, steady, grounding. "In fact, I had a feeling."
"A feeling?" My voice wavered, and I searched his face for any hint of judgment or hesitation. There was none. Just kindness. And something else—something deeper—that made my pulse race.
"There's a certain innocence and wonder about you that's truly special." His words settled over me like a blanket, soft and impossibly warm. His green eyes held mine, unwavering, as his thumb brushed over my cheek. "I want you to feel safe exploring that side of yourself with me."
Safe. That word hit something deep inside me, something raw and aching. I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my chest. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me—it wasn’t just comforting. It made me feel seen. Like he understood parts of myself I hadn’t even figured out yet.
"You . . . you do?" I heard myself stammer, my voice trembling like the rest of me. My hands were balled into fists at my sides, half to keep them from shaking and half because I didn’t know what else to do with them.
He nodded, his expression softening just a touch. "I'm a Daddy Dom," he said, his voice low but firm. Like it wasn’t just a confession—it was a declaration. "I would take great pleasure in caring for and guiding someone special to me. Someone like you."
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning. For a moment, I could only blink at him, trying to process what he’d just said. A thrill shot through me, sharp and unfamiliar, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Calm. Sure. Like this was normal. Like I was normal.
"Someone like me," I repeated, barely above a whisper. My pulse drummed against my ribs. "I’ve never . . ." My throat felt tight. I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I mean, I’ve thought about it. A lot. But I’ve never had anyone to share this with before."
He smiled then, small but real, and something in me unclenched. "That’s okay," he said gently. "We can take things at your pace. But I’d like to try something, if you’re willing. A way for us to establish trust and understanding."
"Okay," I said quickly, maybe too quickly. My heart was racing now, pounding loud enough that I wondered if he could hear it. I bit my lip, trying to slow myself down. "What did you have in mind?"
Nicholas shifted slightly, gesturing toward a small table tucked off to the side. I hadn’t noticed it before—too caught up in the way he looked at me, the electricity humming between us—but now it was impossible to miss. On the table sat a single piece of paper, folded neatly beside an elegant silver pen. The kind of pen that made you feel like whatever you wrote with it would matter.
"A contract," he explained, his tone even. Matter-of-fact. "Nothing complicated—just an agreement between us outlining boundaries and expectations."
A contract. My stomach flipped, a mix of nerves and curiosity tangling together. I glanced at the table, then back at him. His expression hadn’t changed—still calm, still warm—but there was something else now. Anticipation. Maybe even hope.
"Boundaries and expectations," I echoed, tasting the words. They felt strange but not unpleasant. Like trying on a new sweater that fit better than you expected.
"Exactly," he said. "This is about building trust, Gemma. Making sure we’re both on the same page about what we want—and what we don’t want." His eyes searched mine, waiting. Patient. Always patient.
I hesitated, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip again. The idea of a contract felt . . . big. Official. But it also felt safe. Secure. Like I wouldn’t have to guess or worry or overthink. Like I could actually let go, just a little.
"Okay," I said finally, my voice steadier now. "Show me."
He passed me the paper, my fingers brushing over its smooth surface. The weight of it surprised me—heavier than I expected, solid somehow, like it carried more than just words. My eyes skimmed the first line, then slowed as the details began to sink in.
"Communication," it read at the top, bold and clear. Below that, a list—simple but precise. Listening, honesty, asking questions. It was all laid out, straightforward and unassuming, yet it made my chest tighten in the best way. Like someone had finally seen what I needed before I even knew how to ask for it.
"Wow," I said softly, the word slipping out before I could stop it. "This is . . . really thorough."
"Thorough’s important," Nicholas said, his voice warm but steady. "I want you to feel safe, Gemma. To know that your well-being comes first. Always."
I turned halfway to look at him, my hand still resting on the paper. His expression was calm, open, but there was something else there too. A quiet intensity. Like he meant every syllable of what he’d just said. And maybe more.
"Well, you’ve definitely covered everything," I said, trying for lightness but unable to keep the edge of awe out of my voice. My gaze dropped back to the contract, scanning further. Consent. Limits. Respect. Each section was written with such care—clear but not clinical, firm but never cold.
"Is this . . ." I hesitated, my throat suddenly dry. "Is this normal? I mean, do people usually put all this in writing?"
"Not everyone," he admitted. He leaned a little closer, his voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "But I find it helps. No guessing games. No misunderstandings. Just us, working together to make something good."
"Something good," I echoed under my breath. The words wrapped around me, warm and steady, and for a moment, I let myself believe them.
"Shall we go over it together?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Okay," he said, gesturing to the first section with a slight tilt of his head. "Let’s start here. Communication. What does that mean to you?"
"Um . . ." I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek. "I guess . . . being honest? Saying what I’m feeling, even if it’s hard?"
"Good." He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And if I ask you something directly, would you be comfortable answering honestly? Even if you're nervous?"
"That depends," I said, surprising myself by teasing. "Are you planning on asking anything scary?"
"Only if 'favorite Christmas cookie' counts as scary," he shot back, his green eyes gleaming.
We both laughed—a quick burst of shared relief that broke through the heaviness of the moment. But then he tapped the paper gently, drawing us back.
"Seriously," he said, his tone easy but firm. "If something’s ever too much, I need you to tell me. Promise?"
"Promise," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. Something about the way he looked at me—steady, unshaken—made it easier to say the word. Easier to believe it.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost absently, and my stomach flipped. Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.
"Next up," he said smoothly, moving on like nothing had happened. "Consent. This one’s non-negotiable. You set the pace, always. If there’s anything you’re not comfortable with, anything at all, we stop. Understood?"
"Understood," I echoed, nodding quickly. My heart was racing now, though I couldn’t say if it was from nerves or... something else.
"Limits," he continued, pointing to the next section. "This is where we get specific. Hard nos, soft nos, things you’re curious about but not sure yet. We’ll adjust as we go, but I need you to be honest with yourself—and with me."
"Okay," I said, my voice quieter this time. The idea of laying it all out like that felt daunting, but also... freeing. Like I wouldn’t have to keep everything bottled up anymore.
"Take your time with that part," he said gently, sensing my hesitation. "We don’t have to figure it all out tonight."
"Thanks," I said, glancing up at him. "For . . . this. For making it so clear. I’ve always wanted . . ." I faltered, unsure how to finish the sentence.
"Someone who understands?" he offered, his voice soft but certain.
"Yeah," I whispered, my throat tightening. "Exactly."
"Then we’re off to a good start," he said, smiling down at me. His hand brushed mine lightly, just for a second, but it was enough to send another shiver through me.
"Ready to keep going?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said again, my voice steadier now. "Let’s do this."
"There's one more thing," Nicholas said, his voice low and steady.
I swallowed hard. "Okay," I said, unsure if my heart was racing from curiosity or nerves.
"I’d like to introduce discipline," he continued, his green eyes locking onto mine, "as a way to help you overcome some of the negative feelings you have about yourself. And about Christmas." His words were calm, measured, but they hit me like a soft, unexpected gust of wind. My cheeks burned instantly.
"Discipline?" I repeated, the word foreign and strange in my mouth. It felt heavy, but not unwelcome. I shifted where I stood, suddenly hyper aware of how close he was.
"Yes." He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. "When you speak poorly of yourself or engage in self-destructive thoughts, I’d like to address it constructively. To help guide you away from that pattern. That is, if you're open to it."
I blinked, trying to process. The idea made something twist deep inside me—half fear, half . . . hope? No one had ever cared enough to notice those moments before, let alone wanted to step in. "You mean like . . . consequences?" I asked hesitantly, biting my lip.
"Exactly," he said. "But always with purpose and care. Never without your consent." His tone softened even further, his gaze steady but full of something tender. "This isn't about punishment for punishment's sake, Gemma. This is about helping you let go of things that weigh you down. Things you don’t deserve to carry."
The careful way he framed it made me pause. My first instinct was to brush it off, laugh nervously, change the subject. But I didn’t. Instead, I looked at him, really looked, and saw nothing but sincerity. He meant it. All of it.
"How would it work?" I asked, my voice quieter now.
"That depends on you," he said simply. "It could be as small as a firm reminder not to spiral, or something more structured if that’s what you need." His head tilted, studying me. "What matters most is that it’s constructive. And it’s something we agree on together."
I considered his words carefully. The truth was, I could already hear the sharp, critical voice in my head protesting: You’re too much. This is ridiculous. But then there was another voice, softer, less familiar, whispering: Maybe this could actually help.
"I think . . ." I started, then stopped, taking a deep breath. His patience didn’t waver, giving me space to find the words. "I think I’d like that," I finished softly, the admission making my chest feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.
"Good," Nicholas said, his smile small but genuine. The warmth of it settled something inside me. "And remember," he said firmly, his eyes holding mine with quiet intensity, "this is all with your consent. At any point, if you're uncomfortable, you can tell me. We’ll stop, no questions asked."
"Understood," I said, nodding quickly. The weight in his gaze steadied me, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. There was something comforting about how certain he was, like he’d thought this through a hundred times before bringing it up.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost absently, and the praise hit me like a jolt of electricity. My face went hot again, and I ducked my head, trying to hide the way my lips twitched into a shy smile.
"So I know what will happen if I’m bad. But what about if I’m good?" I asked, barely meaning to say it out loud. The words slipped past my lips before I could think better of it.
Nicholas chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, like velvet. "Then you’ll be rewarded," he said, his tone lighter now, teasing. "Perhaps with treats, or experiences that bring you joy. Something special, just for you."
"Like cookies?" I joked, though my voice betrayed the nervous flutter in my chest.
"Sure," he said, his smile widening as he leaned in just a fraction. "Cookies. Or maybe something even sweeter."
The playful glint in his eye made my pulse jump. My breath caught for half a second before I managed to look away, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. This man was going to unravel me, piece by careful piece, and I wasn’t sure if I was terrified or thrilled.
"Is there anything else I should know?" I asked, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady.
"Plenty," he said with a hint of mischief. "But we’ll take it one step at a time. No rush, Gemma. We’ve got all the time we need."
Nicholas slid the contract toward me, his silver pen balanced delicately between two fingers. My hand hovered, just for a second, before I grabbed the pen. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have—like it carried more than ink. With a deep breath, I signed my name in careful strokes.
"Done." My voice came out quieter than I expected. I set the pen down, my fingers brushing against his as he picked up the paper.
"Good," he said, folding it neatly and placing it to the side like it was something precious. He turned back to me, his green eyes locking onto mine. "I'm excited to see where this goes."
"Me too," I admitted, and I meant it. Even though my heart was racing, even though part of me still wondered what I'd gotten myself into, there was a spark of something else—a strange kind of hope. "I really am."
"Gemma." His tone softened, like he was letting my name settle between us. Then he reached for my hands, his larger ones engulfing mine. Warm palms, steady grip—strong but not overpowering. My throat tightened at the way he looked at me, like I was something fragile and important all at once.
"Thank you for trusting me," he said, his voice low and warm. His lips brushed the backs of my hands, the faintest touch, and my pulse jumped.
"Of course." I tried to sound confident, but it barely came out above a whisper.
The air felt thicker suddenly, like the space between us wasn’t enough. His hands lingered on mine for a moment longer before pulling away, leaving a strange ache in their absence.
“Now, are you ready to begin?”