Chapter 6
We spend the afternoon playing in the park like children.
Justin shows me how to work the carousel, and we ride it together, the music echoing through the empty park. I pick the most ornate horse, my favorite one. He’s white with gold trim, and Justin stands beside me, one hand on the pole, watching me laugh as we spin.
"You're good at this," I say when the ride stops.
"At what?"
"Playing."
"Only with you. Before this weekend? I couldn’t tell you the last time I played."
We move to the ornament decorating building next. The workshop is where guests pay a small fee, pick out blank ornaments and paint the wooden shapes to take home with them. Cheap souvenirs. It’s a popular choice for parents when the weather gets cold or wet.
“This workshop was my grandmother’s idea,” Justin tells me.
“There’s still a box of our yearly ornaments that we created in the attic.
My mom kept the ornaments from next door.
My grandparents? They treasured these.” Next door is the fancy ornament shop with rows and rows of porcelain choices.
Staff carefully write the name of each family member and the year on the purchased treasures.
“I like this workshop better. It’s more fun to decorate your own.” I gather unpainted reindeer and a couple of stars and set them on the counter with supplies, including a lot of glitter.
"We're making ornaments?" Justin asks.
"We're making memories,” I correct and hand him a paintbrush. "Don't think. Just create."
He stares at the brush like it might bite him.
"You're so tense," I observe, dipping my own brush in red paint. "It's just paint. It can't hurt you."
"I'm not artistic."
"You're just scared of being bad at something."
He looks up sharply. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I grin, fearless now in ways I wasn't three days ago. "You hate not being perfect, so you avoid anything where you might fail."
"That's—" He stops. "Accurate."
"I know. I'm getting good at reading you." I start painting my reindeer nose red. "So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to paint something, and it's going to be terrible, and I'm going to love it anyway."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works, Justin. You don't get points for perfection. You get points for trying. For showing up. For participating. For being present with me in the moment. Who knows, you might even like it."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he picks up the brush and dips it in gold paint. “You know, I’m supposed to be the bossy one, not you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sometimes, it’s the submissive who bosses around the Dominant. I believe it’s called topping from the bottom.”
He taps the tip of my nose and leans in close.
“Little girl, you will only top from the bottom when I allow it.” His tone of voice sends chills up my spine.
“But, if painting this ornament with you will make you happy, I’ll do it.
” He moves the brush with gold paint across the ornament.
His star is careful, precise, each point evenly coated.
I wish he’d have some fun with it. But, for now, I’ll take a gold star, anyway I can get one.
"See?" I say. "It’s not so hard."
"Um, this is,” he holds up the star for me to see, “mediocre, at best."
"It's yours. That makes it perfect."
When we finish, I string both ornaments on ribbons and hang them on a small tree in the corner. Our ornaments side by side paint quite the picture. My messy, enthusiastic reindeer next to his methodical star.
"We should name them," I say.
"Sweetheart, ornaments don't have names."
"Ours do." I point to the reindeer. "This is Chaos."
"Of course it is." He shakes his head.
"And yours is Order."
His mouth twitches. "Subtle."
"I thought so." I step closer, wrap my arms around his waist. "Thank you for doing this."
"Painting ornaments?"
"Being present. Being here with me, not just physically but actually... here."
He kisses my forehead. "Where else would I be?"
"In your head. Worrying about the roads or the park or the hundred other things you usually manage."
"I'm learning to let them wait."
"Good." I rise on my toes, kiss him properly. "Because I like having your full attention."
"You have more than that." His hands settle on my hips, grounding and possessive. "You have all of me, Holly."
By late afternoon, we've explored the entire park.
The petting zoo where we call each reindeer by name and feed them all treats by hand.
The gingerbread house making cabin, where we find a tub of frosting and eat it straight from the container.
He methodically builds the house, and I decorate it with icing and candy.
The photo booth where I make him take ridiculous pictures with me wearing Santa hats and fake beards and holding props that make us both laugh.
When we return to the lodge, I'm exhausted in the best way. My cheeks are flushed from cold, legs tired from walking, heart full of something I'm afraid to name yet.
Justin builds up the fire while I collapse on the couch.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Good tired."
"There's a difference?"
"Huge difference. Good tired means you actually lived instead of just existing. Good tired means you enjoyed your day and bad tired means the day was long and exhausting."
He settles beside me, pulls my feet into his lap, starts unlacing my boots. The gesture is casual, intimate, like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
"You don't have to—" I start, but he quickly interrupts me.
"I know, I don’t have to." He doesn't stop. "But I want to take care of you."
I watch him work, amazed at his gentleness. The way he eased off my boots and then my socks. When my feet are bare, he starts massaging them. I moan from the firm pressure against my arches that ache from hours of walking.
His eyes darken. "Feel good?"
"So good."
"Then relax. Let me do this."
“Isn’t that backwards? Shouldn’t I be the one serving you? Isn’t that what submissives do? Serve their Daddies?”
“No. Your job is to listen to me. To obey me when I give you a direct command, and to let me take care of you. Now, I was pretty clear in my instruction. Listen to Daddy and relax.”
I do, sinking into the couch, letting him work the tension from my feet, my ankles, my calves. It's not sexual, although I can’t deny the tension between us, the massage is pure care and thoughtful attention. The kind that says I see you're tired and I'm going to fix it.
"This is what you meant, isn't it?" I murmur. "About the dynamic."
"What about it?"
"This. You taking care of me because you want to, not because I asked.
Anticipating what I need."
"Yes." His hands move higher, kneading the tight muscles in my calves. "That's exactly what I meant."
"It feels..." I search for the word. "Safe." We’ve spoken about safety a few times now but there just isn’t another word in my vocab that comes to mind to better describe how I’m feeling in this moment. Safe. Secure. Wanted.
"It should. That's the foundation I hope to build between us. You knowing you're safe with me. Always."
"Even when you're strict? Even when you are disciplining me?"
"Especially then." He looks up, meeting my eyes.
"The rules aren't punishment, Holly. They're protection.
They're me making sure you don't burn yourself out trying to be everything for everyone.
Think of them as a safety net on a trampoline.
You are free inside to jump, bounce and tumble around but the rules keep you from falling off and hitting the ground. "
"I'm not used to this."
"I know. That's why I'm teaching you."
The confidence in his voice sends shivers through me. It’s not arrogance. It’s not cocky. It’s the tone that comes from a man who knows exactly what he's capable of.
I pull my feet back, shift until I'm straddling his lap. His hands immediately settle on my waist, steady and sure.
"What if I don't want to relax right now?" I ask.
"Then tell me what you do want."
"You."
His grip tightens fractionally. "You have me."
"I want more."
"More how?"
I roll my hips experimentally, watching his jaw clench as he hardens underneath me. "More touching. More—"
"Holly." My name is a warning. "Be specific. I need words."
"I want..." I falter, heat flooding my cheeks. Even after last night, asking feels impossible.
"What did I tell you about hiding?" His voice is firm but gentle. "Tell me what you want, baby."
The endearment breaks something loose. "I want you to touch me. Everywhere. I want to feel what it's like when you stop holding back."
His eyes search mine. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"Safe word?"
"Mistletoe."
"Good girl." He stands, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. "Then let's move this somewhere more comfortable."
He carries me to the bedroom, sets me on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the heat in his eyes. The room is warm, lit by the last rays of sunlight through the window.
"Ground rules," he says, standing over me. "You tell me if something doesn't feel good. You use your words. And you trust me to know what you need even when you don't."
I nod, mouth dry.
"Say it."
"I trust you."
"Good." He sits beside me, cups my face. "I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you gasp. And you're going to let me, because this—" He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. "—is what you asked for."
"Yes."
He kisses me slow and deep, one hand fisting in my hair with just enough pressure to make me melt. His other hand maps my body over my clothes. He trails his large hands across my ribs, down my waist, and over to my hips, like he's memorizing the geography of me.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Tell me what you liked last night," he says. "What made you feel good."
My face flames. "Um. All of it?"
"Specific, Holly."
I squirm. "When you... when you held my wrists. Above my head."
"You liked feeling restrained?"