Chapter 12 Kyra #2
"She discovered certain aspects of my business dealings that made her... uncomfortable." He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. "She gave me an ultimatum—change who I was or lose her. It wasn't a difficult choice."
The implication is clear. Victor Strickland doesn't compromise, doesn't change to accommodate others. He is who he is, unapologetically. It's both a warning and a promise.
We finish our meal in comfortable silence, and I'm struck by how natural this feels—sharing a quiet lunch with Victor after the intimacy we've shared. No awkwardness, no regrets, just a new understanding between us.
After clearing our plates, Victor turns to me with an expression I can't quite read. "Now for your surprise," he says. "Get your coat."
"Where are we going?" I ask, following him to the front closet.
"Not far," he assures me, helping me into a down jacket I don't recognize—another new addition to my wardrobe, apparently. He pulls on his own coat, then takes my hand, leading me outside to where his Range Rover waits.
The afternoon is crisp and clear, the storm of yesterday replaced by brilliant sunshine that makes the snow-covered landscape sparkle like diamonds. Victor opens the passenger door for me, his hand lingering on my lower back as I climb in.
We drive for perhaps fifteen minutes, winding deeper into the mountains until we reach what appears to be a private tree farm. Rows of perfectly shaped pines stretch across a snow-covered hillside, their green branches heavy with fresh powder.
"Christmas trees?" I ask, understanding dawning.
"Every Christmas requires the perfect tree," Victor confirms, parking near a small wooden cabin that serves as the farm's office. "I thought you might enjoy selecting one together."
The gesture is unexpectedly touching—almost normal compared to the intensity of the past twenty-four hours. Christmas tree shopping. Like regular couples do.
Except we're not regular, and we're certainly not a couple in any conventional sense. We're... something else entirely. Something I don't have a name for yet.
Victor speaks briefly with the owner inside the cabin, and then we're left alone to wander among the trees. He's meticulous in his assessment—height, fullness, symmetry, needle retention—discussing each specimen as if we're selecting a piece of fine art rather than a temporary decoration.
"You take Christmas trees very seriously," I observe, amused by his intensity.
"I take everything seriously," he corrects, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk. "Especially traditions. They create structure, continuity, a sense of permanence in an impermanent world."
I consider this, remembering my own family traditions before my parents died.
The simple rituals that had made each Christmas special despite our limited finances.
Mom's homemade ornaments, Dad's insistence on reading "The Night Before Christmas" every Christmas Eve, the single expensive gift they saved all year to provide.
After their deaths, Christmas had become just another day to get through. Until Aaron. His family's lavish celebrations had been overwhelming at first—too much food, too many gifts, too much everything. But I'd gradually come to enjoy them, to feel part of something again.
"What are your Christmas traditions?" Victor asks, as if reading my thoughts.
"I don't really have any anymore," I admit. "Not since my parents died."
Something softens in his expression. "Then perhaps it's time to create new ones."
New traditions. New life. New relationship. All implied in those few words.
Eventually, Victor stops before a magnificent Fraser fir, at least eight feet tall and perfectly proportioned. "This one," he decides, circling it with a critical eye. "Excellent needle retention, perfect symmetry, and the scent is exceptional." He turns to me. "What do you think?"
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. The tree is indeed perfect—like something from a magazine spread.
"Then it's ours." He pulls out his phone, sending a quick text. Within minutes, two workers appear to mark the tree for delivery. Victor watches them work with the calm satisfaction of a man accustomed to having his instructions carried out promptly and without question.
On the drive back to the cabin, I find myself studying Victor's profile. The strong line of his jaw, the silver at his temples, the confidence with which he navigates the winding mountain roads. What kind of man inspires such respect—or fear—in everyone he encounters?
And what kind of woman am I, to find that possession so thrilling?
By the time we return, the tree has already been delivered and set up in the great room, positioned perfectly before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the valley. Victor tips the delivery men generously before dismissing them with a nod, leaving us alone once more.
"Now comes the enjoyable part," he says, removing his coat and helping me out of mine. "Decorations. They're in the storage room off the kitchen."
I follow him, curious about what kind of Christmas decorations would meet Victor Strickland's exacting standards.
The storage room reveals multiple boxes of ornaments—not the plastic commercial variety, but hand-blown glass, delicate and clearly expensive.
There are also lights, garlands, and what appears to be an antique star for the top of the tree.
"These are beautiful," I say, carefully examining a glass ornament that catches the light like a prism. "Have you had them long?"
"Some were my grandmother's," Victor admits, an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. "Others I've collected over the years. Christmas was... important to her. She ensured it remained important to me."
It's the first genuine glimpse he's offered into his past, into the forces that shaped him beyond business success and power. I want to ask more, to understand the boy who became this complex, dangerous man, but his expression warns against further questions.
"She had excellent taste," I say instead.
"She did," he agrees, something like approval warming his gaze. "Help me carry these to the great room?"
We spend the next two hours decorating the tree, and I discover yet another side of Victor.
He's still methodical, still attentive to detail, but there's an almost playful quality to him now.
He shares stories about certain ornaments—where he found them, why he selected them.
He allows me input on placement, though I notice he subtly adjusts anything that disrupts his vision of perfect symmetry.
"Final touch," he says eventually, holding up the antique star. "Would you like to do the honors?"
"I can't reach the top," I point out.
Without warning, his hands circle my waist and he lifts me easily, holding me steady as I carefully place the star atop the tree. When he lowers me, he doesn't immediately let go, his hands lingering at my waist as I turn in his arms to face him.
"Perfect," he murmurs, though he's looking at me, not the tree. His eyes darken with that now-familiar heat, his intention clear even before he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is different from earlier—less desperate, more controlled, but no less intense. His hands slide lower, cupping my ass and pulling me against him so I can feel his growing arousal through our jeans.
"I think," he says between kisses, "we've earned a reward for our hard work."
"What kind of reward?" I ask, already knowing the answer as his hands slip beneath my sweater, finding bare skin.
"The kind that will make you call me Daddy again," he promises, his voice dark with intent. "The kind that will make you forget there was ever anyone before me."
He lifts me again, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch positioned perfectly for viewing both the tree and the fireplace. The symbolism isn't lost on me—our private Christmas, our twisted version of domestic bliss.
"I want you here," he says, laying me down on the soft leather. "With the tree lights reflecting on your skin while I make you come apart."
The image is so vividly erotic that I feel myself grow wet just from his words. How does he do this to me? How does he reduce me—brilliant researcher, dedicated scientist—to a creature of pure sensation with just his voice?
His hands make quick work of my jeans, sliding them down my legs along with the black lace underwear he'd provided. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but Victor's gaze—hungry, possessive, appreciative—makes me burn.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, positioning himself between my legs, still fully clothed while I'm exposed from the waist down. The power dynamic isn't subtle, but that only makes it more arousing. "So perfect for me."
When his mouth finds me, I arch off the couch with a cry that echoes through the cabin. He holds my hips firmly, controlling my movements as his tongue works its magic, bringing me to the edge of climax before pulling back, denying me release.
"Please, Daddy," I gasp, the forbidden word now coming easier, "please let me come."
His growl of approval vibrates against me as he resumes his attentions with renewed intensity. This time he doesn't stop, doesn't tease, just drives me relentlessly toward climax until I'm shattering beneath him.
As I slowly come back to myself, I feel his weight shift as he moves up my body.
I expect him to take more, to claim me completely, but instead, he gathers me against him, arranging us so I'm half-draped across his chest. I can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against my hip, but he makes no move to seek his own release.
"Victor?" I question, my voice still breathless.
"Not yet," he murmurs, stroking my hair with surprising tenderness. "Not like this."
I prop myself up to look at him, confused. "But don't you want...?"
His smile is hungry, confident. "Oh, I want very much, beautiful girl.
But anticipation is its own form of pleasure.
" His fingers trace my jawline, making me shiver.
"When I finally take you completely, it will be when you're desperate for it.
When you're begging me for it. When you can't imagine going another minute without me inside you. "
The promise in his words sends heat flooding through me again. This is a game to him—a careful calibration of desire and denial, building my need until I'm completely at his mercy.
"And what about you?" I ask, my hand boldly sliding down to brush against the impressive outline visible through his jeans. "Don't you need release?"
His hand captures mine, bringing it to his lips. "My self-control is considerably more developed than yours," he says, the words both praise and challenge. "I've waited three years for you, Kyra. I can wait a little longer to have you completely."
We lie in comfortable silence, watching as dusk gathers outside, the tree lights growing brighter as natural light fades. Victor seems content to hold me, to share this moment of peaceful aftermath without demands or expectations.
Eventually, he shifts, carefully withdrawing from my body. Instead of moving away, he rearranges us so I'm lying on his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin, both of us facing the Christmas tree with its twinkling lights. His arms encircle me protectively, one hand absently stroking my hair.
"Perfect," he says again, and I'm not sure if he means the tree, the moment, or me.
Perhaps all three.
We lie side by side in comfortable silence, watching as dusk gathers outside, the tree lights growing brighter as natural light fades. Victor seems content to simply be with me, to share this moment of peaceful aftermath without demands or expectations.
"Thank you," I say eventually.
"For what?" he asks, his voice low and intimate in the growing darkness.
"For the tree. For today. For..." I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate exactly what I mean.
"For seeing you," he finishes for me. "For recognizing what you need. For not being afraid to give it to you."
Yes, that's it exactly. For seeing beyond the surface, beyond the brilliant student, the ambitious researcher, to the woman beneath who craves connection, who needs to be valued for more than just her mind.
"What happens next?" I ask, voicing the question that's been lingering since our first kiss.
Victor turns to face me, his expression thoughtful in the colored glow of the tree lights.
"Whatever we want to happen," he says, though I sense there's more structure to his plans than he's admitting.
"We have the cabin to ourselves, no interruptions, no outside world.
Just us and whatever we choose to create here. "
The freedom he describes is illusory, I know.
The isolation that seemed romantic yesterday now carries a different weight.
We're miles from civilization, cut off from communication, dependent on Victor's vehicle for transportation.
I've willingly entered a gilded cage, albeit one lined with cashmere and stocked with research materials.
But as he gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, as the Christmas lights twinkle like stars against the gathering darkness, I can't bring myself to care. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, I feel completely seen. Completely accepted. Completely desired.
Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences, I want more of this feeling. More of Victor. More of the forbidden pleasure only he seems able to provide.
"So tell me, beautiful girl," he murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin, "what would you like for Christmas?"
"Just this," I answer honestly. "Just you."
His satisfied smile is visible even in the dim light. "You'll have much more than that, I promise. But for now, this is enough."
Outside, snow begins to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the windows like confetti celebrating our twisted union.
Inside, I watch the Christmas lights reflect in the glass and wonder what I've truly gotten myself into—and why, despite every warning my rational mind is screaming, I have no desire to escape.