Chapter 2 #2
She moves to the grand piano in the corner, running her fingers lightly across its polished surface.
The touch is gentle, almost affectionate.
I wonder if she plays or simply appreciates the craftsmanship.
Her fingers linger on the keys without pressing them, and I'm struck again by the delicacy of her hands—strong enough to work with tools and materials all day, yet feminine with short, unpolished nails and a single silver ring on her right hand.
Two of my household staff enter with a stepladder she must have requested.
"Where would you like this, Ms. Parker?" asks James, my groundskeeper's son who helps with interior maintenance during winter months.
"By the east windows, please," she answers with a warm smile. "And please, call me Holly."
James returns her smile with too much enthusiasm for my liking, taking an extra moment to adjust the ladder position. "Will you need any help reaching the higher areas? I'm happy to assist."
"That's kind of you," Holly says, oblivious to the appreciation in the young man's eyes. "I might take you up on that when the actual installation begins."
I feel my jaw tighten. James is twenty-three, attractive enough in a boyish way that would appeal to many women. I make a mental note to reassign him to the exterior decorations, far from Holly's daily work.
The other staff member, an older woman named Elena who oversees the housekeeping team, asks about the cleaning schedule around the decorations.
"I design everything with maintenance in mind," Holly assures her. "No loose glitter, no delicate pieces at risk of breaking during routine cleaning. And I'm happy to adjust anything that causes problems for your team."
Elena's normally reserved expression softens. "The last decorator used that spray snow that got everywhere. Took us weeks to clean it all."
"No fake snow," Holly promises with a laugh. "I prefer natural materials anyway—pine, holly, berries. Things that smell like Christmas, not chemicals."
I find myself cataloging these preferences, filing away the information for future reference. She likes natural materials. Authentic experiences. Her laugh is unguarded, genuine—rare in my world of calculated social interactions.
James lingers unnecessarily, asking questions about her previous projects.
When Holly mentions working for the Harrimans last year—old money, respectable but nowhere near my league—he seems impressed.
If he only knew the caliber of projects she'll be associated with after working for me.
The Sterling name will open doors that the Harrimans couldn't even approach.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—no doubt Patricia with something urgent.
I ignore it, unwilling to leave my vantage point.
Holly has moved to the windows now, studying the garden view while making notes.
The winter light illuminates her profile—the gentle slope of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip, the way she absently tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating.
When she reaches up to measure the window height, her sweater rides up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin at her waist. My body responds instantly to even this innocent glimpse, desire coiling tight and immediate.
I force myself to remain still, to maintain the professional distance required.
But my mind has already stripped away the modest sweater, already imagined how that skin would feel under my hands.
I've seen enough. More than enough. I step into the doorway, making my presence known with deliberate footsteps. James and Elena immediately straighten, their expressions shifting to professional deference.
"Mr. Sterling," Elena acknowledges with a nod before quietly exiting. James hesitates, glancing between Holly and me before following Elena out.
Holly turns, her clipboard clutched to her chest in what I'm beginning to recognize as a defensive gesture. Her cheeks flush immediately upon seeing me—a reaction I find immensely satisfying.
"Mr. Sterling," she says, her voice steady despite the color in her cheeks. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow's presentation."
"Dominic," I correct her again, moving further into the room. "And it's my house, Holly. I go where I please in it."
She straightens her shoulders slightly. "Of course. I was just finishing the measurements for the ballroom."
"And your impressions?" I ask, approaching until only a few feet separate us.
"It's a magnificent space," she says, her professional mask slipping into genuine enthusiasm. "The proportions are perfect for a dramatic central display without overwhelming the architectural details."
I allow myself to move closer, watching her pulse flutter visibly at the base of her throat. "And what would you create, if given complete freedom? If budget and practicality were no object?"
The question seems to surprise her. She blinks, then looks around the room with fresh eyes.
"Something that brings the winter woods inside," she says finally.
"Not literally—no tacky artificial trees.
But the essence of it. Crystal and silver catching light like ice on branches.
White flowers and evergreens. A night sky effect on the ceiling with thousands of tiny lights. "
The vision she describes resonates with something inside me. Not the gaudy Christmas spectacles my previous decorators created, but something elegant, almost primal in its connection to nature.
"Interesting," I say, allowing a hint of approval to enter my voice. "I look forward to seeing your formal presentation tomorrow."
She nods, still clutching her clipboard. "Nine o'clock, Ms. Winters said."
"Eight," I correct. "I've moved some meetings to accommodate a more detailed discussion."
"Eight," she repeats, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip nervously.
The small gesture sends a jolt of heat through me. I need to leave before I do something inappropriate—like back her against the nearest wall and discover if she tastes as sweet as she looks.
"Don't let me interrupt your work," I say, turning toward the door. "But Holly?"
"Yes?"
I look back at her over my shoulder. "The collection room remains off-limits unless you're personally accompanied by me. Is that clear?"
Her flush deepens. "Crystal clear."
I nod once and exit, feeling her eyes on my back as I walk away. The possessive feeling has only strengthened after watching her work. Holly Parker's precision, her attention to detail, her genuine appreciation for beauty—all qualities I value. All qualities I want to possess.
By Christmas, I decide as I return to my office, she won't just be decorating my home.
She'll be living in it.
The mistletoe hangs discreetly in the archway between the main hall and the library—Holly's next destination according to her meticulous schedule that Patricia obtained for me.
Not obvious enough to seem deliberate, just a small sprig among the greenery that the previous decorator left behind.
I check my watch: 4:45 PM. She'll be passing through any minute now, measuring the connecting spaces before ending her day.
I position myself in the library, ostensibly reviewing documents but entirely focused on the doorway.
Some might call this calculating. I prefer to think of it as creating opportunity.
I've never orchestrated a "chance" meeting with a woman before. Women typically come to me, drawn by power or wealth or both. I've never needed to pursue, never wanted to. But Holly Parker is different. The strange pull she exerts demands action rather than patience.
Her footsteps approach—lighter than Patricia's distinctive heel clicks, more purposeful than the household staff's careful tread. I return my attention to the document in my hand, a quarterly report I've already memorized, and wait.
She appears in the doorway, pausing to make a note on her clipboard.
Her profile is striking in the late afternoon light streaming through the library windows—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips slightly parted in concentration.
She's pinned her hair up since I last saw her, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
I want to press my mouth to the pulse point visible there, to feel her heartbeat quicken under my lips.
"Finding everything you need?" I ask, my voice cutting through her concentration.
She startles, her clipboard clutched tighter against her chest—that defensive gesture I'm beginning to anticipate. "Mr. Sterling! I didn't realize you were in here."
"Dominic," I remind her, setting aside the report and rising from my chair. "I think we're well past formalities, don't you?"
Her cheeks flush immediately—another reaction I'm coming to expect and enjoy. "Right. Dominic. I was just finishing up the measurements for this floor before heading out."
I move toward her, deliberate steps closing the distance between us. "And your impressions of the library? It's one of my favorite rooms in the house."
"It's magnificent," she says, genuine appreciation warming her voice. "The proportions, the light quality—it's perfect for subtle holiday touches that won't overshadow the beauty of the books."
"You understand restraint," I observe, now close enough to notice the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. "An unusual quality in your profession."
"My job isn't to impose a generic Christmas fantasy," she says with surprising confidence. "It's to enhance what's already special about a space."
I move closer still, watching her confidence waver as the distance between us shrinks to barely a foot. She doesn't step back—another thing I appreciate about Holly Parker. Despite her obvious nervousness, she stands her ground.
"An enlightened approach." I glance up deliberately, my eyes fixing on the small sprig above us. "It appears someone has already begun the decorating."
Holly follows my gaze, her eyes widening slightly when she spots the mistletoe. "Oh! That must be left from last year's—"
"Are you familiar with the tradition?" I interrupt, my voice dropping lower.
Her throat works as she swallows. "Of course, but—"
"I'm something of a traditionalist, Holly." I raise my hand to her face, my thumb gently grazing her cheekbone. Her skin is as soft as I imagined, warm with her blush. "In some matters, at least."
Time seems to suspend as we stand beneath the mistletoe. I can see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, the slight dilation of her pupils as they fix on mine. She doesn't pull away from my touch—if anything, she leans into it fractionally, perhaps without even realizing.
"Traditions are important," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
It's all the permission I need. I lower my mouth to hers, claiming her lips with deliberate pressure. I meant to keep the kiss brief—professional with just an edge of promise. But the moment our lips connect, control fractures.
She tastes like cinnamon and something uniquely her own.
Her lips are soft, yielding yet responsive.
When my tongue traces the seam of her mouth, she gasps, allowing me to deepen the kiss.
My hand slides from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the base of her updo.
My other arm wraps around her waist, drawing her body flush against mine.
Her clipboard presses between us until I take it from her unresisting fingers and set it blindly on a nearby table, never breaking the kiss.
Without that barrier, I can feel every lush curve of her body against mine.
Her hands hesitate before settling lightly on my shoulders, her touch tentative yet eager.
I kiss her thoroughly, possessively, leaving no doubt that this is more than tradition, more than a casual holiday gesture.
I explore her mouth, learning what makes her breath catch, what draws the small, helpless sound from the back of her throat that sends desire coursing through me like wildfire.
When I finally pull back, her lips are pink and slightly swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded. I keep her close, my arm firm around her waist.
"That's—" She stops, clears her throat. "That's quite a dedication to tradition."
A smile tugs at my mouth, genuine amusement mixing with satisfaction. "I never do anything halfway, Holly."
Her hands still rest on my shoulders, fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my suit jacket. She seems unaware that she's clinging to me, her body seeking support as she regains her equilibrium.
"I should—I need to finish—" she stammers, her professional composure thoroughly disrupted.
I tuck a strand of hair that has escaped her updo behind her ear, allowing my fingers to trail along her jawline. "Of course. You have work to complete."
I release her waist but capture one of her hands before she can step away. Raising it to my lips, I press a kiss to her palm—a more intimate gesture than she likely realizes. "Until tomorrow morning, Holly."
The kiss has left her breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She nods, retrieving her clipboard with unsteady hands. "Tomorrow. Eight o'clock."
"Don't be late," I murmur, the words both professional instruction and something more personal.
She backs away, nearly stumbling before turning to hurry through the doorway. I remain where I am, watching her retreat, savoring the lingering taste of her on my lips.
The kiss was a calculated move, yet its effect on me was anything but calculated.
I've kissed countless women over the years—models, heiresses, women with far more experience and sophistication than Holly Parker.
None have ignited this immediate, consuming hunger.
None have left me standing in place, fighting the urge to follow, to take more than a kiss.
I touch my fingers to my lips, still feeling the impression of hers. The memory of her small gasp when my tongue entered her mouth, the way her body melted against mine—these sensations have branded themselves into my consciousness.
One taste isn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Tomorrow morning she'll present her design concepts, professional and composed as if this moment never happened. But it did happen. And it will happen again, with increasing frequency, until Holly Parker understands exactly where she belongs—in my home, in my bed, in my life.
The mistletoe was merely the beginning. By Christmas, I won't need such pretexts to claim her mouth, her body, or anything else I want from her.
And I want everything.