Chapter 5 #2
He watches me struggle and, to my surprise, softens. "We don't have to do this like a negotiation. There's no contract at stake."
"Feels like there is," I whisper, forcing a smile.
His hand lands on my knee, heavy and warm through the thin silk. "Not a contract. A promise. I won't hurt you, Holly. Not unless you want me to."
My face goes hot enough to flash-fry the wine. I take a gulp, nearly spilling it down my dress, and set the glass aside before my hands betray me further.
Maybe he senses my distress because he backs off. Momentarily anyway.
The rest of dinner is a masterpiece of tension and restraint. We discuss the decorating plans, the upcoming installation schedule, the Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala—all perfectly professional topics while his eyes devoured me across the candlelit table.
Now we stand in the library, where a fifteen-foot noble fir has been installed but left bare for us to decorate.
"A personal touch," he said when suggesting we adorn it together, though the look in his eyes made it clear this was another calculated move to keep me close.
The antique ornaments I cataloged yesterday are arranged on tables around the room, waiting for placement.
It's such a normal, almost domestic activity—decorating a Christmas tree—yet the air between us crackles with anything but domesticity.
"I thought we might add a personal touch to the decorations," Dominic explains, his voice low and smooth like expensive bourbon. "Some things shouldn't be delegated."
The way he looks at me makes it clear I'm one of those things—something he has no intention of delegating or sharing. I swallow hard and turn toward the boxes of decorations, trying to maintain some semblance of professional composure.
"We should start with the lights," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The antique pieces will show better against a backdrop of warm light."
Dominic nods, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. Such a simple action shouldn't be so captivating, but I find my gaze drawn repeatedly to the exposed skin, imagining those arms wrapped around me.
"I defer to your expertise," he says, lifting a strand of small, warm white lights from a nearby box. His tone is neutral, but his eyes hold promises that have nothing to do with Christmas decorations.
I take one end of the strand, and we begin circling the tree, passing the lights between us. The first time our fingers brush in the exchange, it's like an electric current passes between us. I nearly drop the strand, my focus fragmenting at even this casual contact.
"Careful," he murmurs, his hand closing over mine to steady it. "These are irreplaceable."
He doesn't immediately release my hand, instead letting his thumb stroke across my knuckles in a slow caress. We're standing close—too close—the massive tree partially shielding us from view of the doorway, creating an intimate bubble in the vast library.
"I've been thinking about that dress all evening," he says, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. "About how the silk will feel sliding off your skin."
Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck and chest. His eyes track the flush, satisfaction evident in his slight smile.
"The tree," I remind him, trying to regain some professional footing. "We should continue with the lights."
He releases my hand, his fingers trailing across my palm as he does so. "By all means."
We add three more strands of lights, working in a rhythm that feels strangely synchronous for two people who barely know each other.
With each circuit around the tree, his body brushes against mine more frequently—his chest grazing my back as he reaches past me to adjust a section of lights, his hand settling briefly on my waist to steady me as I stretch to reach a higher branch.
"You have an eye for balance," he observes as we complete the lighting. "Knowing exactly where each strand should go for the perfect effect."
"It's my job," I reply, though we both know this is far beyond professional obligation now.
When the lights are complete, we step back to assess our work. The tree glows with a warm, golden light that transforms the massive fir into something magical.
"Beautiful," I say, professional pride momentarily overriding the tension between us.
"Yes," he agrees, though when I glance at him, he's looking at me rather than the tree. "Now for the ornaments."
He selects one of the Bohemian glass pieces—a delicate star that catches the light in facets of blue and gold. Instead of hanging it himself, he offers it to me, holding it between us. When I reach for it, his fingers close over mine again, deliberately this time.
"Do you know what I thought when I saw you in my collection room that first day?" he asks, the ornament suspended between us, a fragile barrier.
I shake my head, words momentarily beyond me.
"Mine," he says simply. "One look at you, and something in me recognized what I didn't know I was searching for."
The possessiveness should alarm me. Instead, it sends a thrill through my body, a primal response to his claim. He releases the ornament to my care, letting me hang it on a prominent branch while he selects another.
We fall into a pattern—selecting ornaments, placing them carefully, our bodies moving in a dance of approach and retreat. But with each exchange, he stands closer, his touches linger longer, his voice drops to an intimate murmur.
As I reach up to place a crystal snowflake, his body presses against my back, his hands settling on my waist. "I can feel your heart racing," he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. "It's been racing all evening."
"You make me nervous," I admit, my voice barely audible.
His hands tighten slightly on my waist. "Good nervous or bad nervous?"
I turn in his arms, the ornament forgotten as I face him. "I don't know. I've never felt this before."
Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction mixed with hunger. "I've never felt it either." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But I intend to explore it thoroughly. Every inch of it. Every inch of you."
His other hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me closer until I feel the hard planes of his body against mine.
"By the time Christmas arrives," he whispers against my temple, "you'll understand that you've been mine since the moment you stepped into my house.
Every decoration you hang, every room you transform—you're marking my territory with your presence.
Just as I intend to mark you with mine."
His words should sound possessive, controlling, even frightening. Instead, they ignite something in me I've never felt before—a desire to be claimed, to belong to someone in this primal, undeniable way.
"The tree isn't finished," I say weakly, a last attempt at maintaining the pretense that we're just employer and employee.
"The tree can wait," Dominic replies, his fingers tangling in my hair as he tilts my face up to his. "You can't."
His mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
This isn't the controlled kiss we shared under the mistletoe—this is raw possession, his lips demanding a response I can't help but give.
My hands clutch his shoulders as the world tilts beneath me.
The Christmas tree glitters forgotten beside us, ornaments still waiting in their boxes as Dominic pulls me tighter against him, one hand tangled in my hair, the other pressing against the small of my back.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm dizzy, clinging to him for balance. His blue eyes have darkened to stormy indigo, his breathing as unsteady as mine.
"Come with me," he says, his voice rough with desire. Not a request—a command.
I should hesitate, should remind him that I'm here to work, that crossing this line will complicate everything. Instead, I nod, a simple surrender that feels anything but simple.
He takes my hand, leading me from the library through corridors I haven't yet decorated.
The mansion feels different at night—more intimate, the shadows creating pockets of privacy between pools of warm light.
We pass staff who keep their eyes averted, their faces carefully neutral.
They know where we're going, what we're about to do.
The knowledge should embarrass me, but all I feel is a mounting anticipation that drowns out everything else.
Dominic's bedroom suite occupies the entire west wing of the second floor.
He opens a set of double doors, revealing a space that's surprisingly warm despite its grandeur.
Deep blues and charcoal grays dominate, with touches of burnished gold in the light fixtures and occasional accents.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of snow-covered grounds, moonlight spilling across the landscape like liquid silver.
But it's the bed that captures my attention—massive, with a dark wooden frame and linens that look soft enough to drown in. This is his most private space, a sanctuary few people ever see. The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold.
"Having second thoughts?" Dominic asks, closing the door behind us with a soft click that sounds somehow final.
"No," I answer honestly. "Just...processing."
He approaches slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal they don't want to startle. "We can stop at any time, Holly. I want you willingly or not at all."
The consideration in his words contrasts with the barely leashed hunger in his eyes. I reach up and touch his face, the slight stubble rough against my palm.
"I'm here because I want to be," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.
Something flashes across his face—relief mixed with triumph. He captures my hand, turning it to press a kiss to my palm that's somehow more intimate than our passionate embrace in the library.