Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
DOMINIC
I wake before dawn, as I always do. But this morning is different.
The weight beside me, the subtle floral scent mixing with my sheets, the soft sound of another person's breathing—these are unfamiliar presences in my carefully ordered world.
I turn my head slowly, wanting to observe without disturbing.
Holly sleeps deeply beside me, one hand curled beneath her cheek, her brown hair spread across my pillow like spilled ink.
The sight of her in my bed creates a satisfaction so profound it borders on pain.
I never let women stay the night. Sex is one thing—a physical release, a temporary diversion.
But allowing someone into my sleep, my vulnerability, my private space after the act is finished—that's something I've always avoided.
Yet last night, when Holly fell asleep against me, exhausted from our lovemaking, the thought of waking her to send her home never crossed my mind.
I wanted her here. Still want her here. The realization should disturb me more than it does.
The first hint of dawn filters through the windows, casting a pearlescent light across her exposed shoulder.
I resist the urge to touch, to claim again what I claimed so thoroughly last night.
Instead, I study her with the same attention I give to acquisitions worth millions.
The gentle curve of her cheek, the full lower lip slightly parted in sleep, the delicate arch of eyebrows that express so much of what she's thinking.
In repose, her face reveals a vulnerability she tries to hide when awake.
There's an innocence to her that goes beyond her relative inexperience in bed—a genuine quality I rarely encounter in my world of calculated exchanges and strategic relationships.
Last night surprised me. I expected her passion—I've seen it simmering beneath her professional demeanor since our first meeting.
What I didn't expect was my own response, the intensity that went beyond physical desire.
I've had more experienced partners, women who knew exactly how to please a man with my appetites.
But none have affected me like Holly, with her genuine reactions and complete surrender.
When she came apart beneath my hands, my mouth, my body, something broke loose inside me—something I've kept carefully chained for as long as I can remember.
I reach out, not touching her but letting my hand hover above the curve of her hip where the sheet has slipped down.
Mine. The word forms with absolute certainty.
Not just her body, though I'll have that again as soon as she wakes.
All of her—her mind with its unexpected perceptions, her talent that transforms spaces with such understanding, her gentle strength that stands its ground even when facing my most demanding moods. I want possession of it all.
Women have always been temporary fixtures in my life—beautiful accessories to be enjoyed and discarded when the novelty wears off or the demands become too great.
My last relationship lasted three months, ending when Alessandra began leaving personal items in my penthouse without permission.
A toothbrush appeared in my bathroom. Then cosmetics.
Then she "forgot" an expensive cashmere sweater draped across my bed.
Each item was a test, a small claim on territory I had no intention of ceding.
I ended things that night, had her belongings packed and sent to her apartment while she was at dinner with friends.
Yet now I imagine Holly's things integrated with mine—her modest cosmetics beside my toiletries, her practical clothes hanging beside my suits, her books mingled with mine on the shelves.
The thought doesn't trigger the usual panic, the need to maintain separation between myself and another's presence.
Instead, it satisfies something deep and primal—the desire to have her completely, to make her an extension of myself rather than a separate entity.
She stirs slightly, her breathing changing rhythm as she shifts position.
I close my eyes, feigning sleep. I want to observe her first reaction upon waking in my bed, want to see her unguarded response before she knows I'm watching.
Through barely-open lids, I see her eyes flutter, then open fully.
Confusion flits across her face for a moment before memory returns.
I expect embarrassment, perhaps regret. Instead, she smiles softly, her eyes traveling over my face with something like wonder.
Her hand lifts, hovering near my face much as mine hovered over her body moments ago.
She's hesitant to touch, unsure of her welcome in this new context.
I want to capture that hand, press it to my cheek, show her that she has permission to touch what belongs to her—because make no mistake, as much as she is mine, part of me now belongs to her as well.
But I remain still, curious what she'll do without my direction.
After a moment's hesitation, she lowers her hand without making contact.
Instead, she carefully slides from the bed, gathering her discarded dress from the floor where I let it fall last night.
Her movements are silent, considerate of my supposed sleep.
She disappears into the bathroom, closing the door with barely a click.
I open my eyes fully, staring at the ceiling as I listen to the muffled sounds of water running.
She's trying to leave without waking me, slipping away to restore the professional boundary we obliterated last night.
The thought amuses me. As if anything could return to how it was before.
As if I would allow her to retreat after I've had a taste of what exists between us.
The intensity of my feelings should concern me.
I don't form attachments easily—or at all.
Attachment means vulnerability, and vulnerability is unacceptable for a man in my position.
My empire is built on control, on calculating every variable, on never allowing emotion to cloud judgment.
Yet here I am, plotting how to keep a woman in my life who's known me less than two weeks.
Planning how to bind her to me so completely that leaving never enters her mind.
When the bathroom door opens, I'll pretend to wake.
I'll coax her back to bed, remind her body of the pleasure we discovered together.
Then I'll insist she join me for breakfast, beginning the process of weaving her presence into the fabric of my daily life.
By Christmas, she'll be as essential to me as breathing—and she'll understand that leaving is no longer an option.
I hear the bathroom door begin to open, and I arrange my features into the peaceful mask of someone just waking.
Holly Parker may have entered my house as an employee, but she'll remain as something far more significant.
The only question is how long it will take her to accept this inevitable truth.
I stretch languidly as Holly emerges from the bathroom, her green dress from last night smoothed down but obviously slept in. I've given her enough time to compose herself, to believe she might slip away unnoticed. Now I'll show her how mistaken that assumption is.
"Good morning," I murmur, injecting just enough huskiness into my voice to remind her of last night. "Leaving so soon?"
She freezes like a startled deer, her hand still on the bathroom door. "I thought I should get home to change before work," she says, professional mask already attempting to slide into place. "The installation team arrives at nine."
I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist, aware of how her eyes track the movement before darting away. "They can wait. Have breakfast with me first."
It's not a request. We both know it. She hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining professional boundaries and the pull between us that we both feel.
"I'm not really dressed for breakfast," she says, gesturing at her rumpled silk dress.
"I'll have something brought for you to wear." I reach for my phone on the nightstand. "What size are you?"
"Dominic, that's not necessary—"
"What size, Holly?" I repeat, my tone gentle but brooking no argument.
She sighs, relenting. "Eight. Sometimes ten, depending on the cut."
I send a quick text to Patricia, who I know will already be in her office despite the early hour. Unlike Holly, Patricia has no illusions about professional boundaries. She'll understand exactly what clothing delivered to my suite implies.
"Problem solved," I say, setting the phone aside. "Now come back to bed until it arrives."
Her blush is delicious, spreading from her cheeks down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her dress. I remember exactly how far that blush extends, having mapped every inch of her body with my hands and mouth last night.
"I should at least fix my hair," she protests weakly.
"Your hair is perfect," I counter, enjoying how easily I can fluster her. "Exactly how a woman's hair should look after a night in my bed."
Her flush deepens, but she moves toward the bed, perching cautiously on the edge as if afraid I'll pounce. I could. Part of me wants to. But this morning requires a different strategy—one that establishes her place in my life beyond the physical.
A discreet knock at the outer door of my suite interrupts us. "That was fast," Holly says, looking relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
"Patricia is nothing if not efficient." I rise from the bed, unself-conscious in my nakedness, and pull on a robe. Holly's eyes widen slightly before she looks away, that lovely blush intensifying.