Chapter 13 #2
None of these are fancy gifts. Just small things that matter—handmade ornaments for my best friends, a few tokens for my crew, little treats for the kids at the hospital. But wrapping them is my favorite part. The folds, the ribbons, the quiet care of it—it’s my peace. My little ritual.
The door opens, quiet but deliberate.
Dominic.
He fills the space just by being in it. No suit today, just dark trousers and a blue sweater that makes his eyes look unreal. Dangerous. Beautiful.
“Don’t tell me you’re working on Christmas Eve eve,” he says, voice low and amused as he closes the door behind him.
“Not work,” I tell him, smiling as I lift a half-wrapped box. “Just my annual wrapping therapy session.”
He comes closer, his eyes sweeping over the table. The packages—brown paper, velvet ribbons, sprigs of pine. He touches one, reverent. “They’re beautiful. Too beautiful to open.”
“That’s the point,” I tease. “Half the magic is in the anticipation.”
He picks up one of my ornaments—delicate glass, painted by hand. The light glints off it as he turns it in his fingers. “You made this?”
“Every year,” I say softly. “For my closest friends. It’s our thing.”
He looks at me then—not just at me, into me. “You have remarkable hands.”
The words are simple, but from him, they hit deep. Heat blooms under my skin. “Thank you. You could help, you know. If you’re brave enough.”
His lips twitch. “I doubt I meet your standards.”
“Then I’ll teach you,” I counter. “Another holiday first.”
Something shifts in his expression. A crack in the armor. He moves to sit beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat.
I show him how to fold the paper, smooth the corners. His hands are steady, precise—of course they are. He could probably take over my job if he wanted to.
“You’re a natural,” I say when he finishes his first one.
“I like precision,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I can’t remember the last time I wrapped anything myself.”
“Who wraps your gifts?”
“My assistant,” he admits, reaching for another box. “I delegate.”
Even personal ones?”
He gives a small shrug. “There aren’t many personal ones.”
The honesty stings. That kind of loneliness shouldn’t sound so matter-of-fact. I reach for his hand before I can stop myself. “Well, this year’s different. You’re wrapping at least one yourself.”
His fingers close around mine, warm, strong. “Is that so?” His voice drops, dark and teasing. “And what makes you think I haven’t already handled certain…personal gifts?”
My pulse skips. “Have you?”
He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Christmas is about surprises, sweetheart. And I’m very good at them.”
The words—and the way he says them—send a shiver down my spine. I turn my head slightly, catching his gaze. “I do love a good surprise.”
“Do you?” His hand slides to tuck my hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just long enough to make me forget how to breathe. “Then I’ll tell you this much. Tomorrow night. That green dress you think I haven’t noticed. And a surprise I’ve been planning since last week.”
My heart races. “That sounds…intriguing.”
“It’s just the beginning,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my jaw. “Because Christmas Day? I plan to make you forget your own name.”
Heat flashes through me, low and dizzying. “That’s…quite the plan.”
His smile turns slow, wicked. “I plan carefully.”
And just when I’m sure he’s about to kiss me, he pulls back. Calm. Collected. The devil in a cashmere sweater.
“Now, the ribbon,” he says smoothly, picking up the velvet strip like we weren’t seconds away from setting the room on fire.
I can’t help laughing. “You’re playing with fire, Mr. Sterling.”
“Maybe,” he says, brushing my fingers as he takes the ribbon. “But you make it worth the burn.”
We finish the wrapping together, shoulders touching, fingers brushing, both pretending it’s just paper and tape when we both know it’s not.
Later, the mansion glows like something out of a dream. Thousands of lights, gold and soft, wrapping the halls in warmth. I’m alone now, finishing the last touches on the grand centerpiece—a mix of evergreen, antique glass, and crystal snowflakes.
This house used to feel too big, too perfect. Now it feels alive. Like it’s breathing. Like it’s ours.
“It’s breathtaking,” comes a voice behind me—deep, familiar. “Though I can’t decide if I mean the decorations or you.”
I turn. Dominic stands at the base of the staircase in dark jeans and a black henley, every inch of him casual sin.
“I thought you were working,” I say, smiling before I can help it.
“I was. Then I saw you on the security feed,” he says, walking toward me. “And decided beauty like this shouldn’t go unappreciated.”
The fact that he watches me should feel invasive. But it doesn’t. It feels like being seen.
“The staff did most of it,” I say, though my voice is softer now.
He shakes his head. “The staff didn’t give this place a soul. You did.”
He touches my face then, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “The lights love you,” he murmurs. “They turn your eyes to gold.”
I swallow hard. “You’re poetic tonight.”
“You bring it out of me,” he says, his hand finding my waist, pulling me close. “Patience. Restraint. God help me, I’m learning both.”
“And what are you waiting for?”
He looks down at me, eyes gone dark. “Everything. You. Your heart. Your future. I want it all.”
My breath catches. Before I can answer, he kisses me. Slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until all I can do is hold on.
When we finally break apart, he takes my hand and leads me behind the massive Christmas tree, into a small hidden alcove lit only by colored lights. It feels secret, sacred.
“I’ve been thinking about this since you started decorating,” he says, voice rough. “Having you here. Among the lights. In the middle of everything you’ve made.”
He presses me gently against the wall, his mouth finding my neck. The world narrows to touch, breath, heartbeat.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, echoing the words that started everything between us.
Instead, I pull him closer. “Don’t you dare.”
What happens next is everything we’ve been building toward—need, love, understanding. His hands are possessive but reverent, his touch both worship and surrender.
When he says my name, it’s not a command. It’s a prayer.
And when it’s over, when we’re tangled together in the glow of the lights, I know the truth.
This isn’t control anymore. It’s love.
He holds me close, his breath warm against my ear. “Tomorrow night,” he says softly, “I’ll show you something important.”
“Your surprise?”
“More than that,” he says, voice rough with meaning. “A declaration.”
And I know—without him saying the words—that what’s coming will change everything.
Because Dominic Sterling doesn’t do anything halfway.
And when he finally gives his heart, he gives it completely.