Page 62 of His for Christmas

His eyes instantly darken as he pulls me closer.I straddle him right there on the glossy dark leather, the Christmas tree twinkling in my peripheral vision, the fire reflecting in the glass along with the barest outline of my body. Dominic's hands settle at my hips, effortlessly supportive, but he doesn't take over. Not this time. He watches me, blue eyes burning, his lips parted just enough to see the vulnerable edge under the practiced self-control. I start unbuttoning his sweater, slow to savor thetension, and he lets me, only touching my face once to tuck a wild strand of hair behind my ear. His restraint makes my heart thud in my chest; it's a gift more precious than anything wrapped under the tree.

I press my lips to his jaw, then his neck, inhaling the clean, sharp scent of him. His pulse jumps under my mouth. I trail kisses lower until I'm tugging the sweater free, then the shirt. When I scrape my teeth down his shoulder, he groans, head tipping back against the couch. The hands on my waist tighten, but only to ground himself. I want to see how long he can let me lead, how far we can take this game before he breaks. Or maybe I just want the proof that he trusts me with his vulnerability.

I reach lower, palming him through his trousers, and I feel the tremor in his body, the way his control is a current stretched to its limit. "Holly," he says, the word ragged with need, "you're making it very difficult for me not to?—"

"Don't," I say, covering his mouth with my hand. "Let me."

It's the most daring thing I've ever done, and it feels like flying. I undo his belt, the zipper, then wrap my hand around him, loving the contrast between my softness and the hard, relentless heat of him. His eyes flutter closed, jaw clenched. I move against him, slow and unhurried, until his hands—shaking now—find the hem of my dress and push it up, his fingers skating up my thighs. The shift is delicate, deliberate. He isn't taking over, just meeting me in the middle, inviting me to keep going.

I guide him inside me, slowly, relishing the way his whole body jerks, the low, guttural sound he makes. I rock against him, arms around his neck, holding his gaze. He watches me like it's the first sunrise he's ever seen, awe and hunger and something fiercely gentle all tangled together. My hips find a rhythm, and he matches it, never breaking eye contact. It's wild, being seenso completely, utterly exposed and somehow more myself than ever.

When I come, it's not a storm but a long, slow burn that leaves me shaking in his arms. He follows, muffling his groan in the crook of my neck, holding me so tightly I think we might fuse at the bones.

After, we collapse together, tangled and breathless, the tree lights painting our skin in shifting colors. He touches my face, reverent, almost shy. "I've never..." He trails off, searching for words. "No one has ever let me feel this much. Not even myself."

I laugh, giddy and full and alittle dazed. "You're welcome," I whisper, tracing the line of his cheekbones. "That's what love is, right? Learning how to let yourself be undone by someone else."

He laughs, the sound hoarse and a little disbelieving. "If that's the case, then you're an expert already."

We stay together on the couch, the room glowing around us, my body still humming with aftershocks. Outside, the snow falls so thick it erases the world. For the first time in my adult life, I feel entirely safe. Not because Dominic is powerful, or because he can protect me from every outside threat, but because he’s learned how to trust me with the most dangerous thing of all—his heart.

Later, much later, after we've eaten Christmas dinner in the kitchen with the staff (Dominic surprising everyone by pouring the wine himself and complimenting Henri's dessert with a sincerity that makes even the stone-faced sous chef flush), we return upstairs for one last present. The vintage book, tied with a perfect bow, and a handmade card with a message written in Dominic’s own sharp hand.

I read it once, then twice, then have to blink hard to keep my vision clear enough for the third time.

*You are not a possession, Holly Parker, but you are mine. You are the axis of my universe. Thank you for teaching me to love.*

He stands behind me, arms folded, completely still as if waiting for judgment. I turn and wrap both arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. I can’t say anything for a long moment, but it doesn’t matter. He holds me, patient, until my voice returns.

"I love you," I say, simple and true.

He lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers, "Merry Christmas, angel."