Page 8 of His for Christmas
"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.
Chapter
Three
HOLLY
I can't focuson the garland measurements. I've been staring at the same numbers for five minutes, my mind wandering back to yesterday's kiss like a tongue returning to a sore tooth. The velvet ribbon slips through my fingers for the third time as I try to create a mock-up for the main staircase. It shouldn't be this difficult. I've decorated dozens of staircases for clients just as demanding as Dominic Sterling. But none of those clients pressed me against their hard body and kissed me senseless under the mistletoe. None of them looked at me afterward like they were memorizing the taste of me. And none of them are currently standing in the doorway, watching me work with those intense blue eyes that seem to see right through my carefully maintained professional facade.
I didn't see him arrive. Didn't hear him. But I felt him—a prickling awareness at the back of my neck that spread across my skin like a physical touch. Now I'm hyperaware of his presence, my body reacting in ways my brain is desperately trying to override. My cheeks are warm. My pulse beats too fast. The simple act of measuring ribbon has become complicated by hands that won't stay steady.
"The presentation went well," he says, his deep voice carrying across the room. "Your vision for the ballroom impressed Patricia."
I glance up briefly, then back down at my work, afraid my eyes will betray how much his presence affects me. "Thank you. I'm glad she liked the concept."
This morning's presentation had gone surprisingly smoothly, considering I barely slept last night, replaying our kiss on mental loop. I'd explained my vision for each room, displayed material samples, and outlined the timeline. Dominic had watched me the entire time with that unnerving intensity, asking occasional questions that revealed his keen eye for detail. Ms. Winters had taken notes, her face betraying nothing.
Now he moves into the room, each step deliberate, like a predator who doesn't need to rush because his prey isn't going anywhere. I focus on the velvet ribbon, measuring the length needed for a perfect swag between balusters.
"The gold and burgundy theme for the main staircase," he says, now close enough that I can smell his cologne, "it complements the wood tones well."
"That's the idea," I manage, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "The existing architecture should be enhanced, not overshadowed."
He's standing beside me now, his presence taking up more space than his physical body. I make the mistake of looking up at him. His suit today is charcoal gray, the white shirt beneath providing stark contrast to his tanned skin. His hair is perfectly styled except for one rebellious strand that falls across his forehead, making him look slightly less untouchable. I have the insane urge to reach up and brush it back.
"You understand balance," he observes, his eyes never leaving my face. "A rare quality."
The compliment warms me more than it should. I return to my work, carefully cutting the ribbon at the marked length. "Excess is easy. Restraint takes skill."
"Indeed it does." Something in his tone makes me look up again. The heat in his eyes contradicts his controlled expression. "Though restraint has its limits."
My scissors slip, nearly cutting the ribbon at the wrong angle. I set them down before I can ruin the expensive material. "I should have mock-ups for all the main areas by tomorrow," I say, desperately reaching for professionalism. "The tree delivery is scheduled for Friday, and the installation team can start on Monday."
"Your hands are shaking," he notes, his voice dropping lower.
I clench them into fists, then deliberately relax them. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" He steps closer, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You seemed distracted during the presentation this morning. Your mind kept…wandering."
The knowing look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. Does he realize I spent the entire presentation trying not to stare at his mouth, trying not to remember how it felt against mine?
"I was focused on communicating my vision clearly," I counter, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "This project is important to me."
"Just the project?"
