Chapter 14 Wyatt #3
Wyatt’s eyes darkened, his pulse hammering in his ears. He watched James reach back to the stand and pull a heavy, wide wooden paddle—polished mahogany, heavy enough to leave deep, dull bruises if used incorrectly.
James didn't use full force; he used the weight of the wood. He brought it down square across the meat of her cheeks.
CRACK.
The sound was terrifyingly sharp, a loud, solid crack that signaled a completely different depth of sensation.
Beth screamed, her legs kicking out instinctively as she writhed against his thighs, her small hands clawing desperately at the denim of his jeans for purchase.
James didn't flinch. His massive forearm pressed firmly into the small of her back, anchoring her securely across his lap, holding her down with an unyielding, protective weight that kept her entirely safe while he dismantled her control.
CRACK. CRACK.
"The wooden paddle targets the deeper tissue," James explained calmly, his baritone entirely level even over her muffled cries. "It forces the submissive to process the impact internally. Notice the change in her vocalization. The panic is gone. This is raw release."
Beth was weeping openly now, her face buried in the crook of James’s hip, her body completely pliant under his hands. Her bottom was a solid, glowing curtain of deep, angry violet-red, the skin swollen and radiating a visible heat under the stage lights.
Wyatt swallowed hard, the front of his trousers so tight it was genuinely uncomfortable.
He watched the absolute authority James held over her—the unflinching, calm dominance that didn't vary for a single second.
It was beautiful. It was exactly what he was going to do with Bitsy.
He wasn't going to let her argue. He wasn't going to let her run.
He was going to put her over his knee, strip away that exhausting, hyper-vigilant survival instinct, and make her cry until she finally realized she was safe.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wyatt noticed a subtle movement to his left.
Silas was still leaning back, his expression cool, analytical, and entirely focused on the stage.
But his right hand was completely buried beneath the dark emerald silk of Lennon’s dress, his forearm moving in slow, rhythmic, agonizingly deliberate thrusts.
Lennon’s eyes were locked on the stage, her lips parted, her breathing shallow and frantic as her fingers dug white-knuckled into Silas’s left shoulder.
She was absorbing the impact from the stage, her body reacting in real-time to the submission below while Silas quietly, invisibly worked her over in the dark of the VIP box.
Wyatt looked back to the stage, his jaw locked.
James stood up, lifting Beth effortlessly in his arms. He walked her over to the massive steel St. Andrew's cross.
He set her on her feet, guiding her arms up to the leather cuffs at the top beam.
He clicked the locks shut, securing her wrists, before doing the same to her ankles.
She was spread wide, entirely defenseless, suspended against the heavy metal.
James walked back to the stand and drew his final implement—a short, heavy leather crop with a broad, flat slapper at the end.
"To close the scene, we bring the focus back to the surface," James said, his low, intimate register carrying perfectly through the audio feed. "We clear the deep ache with sharp, precise heat."
He began to strike—not just her bottom, but the soft, pale curve where her thighs met her glutes.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
Beth’s body arched off the cross with every hit, her head throwing back as a series of high, breathless broken cries filled the theater.
She was completely gone, trapped in the pure subspace of the impact, her skin a map of brilliant, dark crimson stripes that contrasted beautifully against her black lace stockings.
James delivered twenty final, rapid strokes, bringing the scene to a roaring, chaotic crescendo of sound and movement until Beth’s cries dissolved into a soft, exhausted whimpering.
He dropped the crop to the floor. He didn't wait for the audience. He immediately stepped into her space, unlocking her wrists and catching her weight completely as her legs gave out. He pulled her flush against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, and gathered her thighs up into his arms.
Beth buried her face into his neck, her body trembling violently as the heavy endorphin crash began.
James held her securely, his large hand cupping her bruised, burning bottom to protect her from the cold air as he turned and carried her smoothly off the stage into the darkness of the wings for aftercare.
The theater remained dead silent for three long seconds before the house lights slowly began to rise, and a heavy, thundering wave of applause broke out from the lower tiers.
Wyatt let out a slow, measured breath, his heart slamming against his ribs. He stood up, successfully hiding the tight, heavy line of his arousal as the VIP box lights turned over.
Below them, the crowd was beginning to stir, moving toward the bars. Wyatt watched Tara Holt in the third row. She was slowly closing her leather notebook, her expression intensely focused, a professional sheen of satisfaction on her face as she gathered her clutch.
"She liked it," Zane murmured, standing up beside Wyatt and adjusting his silk cuffs. "That review is going to clear six figures by Tuesday morning."
"Go do your job," Wyatt said, his voice rough. "Make sure she has everything she needs for the copy."
Zane nodded, stepping out of the box to head down the secure ramp toward the floor.
Wyatt watched from the glass as Zane smoothly navigated the dispersing crowd, intercepting Tara just as she reached the aisle.
Wyatt couldn't hear the words exchange through the glass, but he saw Tara’s sharp, professional smile break into something genuine as she shook Zane’s hand, the two of them walking toward the private media lounge.
"Jesus Christ," Hudson muttered from behind them, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood up. "James doesn't play around. That was textbook."
Silas stood up next, his hand still resting firmly on the small of Lennon’s back. Lennon’s face was beautifully flushed, her emerald dress slightly rumpled, her eyes dark and completely centered on her partner.
"The demo was flawless," Silas said, his voice entirely even, though his fingers dialed a possessive pressure into Lennon’s hip. "I'm taking Lennon home. She’s done for the night."
"Get out of here, Silas," Hudson said with a wave of his hand. "I’ve got the exit sweeps covered."
Silas gave them a brief nod, guiding Lennon out the rear executive door without another word.
Wyatt and Hudson were left alone at the front of the box, looking down at the clearing theater floor.
"You look tight," Hudson observed, glancing over with a rough, knowing smirk. "That scene hit a little too close to home, man?"
"Mind your own perimeters, Hudson," Wyatt growled, though there was no real heat in it. He walked back to the table, picking up his phone and checking the screen.
No new messages. Delivered status still locked.
He stared at the small screen, the heavy, dark ache in his gut settling into something permanent and unyielding. Monday morning was thirty-six hours away. Thirty-six hours of her driving that piece-of-junk car through the Bridgeport ice, eating out of a plastic crate, and panicking over his rules.
"You leaving?" Hudson asked, pouring himself a final splash of bourbon.
"Yeah," Wyatt said, tossing his phone into his pocket and grabbing his overcoat from the chair. "I’m going back to the office. I have a real estate array to map out."
"On a Saturday night?" Hudson raised an eyebrow. "The girl must be something special if she's got you working corporate logistics before the sun comes up."
Wyatt stopped at the door, his massive frame blocking the light from the hallway. He didn't look back.
"She's not corporate logistics, Hudson," Wyatt said, his voice a dangerous rumble. "She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet."