Chapter 24 Wyatt
The office was quiet now, the heavy silence only broken by the occasional hitch in Bitsy’s breathing.
Wyatt held her against his chest. The aftermath of the discipline was always a delicate time; it was when the adrenaline faded and the need for comfort roared to the surface.
He felt the dampness of her tears against his shirt, a testament to how hard she had taken the correction, but her sobs had tapered off into the rhythmic, hiccupping gasps of a girl who had found safety.
Wyatt took his time. He knew she needed this moment—the lingering pressure of his hand on her back, the steady, rhythmic rock of his body.
His own pulse was finally slowing down, though the protective fire in his gut kept burning, fierce and hot.
Watching her in the playroom tonight had been a beautiful sight.
He’d loved seeing her so small, so earnest, pouring all her focus into her coloring and her efforts to be part of the group.
But when she’d joined in that chaotic scramble in the cupboard, a switch had flipped.
The sight of her being so intentionally naughty hadn't just frustrated him; it had triggered a primal, possessive urge to take control.
He wanted to feel her beneath his hand, to show her exactly what happened when she pushed her limits.
He stood, pulling her upright with him. He reached down and smoothed her leggings and panties back into place, his hands firm and lingering over her skin as he finished covering her.
Once she was dressed, he draped his jacket over her shoulders, cocooning her small frame against the chill of the office.
"Come on, Itsy-Bitsy," he murmured, his voice low and rumbling.
He scooped her up, her head immediately tucking into the crook of his neck.
She was limp, completely surrendered to his care.
She didn't protest, didn't ask questions; she just held on, her small hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt.
The walk to the executive lot was a blur of shadows.
Wyatt moved with purpose, his focus narrowed down to the precious weight in his arms. He reached his SUV and opened the back door, maneuvering her into the seat with the tenderness of someone handling glass.
She stayed curled in on herself, her eyes tracking him with a hazy, vacant look that told him she was still miles away in her headspace.
He buckled her in, lingering for a moment to brush a stray hair from her forehead.
"I’ve got you," he whispered, his thumb grazing her cheek. She leaned into the touch, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips. "We’re going home."
The drive was short, the city lights sliding past like streaks of color.
Wyatt kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her knee, a constant, physical reminder that he was right there.
He watched her in the rearview mirror, his heart tightening.
The scene in the executive office—her bent over his knees, her bottom bared and flushed—had been a necessity, the only way to pull her back from the ledge of her own impulsivity.
She was a woman who lived her life with a chaotic, brilliant mind, but in her little space, she needed boundaries.
She needed a Daddy who could see through her attempts at independence and find the girl who just wanted to be held, and corrected, when she went too far.
When he pulled into the garage at their building, he didn't wait for her to stir.
He went around to the passenger side, unbuckled her, and lifted her out, ignoring the way her legs dangled loosely.
She felt weightless, a fragile thing that had been through a storm.
He carried her straight to the elevator, bypassing her floor, and swiped his key card to take them all the way up to the penthouse.
As the elevator rose, Bitsy began to hum—a low, mindless sound. She was deeply, profoundly little. The doors slid open to the penthouse, and the quiet luxury of his home swallowed them whole. He moved through the foyer, his footsteps muffled by the thick rugs, and went straight for the stairs.
She stirred then, her fingers loosening on his shirt. She blinked, looking up at the high ceiling, then down at the grand, sweeping staircase they were ascending.
"Daddy?" she whispered, her voice thick and sleepy. "Where... where are we?"
"We're going to my room, baby," he said, his voice deep and soothing. "You’re staying with me tonight."
She didn't fight it. She didn't pull back. She just sagged against him, a small, trusting sound bubbling in her throat. "Okay," she murmured, closing her eyes again.
He carried her into his bedroom, a space of dark tones and clean lines that usually felt stark but now seemed softened by her presence.
He laid her down across his comforter, the contrast of her pale skin and forest green sweater against the dark fabric making his breath hitch.
He stood over her for a moment, simply watching the way her chest rose and fell.
She looked so small here, in the center of his life.
"You stay right there," he commanded softly.
He didn’t take his eyes off her, instead circling the bed, his movements fluid and intentional.
He wasn't in a hurry. He wanted to savor this—the way she looked draped across his sheets, the undeniable fact that she belonged here, in his bed, in his space.
When he reached her, he leaned in, his shadow falling over her.
He watched her gaze trail over his shoulders and chest, her lips parting as the air in the room grew heavy and thick.
The little girl was still there, but the woman beneath was waking up, and the heat between them simmered, ready to boil over.
He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and crawled toward her.
He didn't say a word, just closed the distance until his lips were hovering millimeters from hers.
He felt the frantic beat of her heart, a drum thrumming in time with his own, as he reached out.
His hand slid under her sweater, his palm hot against her skin, and he slowly, deliberately pulled the fabric up, over her head, and tossed it into the dark.
She was wearing only her lace bralette now, her skin flushing under his intense, heavy-lidded scrutiny.
He pressed a searing, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point in her neck before finally finding her lips, devouring them with a hunger that had been building since the moment he picked her up at the office.
"You’re so beautiful, Itsy-Bitsy," he groaned against her mouth, the words raw and barely audible.
She reached for his collar, her fingers fumbling with his buttons, desperate to feel more of him.
She wanted to bridge the gap that he had carefully maintained, and her movements were clumsy, urgent, fanning the flames of his need until he felt like he was burning from the inside out.
When her hand dipped lower, grazing his belt, he caught her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly against the mattress beside her head.
Wait," he said, his voice tight, vibrating with the effort of holding back.
"Please, Daddy," she whimpered, her eyes wide, pleading, her little space colliding with a woman's desire. "I want you."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing ragged.
"I want you too. More than you can imagine.
" He kissed her again, a slow, deep collision of lips that tasted like redemption and want.
He felt her shift, her legs parting, an invitation that was impossible to ignore.
"But I need you to understand something.
When I claim you—and I am going to claim you—I am going to do it right.
I want you to be here, with me, in this moment, and I want to be able to show you everything you mean to me without any of the noise of the day getting in the way. "
She went still under his hands, her eyes searching his.
He could see the struggle between the little and the woman, and he loved her for both.
He leaned down and captured her mouth again, and as he deepened the kiss, his hands moved with expert, possessive confidence.
He tugged the leggings and panties down her legs in one fluid motion, baring her completely.
He was meticulous, a man who refused to rush what he intended to savor.
He started slow, his tongue tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, lingering there to feel the frantic pulse fluttering against his lips.
He followed the curve of her ribs, his hands roaming over her waist with a possessive, heavy heat, before working his way down to the lace of her bralette.
He paused, his breath hot against her skin, before he stripped the delicate garment away, leaving her bare and exposed beneath his gaze.
When he finally moved lower, the air in the room seemed to sharpen.
His mouth found her already slick and ready, her body pulsing with the hunger she was too overwhelmed to voice.
Her breath came in jagged, desperate gasps, hitching whenever his lips grazed the sensitive, heated skin of her inner thighs.
He didn't just tease; he worshipped, his tongue learning the cadence of her pleasure, finding every hidden spot that made her hips lift off the mattress in a needy, instinctive rhythm.
He loved the way she sounded—those high, thin cries that broke against his skin, fueling the fire in his own gut.
He coaxed her, driving her relentlessly toward the edge, circling the sensitive nub until she was shivering, her fingers tangling deep in his hair as she tried to pull him closer, deeper.
She was a woman unraveling, and he was the only thing holding her together.
He felt the moment she began to fracture, the way her hips bucked into him, unbidden and frantic.
Her head fell back against his pillows, her hair splayed out like a halo, and her eyes rolled back as the first wave hit her.
He didn't stop, didn't let up. He increased the pressure, his movements deliberate and maddeningly skilled, until she was crying out his name, her voice shattered and raw.
Her body convulsed in a powerful, shuddery release, the contractions rippling through her and dragging him right along with her.
He held her there, his hands bracing her hips, his palms pressed firm against her skin to keep her grounded as she went through the peak.
He stayed with her through the tremors, tracing the lingering sensitivity of her skin with his lips until her cries softened into low, rhythmic hums in the back of her throat, and she was left breathless and trembling beneath him.
He pulled himself up, settling back between her legs, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
She looked shattered in the best way possible, her eyes hazy, her hair a wild tangle against the pillows, and her breath still coming in shallow, ragged puffs.
He loved the sight of her like this—completely spent, entirely his.
"My good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her skin as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
She blinked up at him, still reeling from the waves of pleasure, and her hands drifted down, her fingers brushing against the waistband of his briefs.
She was moving sluggishly, her movements unfocused and hazy, but as her touch grazed him, he saw the sudden, instinctive spark of a woman reaching out for what she wanted.
He didn't let her get far. He caught her wrists, his grip firm but careful, and brought her hands up to his chest, holding them there against his heart.
"Easy, baby," he murmured, his gaze darkening with a promise he fully intended to keep. "You’ve given me everything I needed for tonight. Now, you just need to rest."
She looked up at him, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but it was eclipsed by the relief of being told exactly what to do. She nodded, sinking back into the pillows, her eyes heavy and already beginning to flutter shut.
He helped her into one of his oversized white T-shirts, the fabric swallowing her, the scent of his cologne clinging to her skin as the hem brushed against her thighs.
"I... I should go," she murmured, her voice weak, the protest lacking any real conviction as she curled into the spot he’d just vacated.
"Don't even think about it," he said, his voice dropping into that tone that brooked no argument. He brushed a thumb over her bottom lip, his gaze anchoring her in place. "You aren't going anywhere tonight, little girl. You're staying right here where you belong."
She didn't fight him, simply nodding as she sank back into the pillows, her eyes heavy.
He stood by the bed and quickly stripped, pulling off his shirt and tossing his pants aside until he was standing in nothing but his dark, form-fitting briefs.
He felt the weight of her gaze on him—intense, appreciative, and unmistakably hungry.
He reached out and turned the bedside lamp down, casting the room in a soft, golden glow, and climbed into the bed.
He pulled her back against him, her spine fitting perfectly into the curve of his body, his arm looping around her waist to pull her flush against him.
He could feel the residual heat of her, the softness of the T-shirt against his skin.
He leaned down, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.
She smelled of the shampoo she’d used that morning—a soft, lingering scent of jasmine and rain.
"Goodnight, Daddy," she whispered into the quiet, her voice small and content.
He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering against her hair, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. He knew the night had been hard, that the discipline had been a bitter pill, but as he felt her drift off in his arms, he knew it was necessary. She was home.
"Goodnight, Itsy-Bitsy," he replied, his voice barely a murmur.
He held her tighter, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, anchoring her to him, to the bed, to this moment.
The world outside the penthouse windows was vast and complicated, but here, in the dark, with her curled into his heart, everything was exactly as it needed to be.
He watched the moonlight trace the curve of her shoulder, the soft rise of the sheet, and he felt a profound, quiet sense of possession.
She was his little girl, she was safe, and as he closed his eyes, he allowed himself to finally, truly drift off, the scent of her hair the last thing he knew before the peace of the night took them both.