Chapter 25 Bitsy
The room was quiet, filled with the rhythmic, steady sound of Wyatt’s breathing.
Bitsy lay perfectly still, afraid that even a twitch would shatter the fragile, heavy peace that had settled over her.
She was tucked tight against his chest, his arm heavy and possessive draped over her waist, his body heat radiating through the oversized shirt she was wearing.
It smelled like him—sharp eucalyptus and clean linen—and it was the only thing holding her together.
Last night felt like a fever dream, but the residual, tender ache in her muscles was a very real comfort.
She’d been a mess, a sobbing, scattered thing, and he had been the steady hand that caught her.
She shifted slightly, her brow furrowing.
Her bladder was full, a dull, nagging pressure that demanded attention.
She bit her lip, debating the risk of moving.
She didn't want to wake him; he looked so peaceful, his jaw softened, the lines of command usually etched into his face smoothed away by sleep.
With the delicacy of a thief, she began to inch backward.
She slid her torso down, trying to ease his arm off her waist without triggering his internal alarm.
She held her breath, sliding one leg off the edge of the mattress, then the other.
She pushed herself upright, her feet hovering inches above the carpet, preparing to make a run for the sanctuary of the en suite.
She was halfway across the room, feeling like she’d successfully pulled off the heist of the century, when a low, rough rumble stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Where are you sneaking off to, little girl?"
Bitsy jumped, a squeak of genuine terror escaping her throat. She spun around, hand clutched to her chest, to find Wyatt watching her through hooded, amused eyes.
"Oh my goodness," she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She clutched her chest, breath hitching in her throat as she stared at him. "You scared the life out of me."
He chuckled, the sound deep in his chest. "I have a sixth sense for when my little girl tries to abandon my bed. Now, where are you off to so early?"
"I have to pee," she admitted, her cheeks heating as she realized how un-glamorous that sounded. "Desperately. I’ve been trying to hold it for ages."
Wyatt watched her from the bed, his expression indulgent as he caught the faint flush rising on her cheeks.
He didn't reach for her, just let his hand fall back against the mattress, his fingers drumming a light, patient rhythm against the sheets.
"Then go on, little girl. I'll be waiting right here when you're done. "
She practically bolted into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
The room was massive, all marble and brushed chrome.
She hurried to the toilet, finally finding relief, and then stood before the expansive mirror, washing her hands.
She looked… different. Her hair was a wild, bird's nest of tangles, and there was a faint, pink-bruised look to her lips, but her eyes held a brightness she hadn't seen before.
She leaned in, tracing the line of her own jaw, trying to process the shift in her reality.
She was with Wyatt. She was in his home.
And for the first time, she felt like she was exactly where she belonged.
A soft knock at the door made her jump again. Before she could answer, the door swung open. Wyatt stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his presence instantly shrinking the size of the room. He was dressed only in a pair of grey boxer briefs, his skin golden in the low light.
"Everything alright in here?" He asked, his voice low.
"Yes, just… processing," she said, offering a small, lopsided smile.
He walked over, his movements fluid and predatory in the best way possible.
He didn't stop until he was standing directly behind her, his reflection looming over hers in the glass.
He placed his hands on her waist, his thumbs pressing into her hips, and leaned down, resting his chin on her shoulder.
The intimacy of it—the sheer size difference, the way he occupied all her space—was suffocatingly sweet.
"Processing what, exactly?" He murmured, his breath tickling her ear.
"Everything," she murmured, closing her eyes as his lips began a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive line of her neck. "It’s all so much—being here, with you, this whole new beginning. It’s all still sinking in."
He turned her around, his hands sliding up to frame her face.
He kissed her then—slow, deliberate, and maddeningly gentle.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate kiss of the night before, but it was arguably more dangerous.
It started low in her stomach; a coil of anticipation that made her knees feel like jelly.
When he pulled back, he looked satisfied, his eyes dark with intent.
"We have a full day ahead of us," he said, his thumbs grazing her cheeks. "But first, we need to eat. Do you want to venture out into the world, or should we stay in our little bubble and order something?"
Bitsy thought about it. The idea of putting on real clothes, navigating elevators, and facing the city—even the world of Enigma—felt like too much. "I want to stay," she whispered. "I like our little bubble."
"A wise choice," he said, turning back toward the bedroom. He walked over to the bedside table, picking up his phone. He tapped a few buttons, scrolling through an app as he came back to her. "What are you craving?"
"Anything, honestly. Just… nothing bland, and definitely nothing that tastes like it came from a cheap grease trap."
He smirked, placing the order with efficient speed, making sure to add a large, ice-cold sweet tea to the delivery.
Once the order was placed, he gestured for her to move toward the door, his hand resting firmly, possessively, on the small of her back.
"While we wait, how about a proper tour?
You've only seen the bedroom and the hallway. "
He took her room by room, and Bitsy found herself genuinely floored.
The home was a masterpiece of mid-century modern design—sleek lines, warm woods, and floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a panoramic view of the skyline.
It felt curated, but with a personality that mirrored his: organized, powerful, and impeccably sharp.
When they reached the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, he pressed his thumb to a scanner on the door, and it hissed open.
"My office," he announced.
Bitsy stepped inside and her inner tech-nerd let out a literal gasp.
It wasn't just an office; it was a command center.
Three massive, ultra-wide monitors curved around a custom-built, wood-topped desk.
Beneath it, a humming rack of servers glowed with soft, blue LED lights, and the desk itself was a labyrinth of specialized hardware, mechanical keyboards, and audio equipment.
"Oh, wow," she whispered, walking toward the screens. She recognized the coding environment open on the center screen—it was a heavy-duty data analysis suite she’d only ever read about.
She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from the keyboard.
"This is… this is insane. Do you have a dedicated fiber line for this? "
Wyatt watched her, his expression softening with genuine surprise. "Yes, I do. You know what you're looking at?"
"I know enough to know that this setup costs more than my entire salary from last year," she laughed, finally looking up at him. "It’s beautiful.”
He moved to stand beside her, his hand resting on the back of her chair.
"You know, the spare room across the hall is currently being used for storage, but it has the same layout and wiring as this one.
If you wanted, I could have my team set it up with hardware equivalent to this by the end of the week. Yours."
Bitsy stared at him. "You’re nuts," she said, shaking her head. "You don't mean that. That’s… that’s thousands of dollars of tech. I’m just a guest."
His expression turned instantly serious, his hand sliding from the chair to her shoulder, pulling her slightly toward him.
"You’re not a guest, Bitsy. You’re mine.
And I want you to have the tools you need to do whatever it is that makes your brilliant mind tick.
I don't give empty promises. We’ll get you set up. "
She felt a lump form in her throat, a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. It wasn't just the computers; it was the fact that he saw her—the nerd, the tech-obsessed girl—and didn't just accept it, but wanted to fuel it.
"I… okay," she whispered. "Thank you."
Before he could say more, the muffled sound of a doorbell echoed from downstairs.
"Breakfast," he said, his eyes crinkling. "Go have a seat at the table. I'll handle the logistics."
She moved toward the kitchen and dining area, but as she sat down on the hard, solid wood of the chair, a sharp, sudden ache flared in her backside.
The sensation acted like a jolt of electricity, bringing back the memory of the night before—the office, her over his knee, the sensation of his hand firm and rhythmically punishing against her skin.
Her face went fire-engine red, and she shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the reminder was persistent.
Her body was still reeling from the discipline, the sheer vulnerability of it.
Wyatt appeared a moment later, holding two paper bags.
He set them on the table with a quiet thud and looked at her, his gaze lingering on her face.
She felt his eyes lingering on her face, dissecting every reaction.
He saw the way she shifted, the way her cheeks flushed even deeper, and his lips curled into a knowing, dangerous smirk.
"Trouble sitting, little girl?"
"You're cruel," she grumbled, though she couldn't suppress the small smile that tugged at her lips.