Chapter 27 Bitsy
The command hung in the air, vibrating against the walls of the office like a live wire.
Bitsy felt the breath vanish from her lungs, replaced by a sudden, frantic thrumming in her veins.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like pace that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.
She was mortified—the mere thought of where they were, the possibility of someone walking in, sent a scorching heat climbing up her neck—but her body didn’t know how to refuse him.
It had forgotten how to say anything but yes.
She watched his face, searching for a trace of hesitation, but found only the familiar, steady expectation.
He wasn't joking. He wasn't testing her.
He was claiming her. Her knees felt weak, and as she began the slow, weighted descent to the floor, her hands trembled.
She sank down until she was kneeling before him; the plush carpet soft beneath her shins.
She was small, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy, and the realization was both terrifying and intoxicating.
He stood motionless, his gaze locked onto hers.
His presence loomed over her, a heavy, warm weight that made her feel safe even in the face of what was coming.
Then, with a deliberate, steady motion, he reached for his belt.
The metallic clink of the buckle was the loudest sound in the room, slicing through the quiet.
He worked the button with steady fingers, the zipper following with a sharp, insistent hiss that made her mouth go dry.
When he pushed his trousers down, her breath hitched, catching in a throat suddenly tight with anticipation.
She had spent countless sleepless nights fantasizing about this exact moment, but the reality shattered all her mental rehearsals.
He was magnificent: an imposing silhouette that commanded the air in the room, and the sudden, vivid sight of his cock sent a treacherous, hollow ache blooming deep in her core.
She was transfixed, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of him; her lips slightly parted in a silent gasp.
Every instinct she possessed screamed for her to reach out and map the texture of him with her fingertips, but she remained frozen in place, a good girl waiting for him to tell her exactly what to do next.
"Look at me, Bitsy," he murmured.
She dragged her gaze up to his, her face flushed, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of raw desire and a touch of that lingering, shy uncertainty.
"Open," he commanded softly.
She leaned forward, her movements fluid and eager to please.
As she took him in, the sheer size of him stretched her jaw and filled her mouth and throat completely, a heady, overwhelming sensation that made her head spin.
She adjusted to the rhythm he set, keeping her pace deliberate and focused, determined to show him that she understood exactly how to serve him.
His hand moved, tangling firmly into her hair.
He didn't pull—he guided. He wrapped the strands around his fingers, a firm, grounding sensation that tethered her to him, using the leverage to steer her.
Every time she reached the limit of her capacity, he brought her back, his pace increasing, his control over her undeniable.
"That’s it, good girl," he breathed, the praise hitting her like a physical weight, warming her from the inside out. "Don't you stop. Take it all."
She felt a thrill of pride, a golden, glowing sensation that made her want to work even harder.
She didn’t care about the office, or the risks, or the possibility of being caught; she only cared about the way his breathing hitched, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, and the way he looked at her—as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.
He leaned down, his voice a low, gravelly promise near her ear. "I want you to swallow every drop for me, sweet girl. Don't leave a single bit behind."
She didn't need to be told twice. She focused on the pressure of his hand, the way he commanded her movements, her entire world narrowing down to the taste and the heat of him.
She felt the tension in his legs, the way his muscles bunched as he neared the edge, and her own anticipation spiked, a jagged, electric current.
When he reached his climax, it was intense and overwhelming, and she stayed right with him, taking everything, drinking him in, desperate to be the girl he needed her to be.
He kept his hand tangled firmly in her hair, holding her close, while his other hand came up to brush his thumb tenderly along her cheek.
His eyes remained dark and heavy with satisfaction as he watched her.
"You are such a good girl," he murmured, his tone thick with affection, that specific kind of pride that made her feel entirely cherished. "So, so perfect."
She felt herself softening, melting against his knees.
She was exhausted, her lips sensitive, her pulse finally beginning to level out, but she felt a profound sense of peace.
He wiped a thumb beneath her chin, a gesture of quiet possession, a tender acknowledgement of her devotion.
He stood up, adjusted his clothes, and reached down, pulling her up with him.
He smoothed her hair back, his hand lingering on her neck.
He held her there for a long moment, simply letting her lean into him, the aftercare silent and grounding.
It was his way of saying that she was safe, that she was his, and that the world outside couldn't touch her while they were together.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of quiet, productive tension.
Bitsy found herself moving through her tasks with a renewed sense of focus.
Every time she looked up and saw Wyatt watching her from his desk, a small, secret smile touched her lips.
They didn't talk about what had happened, but the air between them was thick with a new, unspoken intimacy.
She felt like she was walking on air, the praise still ringing in her ears, her entire being aligned with his.
As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Bitsy and Wyatt emerged from their office into the main area. Silas and Hudson were already there, chatting near the exit.
"We’re wrapping up for the day," Silas said, nodding toward the door. "You two heading out as well?"
Wyatt stood close to Bitsy, his movements fluid and powerful. "We are," he replied, his focus entirely on her as she gathered her bag.
"Don't stay up too late," Hudson added, a teasing edge to his voice that made Bitsy’s cheeks burn, though she couldn't help but smile. "We need you sharp tomorrow."
Wyatt offered a short nod, his hand already finding the small of her back as he guided her toward the elevator. "I'll be plenty sharp."
Once they were out of the building and into the car, the silence was comfortable, charged with the same electricity that had been humming in the office all day. Wyatt glanced over at her, his expression softening. "I'm not in the mood for an elaborate dinner," he murmured. "How does pizza sound?"
Bitsy felt her heart lift. It was such a normal, domestic suggestion, and yet, coming from him, it felt like an invitation into a secret world. "Pizza sounds really good actually."
They stopped at a local place on the way home, the scent of dough and cheese filling the car.
Bitsy sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights blur by, feeling a strange, wonderful sense of belonging.
She wasn't the girl who had been worried about her place in the world just a few weeks ago; she felt as though she had finally come home.
When they reached the penthouse, the silence of the space was warm and inviting.
They moved to the dining table, the pizza box centered between them.
Wyatt opened it, the steam rising into the cool air of the room.
He went to the fridge, grabbed two bottles of water, and set them on the table, his movements precise and calm.
He pulled her chair out for her before taking his own, then picked up a slice and placed it on her plate. "Eat, little one," he said, his voice quiet and steady as he pushed the plate toward her.
They shared the meal in a comfortable, easy silence, content just to be in each other’s presence.
"You're quiet tonight," he said eventually.
Bitsy took a slow sip of her water, enjoying the way he held her gaze. "I'm just thinking."
"About?"
"About how different everything is," she said softly. "I never thought I'd be here. I never thought I'd be... this."
Wyatt reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His palm was warm, his thumb tracing the back of her hand, a steady, rhythmic motion. "You were always meant to be here, Bitsy. You just needed someone to help you find your way."
The weight of his words settled in her chest, heavy and true. She didn't have to fight him, and she didn't have to wonder where she stood. He was the force that held her, the boundary that kept her safe, and the only person who truly understood the language of her heart.
They ate slowly, their conversation drifting from the mundane details of the upcoming days to quiet, personal things—small joys and fond memories.
As the last of the pizza was cleared away, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
The gentle warmth of the afternoon had evolved into something sharper, more deliberate, and far more intense.
Wyatt stood, his gaze never leaving her. He walked around the table, stopping behind her chair. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, his fingers kneading the tension from her muscles.
"You look tired," he murmured, his voice a low, delicious vibration near her ear.
"I'm not," she whispered, her voice barely a sound.
"Good," he said, his hands sliding down to her waist, pulling her up from the chair. Once she was standing, he turned her to face him, his hands remaining firm on her hips.
The intensity in his eyes was unmistakable, a dark, hungry promise that made her knees weak all over again.
He didn't say anything else, but he didn't need to.
He simply leaned down, his lips brushing against hers, and Bitsy knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that everything they had built today was about to change.
She leaned into him, her hands rising to his chest, ready for the next step, and the anticipation of what lay in the bedroom finally brought a fever to her skin that couldn't be quenched until he had completely undone her.
Wyatt swept her up into his arms, the strength in his embrace leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. As he carried her toward the bedroom, Bitsy held onto him, her eyes locked on his, watching as the world outside the penthouse faded into insignificance.
In the dim light of the room, he carried her to the center of the space and set her down on the floor, but he didn't step away.
Instead, he kept her pressed firmly against him, his presence radiating heat in the cool evening air.
Every touch was a claim, a reminder of the quiet dominance he exerted over her world and the profound relief she felt in finally letting go of the reins.
As he began to undress her, his movements were deliberate, unhurried, and calculated to draw out every ounce of her anticipation.
She watched him, mesmerized by the focused expression on his face, feeling that same familiar, intoxicating sense of surrender wash over her.
It wasn't just the physical pull that drove them; it was the unspoken understanding that they had arrived at a new threshold.
He guided her, moved her, and commanded her attention with a precision that left her breathless, and with every touch, Bitsy felt the last remnants of her old life falling away.
She didn't just feel seen—she felt completely, utterly his.