Surrendering To The Billionaire's Lust.

17. In his bed again.

I hover at Wyatt's bedroom doorframe, my heart pounding. His room feels like forbidden territory, and the thought of entering—let alone getting into his bed—makes my palms sweat.

Wyatt moves past me, the warmth of his body briefly brushing against mine. I watch, frozen, as he approaches the bed and pulls back the covers with a casual flick of his wrist. He turns to me, his eyes meeting mine.

"Get in," he instructs, his voice low and inviting.

Heat rushes to my face. I'm sure I'm blushing furiously now, and I struggle to find my voice. "I... I don't want to—" I stammer, but Wyatt cuts me off.

"I said get in," he repeats, more firmly this time.

Something in his tone makes my protests evaporate. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm moving, my feet carrying me swiftly to the bed. I slip under the covers; the sheets cool against my flushed skin.

As I settle in, I can hardly believe where I am. Wyatt's scent surrounds me, and I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me. My heart continues to race, a mix of nerves and fear running through me.

I inch towards the edge of the bed, trying to maintain some distance between us. My eyes follow Wyatt as he moves across the room. The soft click of the lock sliding into place sends a shiver down my spine.

Wyatt turns back, and I quickly avert my gaze, pretending to be fascinated by a loose thread on the blanket. The mattress dips as he slides in beside me, and suddenly the air feels thick with tension.

His scent envelops me—a heady mixture of warm cedar and spice, with hints of leather and something wild, almost primal. It's distinctly masculine, reminding me of sun-warmed skin and the crisp air after a summer storm.

The scent is quintessentially Wyatt—complex, alluring, and utterly intoxicating. I can't help but breathe it in deeply, letting it fill my lungs and cloud my senses.

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to be held in his strong arms, to feel the warmth of his body against mine.

No. I mentally shake myself. I can't let my mind wander there. It was pointless doing so anyway.

"Are you comfortable?" Wyatt's voice breaks through my reverie, low and gentle.

I swallow hard, willing my voice not to betray how flustered I feel. "Yes," I manage to say, though it comes out as little more than a whisper.

My heart is racing so fast I wonder if he can hear it in the quiet of the room. I remain perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement might bring us into contact.

Minutes pass, feeling like hours. My mind races, replaying the events that led me here, to Wyatt's bed. Despite my nervousness, the gentle rhythm of Wyatt's breathing and the warmth of the bed begin to lull me.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I find myself fighting to stay awake. But it's a losing battle. Slowly, inevitably, I drift off to sleep, my last conscious thought a mix of anxiety and a strange, comforting sense of safety.

.

.

.

The next morning...

My eyelids flutter open, consciousness slowly seeping in. The first thing I notice is warmth—comforting, enveloping warmth. As my vision clears, I realize with a jolt that I'm no longer at the edge of the bed.

Somehow, during the night, I've migrated to Wyatt's side. No, not just his side—I'm practically on top of him, my head resting on his chest, our legs tangled together.

I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Wyatt's scent surrounds me, even more potent than before. His body radiates heat, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek.

Slowly, I tilt my head up, and my breath catches in my throat. Wyatt's emerald eyes are fixed on me, intense and unreadable.

I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us, of the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, of the slight stubble on his jaw, his thick and tussled hair begging me to run my hand through it.

The moment stretches on, feeling both eternal and far too brief. Finally, reality crashes back in, and I scramble away, my face burning.

"Sorry," I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

"Hmm," Wyatt says, his voice husky from sleep. He gets up, heading to the bathroom without another word.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I leap out of bed. I should leave—now—before this gets any more awkward. But as I reach the door, I hesitate. The bed is a rumpled mess. It feels wrong to leave it like this.

Before I can overthink it, I turn back and start straightening the sheets and smoothing the comforter. I'm so focused on my task that I don't hear the bathroom door open.

"Hazel?"

I whirl around to find Wyatt watching me, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Heat floods my cheeks again as I realize how this must look—me, still here, making his bed.

"I... I was just..." I stammer, searching for an explanation that doesn't sound ridiculous.

"You do know we have maids, right?" Wyatt asks, his tone amused.

I freeze, feeling heat rush to my face. Of course they have maids. How could I have forgotten?! I mentally face-palm, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

But as I look up, ready to make up an excuse, my words catch in my throat. Wyatt's standing there in just a pair of joggers, his chest bare. My eyes trace over his well-toned abs, and suddenly my mind is flooded with thoughts of wanting to use my tongue and explore every inch of him.

No, stop it! I scold myself. This is not the time for... that.

I'm so caught up in my internal battle that I almost miss Wyatt's movement. He's advancing towards me, slow and deliberate. My eyes widen, and I instinctively take a step back.

I look up into his beautiful green eyes seeing a mischievous smirk on his delicately handsome face which made my poor heart race even more.

For every step he takes forward, I retreat, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

The room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I can't breathe. I can't think. All I know is that if Wyatt gets any closer, I might combust on the spot.

In a moment of clarity, I spin around, fumbling to unlock his door. As soon as I hear it click, I yank the door open and practically throw myself into the hallway.

I lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Then I hear it – Wyatt's low chuckle from the other side of the slightly closed door. The sound sends another wave of embarrassment through me, and I feel my cheeks burn even hotter.

Clutching my chest, as if that could somehow calm my racing heart, I scurry down the hallway towards my room. I don't slow down until I'm safely behind my own closed door, still able to feel the phantom warmth of Wyatt's gaze on my skin.

What the hell just happened?