Chapter 47
MYA
Paris fits me in ways I didn’t expect.
I’ve been here for six months now, and the city has stopped feeling like a temporary escape and more like home.
I live in a shoebox of an apartment on Rue de Turenne, three blocks from the Paris office, with creaky wood floors, a slanted ceiling, and a balcony barely big enough for one chair and a mug of coffee.
But when I open the French doors in the morning and watch the street waking up—boulangerie downstairs, scooters whining, someone yelling in French about deliveries—it feels like I did the right thing coming here.
We had our first official site visit today on the W.H.M.
project, and everything was where it was supposed to be.
The structural team showed, permits were cleared, and the local architect didn’t pitch a fit about us Americans coming in to “modernize” history.
We actually got compliments. On a European site? That never happens.
I’m high off it.
I rent one of those electric scooters on the way home just because it’s sunny, and zip across the Seine, hair whipping behind me, grinning like an idiot. Paris glows at magic hour. It dares you to be sad.
I stop on the bridge and take a picture and send it to Seraya.
Look at me being Parisian.
A second later, she sends a photo back.
It’s a plant. A huge, ridiculous plant with a pink bow on it and a note.
Seraya:
RAFAEL LEFT THIS AT MY DOOR.
It says “for your oxygen”
WHO SENDS OXYGEN AS A GIFT???
I burst out laughing right there on the bridge.
Your landlord is in love with you and also unhinged.
Seraya:
I told him I don’t pay rent to date him then he said “we can negotiate”
COME BACK AND SAVE ME.
Sorry. I live in France now. Au revoir
I tuck my phone away, still smiling, and ride back to my place.
In the stairwell, my phone buzzes again. I glance down.
Worth:
Heard about the site visit. Congrats.
And my heart actually aches.
Worth and I have texted a handful of times since I got here. Always short and about work. Nothing more.
I stare at his message way too long.
I miss him.
I miss them.
But this time apart is doing what it was supposed to: I can breathe. The noise died down. People in Seattle moved on to the next scandal. I’m not “the gold digger” here; I’m just the project lead with good French and decent style.
I shove the phone into my pocket and climb the stairs.
That night, after a shower and leftover ratatouille out of a plastic container, I FaceTime Tiana.
We talk for a bit—about Paris, about how much lighter I look (her words), about how she’s thinking of doing a floral workshop, about how Griffin actually has a nice side when he’s not pretending to be made of cement.
She asks about work; I tell her the site visit went well and that I haven’t fallen off the scaffolding yet.
Then her face turns solemn. “And how’s your heart?”
“Quieter.”
“That’s not the same as happy.”
“It’s getting there.”
She studies me through the screen. “You talk to him?”
I shrug. “We’ve texted a couple times.”
Tiana sighs like she wants to say more but also knows I need to figure this one out myself. “Okay. Check in again tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
After we hang up, I lie there for a second in the dark, Paris humming outside, the Eiffel Tower doing its sparkle far, far away, and I finally pick up my phone to respond to Worth.
Thank you. Couldn’t have done it without the team.
Three dots pop up immediately.
Then my phone rings.
I bolt upright, heart hammering. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail. The bigger part wants to answer because I haven’t heard his voice in weeks and I miss it so much my chest hurts.
I swipe.
“Hey,” I say, breathless.
“Hi.” And just like that, I could cry. God, I missed that voice. Low and warm and a little rough as if he’s been talking all day.
I blink fast. “You called.”
“Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the faint clink of a glass. “Didn’t really plan it. Saw your text and just hit call.”
“What time is it there?”
“Middle of the day. You?”
“Past ten. I’m in bed.”
“Yeah?” There’s a smile in his voice now. “You decent, Mrs. Miller?”
I snort. “We’re not married anymore, remember?”
He goes quiet. “I remember.”
The silence after that one hurts.
I clear my throat. “Why’d you really call?”
He exhales, long. “I don’t know. I just wanted to hear you. That okay?”
My eyes burn. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
“I miss you, Mya.”
My throat closes. “I miss you too.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s letting himself feel it. “How’s Paris?”
“Pretty,” I say, wiping under my eye with my thumb. “Loud. Smells like bread. Tiny apartments.”
“You like it?”
“I do. I needed it.”
“I know,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “How’s Bri?”
“She’s good. She misses you too.”
I press the heel of my hand to my sternum like that will keep everything in. “When I’m ready to talk… about us, I will.”
“I know. Ball is in your court, Kitten.”
“Don’t call me that.” Though there’s no heat in it.
“No.” I can picture his smirk. “Not stopping.”
I laugh. “You’re annoying.”
“Maybe.” After a beat, he asks, “What are you wearing?”
I hesitate to reply because this can’t lead anywhere good. But the way his tone went down an octave, and the way my body instantly reacted to his voice… I know I won’t stop what’s coming.
“One of your t-shirts. The one with Freddie Mercury’s face on it.”
“I was wondering where that went.” Worth chuckles. “What’s underneath?”
“Nothing, panty thief.”
It’s crazy how we’re able to jump straight into our old ways, as if we haven’t spent any time apart.
“Speaking of panties, I still have a pair.” I hear him shuffling on the other side of the phone. “Right in my hand.” I hear him take an inhale.
“Worth…”
“Mya…” he echoes. “Touch yourself for me, pretty girl. Let me hear how much you’ve missed me. Please. I need it.”
Worth Miller begging will never get old.
I relent, knowing I can’t deny this man anything when he says please.
Reaching down between my legs, I rub a circle on my clit and hiss into the phone. A few more strokes and I’m panting, my orgasm already coiling tight.
“Fuck, Mya. You sound so good,” Worth says, groaning. “I’m rubbing my cock with your panties, thinking about how tight your cunt always feels around me.”
His words sear through me, pleasure rippling down my spine. My whole body tingles, aching to actually feel Worth’s hands on me.
Worth makes a low, whimpering sound. I can hear his hand rubbing up and down his shaft. It’s downright filthy, and I’m loving every second.
“Slip a finger inside that sweet pussy, baby. No. Two. And let me hear how wet you are for me.”
I do as I’m told, easing in my index and middle fingers, and crook them upwards to hit the perfect spot, using my other hand to continue flicking my clit. I can hear my arousal loud and clear.
“Oh, God. I’m getting close. I-I don’t know if I can… hold it,” I moan, struggling to get the words out. I’m frantic, rubbing my center as if it’s a matter of life or death.
I’ve masturbated since the last time Worth and I were together, but nothing compares to touching myself with his voice guiding me in my ear.
“I’m right there too, pretty girl. I wish I could taste you,” he growls. “Let go for me. Let me hear you scream my name.”
After several seconds of working myself to the brink of explosion, I come, seeing stars and screaming Worth’s name in a plea.
He follows suit, grunting loudly on the line, saying my name over and over like a prayer.
“Shit. I made a mess of your panties, baby,” he chuckles. “Check your phone.”
I take the phone off my ear and see a notification. When I open it, my eyes almost bulge out of their sockets.
It’s a photo of Worth’s still-hard cock wrapped in my thong, coated with his cum.
I stare at the picture for an embarrassingly long time.
“Mya?” Worth sounds amused.
“Uh—yeah. Wow. That’s…”
“Hot,” he supplies.
I giggle. “Yeah. I think so too. And unexpected.”
“But very much needed.”
As much as I want to stay in this little bubble, I have to pop it. “This doesn’t change anything, though.”
I hear the smile fade from his voice. “I know. Let’s just enjoy it for now.”
“Okay. Just for now.”
We keep talking until it’s stupid late in Paris and my eyes can barely stay open. It’s as if we’re both stretching out this tiny piece of heaven like we can make it last forever.
Eventually, I can’t fight it anymore.
“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay right here while you drift off.”
My heart actually hurts at how sweet he is. God, I love him.
I love you, Worth.
I think I hear Worth inhale sharply, but I’m too sleepy to wonder why.