Bri laughs, and we say our goodbyes, ending the call.
I drag myself into the bathroom and turn the water on hot, steam filling the space as I step into the shower.
I scrub a hand over my face under the spray. Last night flashes back. The teasing texts with Mya knocked me off balance, and her bratty jokes actually managed to make me forget the issues with Vanessa for a while. And the moments in the bathroom at the club—Mya’s mouth, her taste, her sounds…
I was sure I’d toss and turn all night, eaten alive by rage over my ex-wife resurfacing. Instead, I slept deeply. Because of Mya. Somehow she makes me feel at ease, even though she’s also the source of half my fucking turmoil.
My cock throbs, insistent, and I give in. Wrapping my hand around the thick length, I stroke it, slowly at first, water pounding against my shoulders.
I close my eyes—and it’s Mya kneeling in front of me again, eyes wide, lips slick and swollen, calling meMr. Miller. My hips jerk, hand pumping harder, chasing the edge like I’m chasing her.
A guttural sound tears out of me as release takes over, scalding water and the memory of her taste tangling into one sweet high.
When I finally come down, I brace both palms against the tile, panting.
Mya is dangerous. But she’s the only thing keeping me steady.
As soon aswe step out of the last client meeting, I’m craving a stiff drink.
Hours of presentations, back-and-forth negotiations, and pretending not to notice the way Mya kept sneaking glances at me, drained me dry.
It’s early evening in Singapore, but with the jet lag and the long day, it feels closer to three in the morning. Everyone is tired, but instead of dispersing, Seraya—ever the social butterfly—pipes up.
“Dinner, everyone?” she asks, dropping her portfolio onto a nearby armchair. “We deserve something after that marathon.”
A chorus of agreement follows. Ethan throws out the name of a seafood place he knows, another colleague suggests something more upscale. But my mind is already drifting to the quiet solitude of my hotel room.
I don’t join in the conversation. I hang back, scrolling on my phone, listening.
Because what I’m really waiting for… is Mya’s answer.
“You in, Mya?” Seraya asks her.
Mya hesitates, and for a second I think she’ll say yes. But then she shakes her head. “Thanks, I think I’ll pass tonight. Room service and an early night sound better.”
The group groans, Ethan calling her a party pooper, and she laughs along, like it’s no big deal.
I slide my phone into my pocket.
“Enjoy yourselves,” I say smoothly to the group, stepping past them. They nod, already caught up in a debate over crab curry versus cocktails. None of them notice the way my gaze drags over Mya as I head for the elevators.
Back in my room, I toss my jacket onto the chair and loosen my tie. I grab the hotel phone off the nightstand and punch in the number for room service.
Then, I pour two fingers of scotch into a glass and wander to the window. Singapore’s skyline glitters. I should feel good about solidifying a new project, but all I can think about is Mya.
Her saying yes to the arrangement should’ve settled things. I thought I’d feel relief. Instead, there’s something about her that strips me down in ways I don’t want to admit. That makes me think of something I swore off years ago: permanence.
And that scares the shit out of me.
I take a long swallow, the burn scorching down my throat, hoping it’ll kill the thought. It doesn’t.
Then reality crowds in. Mya’s so much younger. She’s still figuring herself out, chasing her career, building her life. Meanwhile, I’ve got Brianna. My daughter is my whole world, and the last thing she needs is someone walking in half-prepared to play a role they’re not ready for. Mya doesn’t deserve that pressure, and Brianna doesn’t deserve the risk.
The bubble bursts. Maybe it’s better off this way—keeping her at arm’s length.
I down the rest of my drink, strip off my clothes, and step into the shower.
By the time I’m out, towel slung low on my hips, I hear the vibration of my phone on the counter.