Page 26 of Pretending I'm Yours

And it’snota problem.

Most likely.

I doubt I’ll know anyone hanging out at her economy brand hotel on Christmas, but I spend my fair share of time in Midtown. Before I left the firm, I had meetings in the area at least once a week. The chances that we could run into someone I know while we’re out grabbing breakfast this week or wandering through one of the neighborhoods that I’d love to show her are better than decent. New York is a big city with a huge population, but I’ve lived here for forty years and have the network to show for it.

A network that loves brunch in Chelsea and Greek food in Williamsburg as much as I do…

I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my real identity a secret.

I should end this now. Walk away before Maya discovers that I’m not who I’m pretending to be. Before her moment of independence and empowerment is ruined by learning that her “escort” is a jaded billionaire who’s abused her trust.

Before I get in any deeper with this woman who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years…

But when Maya shifts closer, pressing a soft kiss to my jaw as she whispers, “Still. Thank you. I appreciate it,” I don’t even think about pulling away.

I can’t walk away from this sweet, sexy woman.

She deserves to have all her erotic dreams come true and, selfishly, I can’t stomach the thought of another man touching her. I want to be the man making her come, the one to make her feel safe enough to ask for everything she wants, everything she needs. I want to indulge her in every fantasy and then teach her a few things she might not have gotten around to fantasizing about yet.

I want to be her first.

You want to be her only, a possessive voice whispers in my head, but I ignore it. That kind of thinking has no place here. This is temporary. A week of pleasure, nothing more.

But it’s a week I’m going to make the most of, no matter how much smarter it would be to bail first thing tomorrow morning.

The driver turns onto Fortieth and slows far too close to Penn Station for my comfort. I look up, shocked to see the neon sign for The Traveler’s Rest glowing above a building with boarded up windows covered in graffiti. “This is where you’re staying?”

“It’s not that bad,” Maya says with a laugh. “I mean, yes, it’s a little scary from the outside, but the room is really clean. And this was one of the only places that accepted pets around here. And it’s only for a week.” She reaches for the door, stepping out onto the trash-littered curb.

After thanking the driver, I follow her with a dubious grunt.

“I promise the room isn’t bad,” she continues, leading the way toward the steps, fishing her key from her purse. “And it’s a nice size for New York. My mom and I came to the city to see a musical for her birthday a few years ago and we could barely get both our suitcases inside the room. We kept bumping into each other and left covered in bruises.”

“Older hotels do tend to have tiny rooms,” I agree, doing my best to keep an open mind as she taps the keycard to a sensor that lets us into the lobby.

The lobby, which smells like feet and stale coffee with a top note of aggressive cologne thanks to the exhausted looking man at the front desk who barely manages a mumbled, “Welcome back,” as we start toward the stairs…

“The elevator is broken,” Maya whispers as we climb. “But it’s only four flights up and you’re in way better shape than I am.”

I grunt again, fighting the urge to tell her that I’m moving her to a boutique hotel in the heart of safe, bougie Chelsea right fucking now. I’ll find one that accepts cats or bribe them with a large enough deposit that they’ll make an exception for her.

But I’m not supposed to be a billionaire who can afford five-star hotels. I’m supposed to be an escort who lives in a modest apartment in the East Village.

Still, the higher we climb, the tighter my jaw clenches. The stairs smell even more like feet and despair than the lobby, and the peeling wallpaper and water stains on the ceiling are doing nothing to change my low opinion of this dump.

Maya’s breathing harder by the time we reach the fourth floor, but when a loud yowl sounds from down the hall, she breaks into a jog, rushing past the doors of three other rooms before coming to a stop in front of the last door on the left and urgently tapping her key to the sensor.

I don’t believe in bad omens, but if I did, the crooked “13” on the battered wood would be a solid one.

“Pudge?” Maya’s voice rises with concern as she taps the key again and again, while the device continues to buzz and flash a red light. “What’s wrong, baby? I’m coming. Hold on!”

Finally, the sensor recognizes the key card, and she throws open the door.

Inside, the room is smaller than she let on and boiling hot, with more peeling wallpaper and a window that doesn’t quite close. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner is strong, but it can’tovercome that damp, foot smell that I’m beginning to think is due to some kind of mold.

Probably a mold that would make a person sick if they stuck around this hellhole for too long. Maybe that’s why the man at the front desk had puffy eyes and a red nose.

“Pudge? Pudge, where are you?” Maya asks, raising her voice to be heard over the radiator in the corner. It makes an ungodly sound, like a garbage disposal gargling a handful of spoons. “Pudge?”

---