It was the last thing I ever could have imagined hearing from him. And unexpectedly, that made me produce an embarrassing sound into the phone. A shocked, wanton, needy little moan.
God, to be wanted in that way by someone like Matthew Bloomberg. To be claimed, protected, cherished. So that, for a little while at least, I didn’t have to be scared or small or lonely or failing.
I could be his.
Until I could be my own again.
I briefly thought about telling him he’d got it wrong. That I wasn’t extraordinary at all. But, honestly, I’d rather he kept his flattering delusions. Even if they made me feel like a con man. Who cares anyway?
“Can we”—I asked—“c-can we pretend I’m yours?”
He let out a long, not-quite-steady breath and I thought he was going to refuse. I couldn’t have blamed him,
