The Perfect Man (7 page)

He took his time, trying this or that, gauging my reactions, repeating maneuvers and discarding others. I squirmed as the pressure increased, seeking an outlet. My hips rose. Over and over. Pumping against his mouth. He lashed his tongue over my clit, then pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. “You gonna come for me, Hannah? You going to come all over my tongue?”

I was. He slid two fingers inside my cunt, crooked them, twisted them, scissored them to spread the swollen tissue. I cried out, the orgasm knocking me down in a brutal, hard punch.

Panting, I watched Alex prowl up my body, wiping his mouth and chin with his hand. He reached for a condom, but before he could roll it on, I took it from him, working it down his cock, circling the base with my fingers and squeezing tight.

“Lie back for me,” he rasped. I held out my arms for him, needing him close, needing his weight, his hips pinning mine. With a long, slow push, he stretched me again, and I wanted to weep, it felt so good.

I tilted my hips up and he growled, sliding in just a bit further. “Did I mention I love your cock?” I rasped. I clenched around him, needing to hear him moan. Needing everything. Needing
him
. “How thick it is. Fits me so well.”

To silence me, he plundered my mouth, tongue thrusting in concert with his hips, his cock stroking places inside I didn’t know existed. He hit something deep, over and over, the head of his dick rubbing it. “
Fuck!
” Whatever he was doing, it spun the dial on my arousal all the way up, and the power of it raced through me. I slid my hands down and pressed on his ass, trying to take in more of him. If I could tear myself open and swallow him whole, I would.

He licked a line up my throat. “You feel amazing. Tight. Hot. Will you come for me?” I would; the throbbing was almost unbearable. I whimpered in response. “Hold on just a little longer, sweetheart.”

I didn’t think I could. He plied me with deep, unhurried strokes, nerve endings lighting up with anticipation. He had me almost blind with need, the orgasm growing and growing, never breaking. I couldn’t take much more of this. I had to come.

“Bear down, Hannah.” He pushed the command out through gritted teeth, and I did as he asked. Release scorched me from the inside out, robbing me of air, of thought, of consciousness. There was nothing but the bright white fire, licking my bones and turning me to dust. As the fire receded, my hands slipped off his ass, and he stiffened above me, his groan low and broken.

I was ruined. Utterly ruined.

*

The scent of sex hung in the air, the musk of it clinging to the sheets. I cracked an eye and took in the light in the room. Morning, from the looks of it. I considered snuggling under the blankets and going back to sleep. Or maybe I’d take advantage of Alex. I rolled over.

The other side of the bed was empty.

I sat up and pushed my hair behind my ears. Remy and Lucien were curled around each other at the foot of the bed, and I glanced at the bedroom door. It was cracked open. I distinctly remember him closing it the night before after he’d dealt with the last condom. I pushed the blankets back and padded out of the room.

He wasn’t in the kitchen. Or my office. Or the living room. His clothes were gone. I went back to the kitchen, where I’d left my phone. There was a piece of paper on it. A sticky note.

I'm sorry
.

This wasn’t funny. It was funny on
Sex and the City
. It wasn’t funny in real life. I crumpled the note and swiped my phone awake. I found the text string we’d started last night and sent him a message.
What do you mean, you're sorry?

My hand trembled as I held my phone, waiting for his response. I set it on the counter before I dropped it, only to scoop it back up as it chimed with a new text.

I thought I could do this. Too fucked in the head, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I should have stopped.

The world swayed and spun. Had last night been horrible? Were all those words, those pretty, pretty words, were nothing more than lies?

The phone clattered on the countertop as I dug my fingers into the unforgiving surface, seeking purchase. One night. A fantasy. One perfect night. It hadn’t been real. I hadn’t met a man at a speed dating event and taken him home. He hadn’t danced with me in the snow or made me come so hard I saw stars. It was a dream. A really fantastic one.

The sooner I accepted that, the better off I’d be.

Cold, wrapped in a fog, I walked into the bedroom. I should take a shower. Get dressed. I pulled on my robe and turned to the bed.

His hands on my skin. Those hot, broken groans. The vague soreness between my legs, a keen reminder that last night had definitely happened.

My mind shut off. I stripped the sheets from the bed and dumped them in the washing machine, added detergent and turned it on. I cleaned up the pots from dinner, rinsed our dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher, put away the marshmallows, and, once the washing machine filled, got in the shower and scrubbed my skin raw.

I picked up my clothes and threw them in the hamper and made up the bed with fresh sheets. I had things to do. Projects to finish. If the streets had cleared enough, I probably ought to do some grocery shopping. Who knew when the next storm would blow through?

On my way through the kitchen, I picked up my phone.

You and me, this is real.

No, it wasn’t. My mistake had been believing it could be. Alex was a blip on my radar, already out of range. With surprisingly steady fingers, I deleted our texts, then located his contact information and deleted that as well. Errands. Projects. I didn’t have time to put my life on hold, even for a day.

I burst into tears.

*

I ended up moping the whole weekend. I left my phone off and ignored my deadlines, watching every Joseph Gordon-Levitt movie I owned. By Monday, I couldn’t put off those errands any longer. My cupboards were running on empty, and I was down to my last scoop of kitten food. Delivery was sketchy, due to the snow, so I bundled up to wade down the street to the store four blocks away. Getting out of the house would probably be good for me, too. Show the world I wasn’t grieving for a relationship I’d never have.

Someone in the building had cleared off the front walk, deadending at the sidewalk no one had bothered to shovel. Huddled against the light pole was a tall man, hat jammed over his ears, scarf up to his nose, posture so stiff to keep from shivering he’d likely be sore the next day. It was
cold
.

I gave him a cursory glance and turned toward the store.

“Hannah.”

I never thought I’d hear that voice again. I pushed the pain down, smashed it back into its box, and faced him. “Hi, Alex.”

He pushed his scarf down from his nose and took a step forward, stopping when I stayed where I was. “I tried to call you.”

“I had my phone off.”

“Oh.” His breath clouded the air. His next forward step was halted when I backed away. “Christ. Hannah, I’m sorry. When you wouldn’t answer the phone, I came here to apologize and explain.”

“You already said you were sorry,” I pointed out.

“I mean for leaving in the first place.”

I shook my head. “I don’t—”

“No.” The force in the word had me taking another step back. “I need to say this. I screwed up. I woke up that morning, it was barely light out, and I panicked.” He swallowed audibly. “The only other time I’ve felt like this about someone this quickly was with my fiancée. She was killed in a car accident three years ago.”

Old pain ghosted over his face, and I softened, just a little bit. As reasons went, it was a valid one. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He shut his eyes. “Might not seem like it, but I
am
ready to move on. Callie’s gone. You’re not, and I’d be a fool to let you get away because I was scared. And if I’d taken a few moments that morning instead of bailing before I put on my coat, I wouldn’t have left. I called you and you wouldn’t pick up. So I came here. You wouldn’t answer the door.”

So that’s who’d been buzzing me.

“I figured you were out. I waited for you to come home. You didn’t. I came back yesterday, same thing. Hannah, I’m sorry. I fucked this up, and I don’t deserve another chance. I’m asking for one anyway.” Pain warred with determination, chasing each other over his face, and my heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to sigh and melt or harden and kick him in the ass.

He’d screwed up. It was possibly the screw up to end all screw ups. He left without explanation. I gave him plenty of chances to slow down, back up, and he’d plowed full steam ahead, sweeping me along with him. I could take responsibility for my own heartbreak. He would have to do the same.

“When Jonah broke off our engagement,” I said slowly, “he was blunt. He never had any intention of marrying me. It hurt, but it was an explanation.” Icy air seared my throat. “When you walked out of my apartment, you left me with a sticky note. Your text made it clear I should move on.” I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. “If I wouldn’t take Jonah back, a man I loved, a man who when he walked away offered me a reason, why would I give you another chance, when you didn’t give me a reason in the first place?

“You gave me one night. It was beautiful, a fantasy I didn’t even know I had. Please let me keep that,” I whispered.

His face closed off, those dark eyes hardened, and I turned away. Maybe I was making a mistake, but I had to think about what was best for me. And if he’d already hurt me this much, I couldn’t risk letting him close enough to do it again.

The good thing about the cold was I was numb all the way through by the time I reached the store.

*

The first letter arrived the next day.

The address bore my first name, no last name, yet it found its way to my mailbox anyway. The return address was A. Sagalla.

The envelope shook as I tried to open it. Giving up, I walked upstairs, clutching my mail to my chest. I dumped my keys in the bowl by the door, peeled off my coat, scarf, and boots, and curled up on the couch, disturbing the kittens. Lucien crawled over and into my lap, followed by Remy.

It wasn’t a letter so much as a list.

My favorite color is gray.

Favorite movie: Goodfellas

Book: For Whom The Bell Tolls

90's band: Soul Coughing

On February 14th, I met the most incredible woman. On February 15th, I lost her.

God fucking dammit.

I dropped the paper on the floor as the first tear splashed down. Remy mewed and climbed up my arm. Why was I crying
again
? Pathetic. I let the tears run free for a minute, Remy’s fur absorbing the worst of the storm, before I gently set him aside, scrubbed the damp from my cheeks, and picked the letter up. It belonged in the trash.

I put it in a drawer instead.

For the next three days, I received a letter. Alex told me everything, from the time he’d slept walked into his closet and pissed in his Castle Grayskull, to his nickname in high school.

I have three younger sisters, all of whom are married.

My mother's convinced I'll never give her grandkids. She's right. I love my nephews, but I don't want kids of my own. Shit. Probably shouldn't have said that, right? Couple of buddies struck out in the end when it came down to the question of kids. They didn't want them, the girlfriend did, and they had to split up.

The first stamp in my passport is Manila. We went to visit my dad's parents when I was four. Oh, yeah, I'm half Filipino.

I played soccer in college. Striker.

And every one of them ended with same line.

On February 14th, I met the most incredible woman. On February 15th, I lost her
.

I didn’t cry again after the first one. But I kept all of them, all four, in the same drawer, and I didn’t know what I’d do on Sunday when there was no mail delivery. Those letters, those pieces of Alex, were fast melting the ice in my veins.

Snow blew through the city again, burying the streets under a fresh, thick layer of it, snarling traffic and testing patience. I curled up on the couch to work, rather than in my office, because the fireplace was in the living room and since it was snowing again, a fire seemed appropriate.

The fire was down to embers and it was edging toward two in the morning when the lobby buzzer went off. I bobbled my laptop and almost dropped it, my heart thumping hard enough to break through my rib cage. I carefully set the computer on the coffee table. The neighborhood was a safe one. The weather had been keeping people indoors for the most part. There’d been no sirens, no screeches or yelling. Because of the way the apartment was laid out, you could see the lights on in my apartment if you were down in the parking lot—my unit took up the back half of the floor, the other unit the front half.

Whoever was at the door most likely knew me or lived in the building

I got up and went to answer. “Hello?”

“It’s Alex.”

Alex. Alex was ringing my doorbell at two AM. Alex was standing outside my building in the freezing cold and snow.

“Come on up.”

I released the door and unlocked the deadbolt on my apartment door. A few seconds later I heard the thuds of his footsteps on the stairs and opened the door.

He had an envelope in his hand, and he held it out as soon as he was close enough for me to take it. “I didn’t get a chance to stop by the post office, and I didn’t think they’d be running mail routes tomorrow anyway,” he said quietly. The light spilling from my apartment caught his face, and I drew in a breath. He looked exhausted.

I grabbed his coat sleeve. “Come in.”

He shook his head. “Sweetheart, I’d be fucked up company tonight.”

“I don’t care.” I pulled him through the door. “Take off your coat and go sit down.”

He must have been really out of it, because he didn’t argue, just unzipped his coat, pulled his hat off and stuck it in a pocket, then threw the whole business over one of my kitchen stools. I followed him into the living room, curling up on the opposite end of the couch as he slumped down. He still held the envelope in his hand.