Page 78 of Mr. Perfect

He turns on the hot water and wets the washcloth, adjusting the temperature and squeezing out the excess water before bringing it up to my face and washing me gently. He does it again, using a new washcloth, but this time he strokes me tenderly with it. Under my eyes, cleaning up my smeared makeup. Down my cheeks, my chin, my neck. He uses his legs to force mine open, then places the warm cloth between them, cupping my pussy before tossing both washcloths onto the floor.

“Shower?” he asks.

“For sure,” I say back.

“Then bed?” he asks.

“Then more?” I ask back.

I catch a sly grin spreading across his face. “I will never say no to more, Miss Hatcher.”

He gets everything ready, then he takes my hand and leads me into the shower, placing me under the wide stream of water pouring out from the ceiling. He squirts some shampoo into his palm and begins to wash my hair, careful to get every strand. I reach for the soap and begin caressing him with it. His perfect chest. His perfect shoulders. His perfect hips, and of course, his cock.

That’s all it takes to have him lift me up, press me against the white marble tiles, and fuck me against the wall. I know we’re not using condoms, and he comes inside me, but I’m on the pill and we can talk about that later if he wants. I’m sure he thinks of me as far too organized and efficient to not be.

After we’re spent—again—and clean, he wraps me in a white robe and leads me to bed.

I let it fall to the floor and then crawl where he’s opened up the covers for me.

He might not think he’s perfect. Obviously that was his point by having me hunt for him in his house.

But right now, I do. I think McAllister Stonewall is about as perfect as a man can get.

That is our weekend. Sex, and food, and showers, and more sex. More talking, but not a lot of the serious stuff. Mostly just the fun stuff. What we like to do. Music. Where we’d take the perfect vacation. Things he didn’t know about me from that message stream with his brother. That makes it all real. Before this weekend I was just a girl on text message who liked to fuck him at work. But now… I feel like we really know each other. Like we’re on our way to something new. A relationship, and not one that is delusional.

We’re real.

“Hey,” Mac says, leaning into my ear. “I gotta go into the office early, Ellie. You can sleep in if you want.”

“Oh, my God, what time is it?”

“Five thirty.”

“That’s just wrong. Five thirty on Monday? Why?”

“My… father’s meeting, remember? He scheduled it early.”

I open my eyes, instantly awake. “Does he need me there?”

Mac laughs and kisses me on the cheek. “No, just me. It’s all about me. You’re coming in today though, right? Don’t let that bitch Ellen fuck up your career, Ellie. Don’t let her win.”

We talked about this at length this weekend and there is a certain draw to Stonewall Senior’s offer. Part time. Delegate, he said. I think that might be the perfect answer for me. So much about this weekend has turned out perfect. And to think, Friday afternoon I felt like I was in a tailspin. The video. Jesus, how embarrassing. But Mac made a lot of good points that talked me down from the ledge about that. One, we’re hot as fuck on that video. And I’m not even naked. I was still wearing my dress. I personally don’t think that makes up for the fact that my ass was unzipped for that fuck, but I do have to agree. It was hot.

Two, hardly anyone saw it. We went through all the buildings with TV and Mac even called tech support to see which ones got the stream. And it was only the Atrium. Ming already said it was only up for two minutes. So despite the fact that everyone knows about it, not everyone saw it.

Three—and this one was just me, although I’m guessing Mac might be thinking something similar—every girl at that company is probably wishing she was me. Because McAllister Stonewall is a catch. For real. Hell, if I saw someone else getting fucked the way I was, I’d be wishing that was me.

So this is my justification for not running away this morning. For sucking it up and going into work. Maybe I can negotiate a work-from-home deal with Stonewall Senior? Weirder things have happened. Just look at my life these past two weeks.

“I’ll be in,” I tell Mac. “I don’t have anyone flying in until eight thirty. So I’ll be in at my normal time.”

“OK,” he says, giving me another kiss. “I’m late, so I gotta go. See you later.”

He pulls back and I roll over and watch him as he walks out of the bedroom. Lazily thinking about everything. This house, for one. How empty it is. Mac says he just moved in and didn’t bring anything with him but a few suits. He’s having stuff delivered this week. Some more personal things that he has at his house in… well, he never actually said. I did ask him a few times but somehow we ended up talking about something else.

Hmmm.

I’ll have to ask that again later when we have lunch.