The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (11 page)

Axel exhaled loudly. “You two take it—eight o’clock, on the agency.” His scrutiny landed on me. “That’s an order if you want a job Monday morning.”

His glare shifted to Bradley. “Drown your differences with a couple of stiff cocktails. Does wonders for Michelle and I. Less chance of a brawl in public.”

Axel slammed his own office door and then reopened it. “There are pluses and minuses in every relationship. Make a fucking list.”

AN EIGHT O’CLOCK reservation gave me just enough time to dash home, shower, and change, but no room to ransack my wardrobe. Damn! One of my favorite things to do before a hot date was to try on half a dozen outfits.

A hot date.
 

I slowed down for half a second. Is that what this was? It had been a long time since a date, hot or otherwise, made me this nervous and trembly. I pushed hangers along the closet pole until I came to the one dress that fit the occasion.

When in doubt, the raspberry-red sheath.
 

My go-to, insanely sexy dress with the low, square-cut neckline. A demi-cup bra gave my boobs extra bounce and featured a hint of raspberry lace with every breath I exhaled. And just to make sure that all parts were edible. I took a long hot shower and used plenty of touch-of-summer body lotion.

At 7:15, I buzzed him upstairs.

When the knock came, I aimed a spritz of Jo Malone cologne down the hallway and stepped through a mist of orange blossoms. Turning sideways, I checked the look in the mirror over the hall table. The dress hugged every curve and yet had modest cap sleeves. Audrey Hepburn demure, with an edge. I leaned over and adjusted a silver heel strap as I answered the door.

He stood in the hallway and stared. “Good God, Gracie.”

I straightened slowly, taking in his extra gorgeousness. Bradley had style—but not too much style. Nothing unmanly about this man. He wore a black sports coat over a white starched shirt. The double mandarin collar revealed a hint of pale blue, as did the double cuff, that edged his jacket sleeve. The look might have been starchy, but for a few shirt buttons left undone, as if he hadn’t finished dressing and had left his collar up. The effect was American casual, with hints of British formal.

I enjoyed a fleeting fantasy. Mr. Darcy had come to escort me to the ball, only he was late and had dashed out of the manse partially dressed. I half-expected Bradley to pull out a fluffy white cravat and say, ‘could you help me with this, darling?’

Instead, he said, “You are so beautiful.”
 

“And you look dashing as well, Mister Craig.” He was, in fact, a gorgeous man—handsome and sexually charged. He both thrilled and terrified me. And something else, I had come to understand that Bradley might also be a great guy, the kind of man you wanted to keep around, maybe forever.

Get a grip, Gracie, you haven’t even slept with him yet.
 

I quickly gathered my things. A Chinese silk evening jacket—navy blue covered in large, pink-red peonies, and a small, rhinestone clutch. The rainstorm had passed leaving the air balmy, with a hint of crisp, which meant my curls would be great. The city was finally beginning to feel like fall, my favorite time of year.

In the cab, he continued to stare. “The dress—the color is sensational on you. I’m—” He laughed a bit self-consciously. “You take my breath away.” His gaze dropped lower, to the rise and fall of my breasts, and the hint of underthings. His pupils turned darker, a sure sign of desire. “Is everything red?”

I nodded. “Raspberry-red.”

He placed his hand on my knee. “Important distinction.” His fingertips brushed the insides of my thighs and did not hesitate to travel higher. Protectively, he angled up close, blocking the cab driver’s rear view. My legs trembled as he hooked his thumb into lace panties and pulled hard enough to slip them off my hips. “You won’t be needing these.” He rolled them down my thighs. “Raise your knees, love.” He slipped the panties over my knees and off one strappy heel, then the other.

He remained close, his voice husky-soft, like the night we first met. “I’m going to sit across from you at dinner and know your sweet cunt is bare to me—that I can touch you, taste you anytime I wish.”

 
A smile curled his mouth as if he could feel the ripple of arousal that shot through me.

“Not sure why we girls bother with pretty underwear—it never remains in place for long.”

“Not if it’s on you.” He stuffed the raspberry-red thong in his jacket pocket. Settling back, he continued to study me. “I want you to know, Gracie, that I’m not just attracted to you because you are a stunning, African-Anglo woman.” He kissed me quickly, softly. “This lovely, fawn-colored skin and those pouty lips are only part of the attraction.”

So, he had heard Derek’s crude remark in the conference room. “What exactly did you say to Derek after I left the conference room?”

“I invited him to my gym.”
 

When I raised an eyebrow, his lips twitched. “To the boxing center at the gym.”

I blinked. “You didn’t.”

His grin turned slightly menacing. “Well, it wasn’t an invitation, exactly. But I must say I’m looking forward to it.”

I suddenly found myself worried for my knight in stylish armor. I knew for a fact that Derek boxed twice a week at Church Street. “He fights like those cage guys—street smart.”
 

“So do I.” He kissed me hard, taking full possession of my mouth. And I lapped him up, encircling his tongue as he delved deeper.
 

Bradley was an insane turn-on. When he kissed me like this, it was as if he were compelled to do so by an irresistible force of nature. My lips closed around his tongue and I sucked gently at first, then stronger, sending a coded communiqué to that insistent cock of his.
 

Bradley groaned in reply. Message received.

He broke off the kiss and brushed warm lips over my ear. “Dressed in raspberry-red, tasting and smelling of orange blossoms…” He caught my earlobe between his teeth, adding a lick. A rush of tingles traveled down my spine.

 
“You have bewitched me, Miss Taylor-Scott.”

“I believe you are perfectly capable of casting spells, yourself, Mr. Craig.”
 

The ride across the river was filled with sweet, sexy talk and stimulating, teasing caresses. Our driver managed to get us across Brooklyn Bridge, but I couldn’t tell you how.
 

Callisto on the River cantilevered out over the East River like Fallingwater house. Named after a Greek water nymph, the romantic dining experience came complete with a sheer curtain of waterfall to cool the air on warm Indian summer nights.
 

Tucked into a corner table by the window, I ordered a tangerine martini and Bradley ordered a single malt whiskey and a Dark & Tan. He appeared to be taking in the view—me framed by the magnificent city across the river.

 
“You seem happy in your work. You’re helping raise your sister’s daughter. Besides dance class, you must also work out. The cheeky Brit in me would call you a fit bird.” His eyes narrowed slightly, evaluating. “But I get the feeling you don’t get out much, for a humanist copy chief with an edge.”

So, he’d read about my promotion in Advertising Age. “Was that a polite way of saying I don’t date much?” I tilted my head. “And humanists often see the world as it could be if everyone tried a little harder.”

“You’re a romantic, living in a not-so-romantic world.”

I shrugged. “Artists have always been the romantics. Tell me, Bradley Craig, are you a realist or a romantic?”

He stared for a very long time without a blink. “Why do I feel like the possibility of something hot and naked with you hinges on my answer?”

I offered a slow smile of encouragement. “I’m not a serial dater, safer that way I suppose.”

“For your heart or theirs?” He eased back in his chair. “Brits don’t go on dates. We meet at a club, get sloshed and shag.” His playful grimace didn’t quite fit the man before me, whose intense scrutiny made it hard for me to return his gaze.

And it didn’t take long before the questions began to get intimate. He swept a corkscrew curl off my cheek. “Are you on some form of contraception—pills, shots?”

Leaning provocatively close, I exaggerated a sultry whisper. “Shall we get tested for STDs together?”
 

A flash of smile electrified his gaze. “My brain is in my cock, sorry.”

The waiter arrived with our drinks. Bradley circled a finger. “We’re going to need another round, straight away.”

I sipped my martini. “M-mm, I love it when they make these right—not too sweet, just the right amount of tang.”

I set the glass down and studied the man across the table. Not a stuffy Brit in the least, and scrappy, who would have thought? The fight he had picked with Derek had surprised, even shocked me. Fisticuffs at dawn—or after hours. No man had ever fought for my honor. Perhaps my father, but that was years ago.

Something about Bradley tempted me to let him in, trust a little. Not completely, of course, that would feel too vulnerable. I exhaled a quiet breath and met his beautiful blue gaze. “The answer is yes, I’m on the pill. I got tested for STDs last year and haven’t had unprotected sex, since.” I focused my gaze. “And, you?”

“All clear. I have my results if you’d care to see them.”

I nodded absently. Why didn’t this make me feel any better? Maybe Bradley was right—safe sex, safe distance—safe heart.

He took a long pull on his Black and Tan. “And what do you masturbate with? What kind of toys?”

No sense in being coy. “Two cock-shaped vibrators, a new jackrabbit, a jelly egg and a pocket rocket—not all used at once—at least not usually. I just bought some cherry lube, and an anal toy I haven’t tried yet.” I smiled at him. “What do you use?”

He wore the dark virile look so well his expression was hard to read. “My hand, in the shower, with plenty of body wash.” He lifted his beer and drained the glass. “An impressive list, Gracie. And speaking of lists, have you been thinking about ours?”

I nodded. “As I see it, this is not a list of sexual stunts, necessarily, but of erotic encounters.”

“Whenever, wherever—whatever you want. Stunts, encounters, fantasies, I’d be happy to accommodate your every desire.”
 

“Whenever, Wherever, Whatever.” I mused aloud. “First tune on my very first iPod.” I returned his intense gaze, but mostly I stared at his firm, wonderfully pliable mouth. The one that had ravaged mine in the backseat of the taxicab from Gramercy to Brooklyn. Even now, my lips were sensitive to the slightest touch.
 

The waiter arrived.

 
“Secondsies.” I gladly exchanged my empty for a full glass. Since when did I swill Absolute Mandarin like it was Fiji water? Since Bradley Craig, apparently. After a brief perusal of the appetizers, we went straight for the entrees. I decided on salmon—broiled, lightly blackened. Bradley ordered his New York Strip medium-rare.

He got out his phone and tapped on a few keys. “Ready.” Lifting his brow, along with his gaze, he signaled for me to go first.

I swirled my tongue along the sugared edge of the martini glass. There was one encounter with Bradley I knew I would enjoy. “Tie me up, tie me down?”

His look penetrated. “Something coercive, against your will. Nothing too rough, but slightly scary?”

A powerful rush of fear mixed with arousal surged through me. “Yes.”

“I’d be delighted.” He looked up from his typing. “And I’d like you to return the favor, with an added bit of torture. A private lap dance, perhaps? In fact—I’d like you to dance naked for me.”

I grinned. “Wobble a teeny-tiny thong off my hips?”

“And mighty pretty hips, as I recall.” He waited for my next selection.

“I’m deciding—take another turn.”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “We meet as strangers in a public venue, a place where we can both get worked up physically—intensely worked up—like I’m going to explode if I can’t have you.” His gaze turned stormy. “Similar to the way I feel now—only worse if that’s possible.” He recited the fantasy as if he’d had done some real thinking about it. “Then I find a semi-public place to fuck you senseless without getting us arrested.”

I stared at him. “Okay, but it can’t be a unisex bathroom stall in a club.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone has done it there.”

 
Now it was his turn to stare. “Certainly not everyone—have you done it there?”

“No.” I had to ask. “Have you?”

“I have not.”

“For a moment I thought he might be angry or put-off but then he laughed. “No sex,” he typed out, “in a unisex bathroom.” His gaze met mine over his phone screen. “You’re on.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit a fetish club.”

“Bondage, swingers, maybe a lesbian encounter?”

I frowned. “Not sure, what would you enjoy?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. This one is all yours, love.”

I thought a moment. “Perhaps, you and I and another female?” He tapped on the keyboard of his phone. “Sappho does Gracie, while Bradley…?”

I’m very sure my eyes narrowed. “Bradley is allowed to participate but not fuck, Sappho.”

 
His mouth curled slightly as he typed.

“Your turn.” I sighed, delving deeper into my drink.

He rubbed a lovely bit of groomed scruff. “I hardly know where to begin with you, Gracie. There is so much I’d like to do with you—to you.” His eyes actually sparkled. “When I get my own flat, I would love for you to show up one rainy, cold night wrapped in a coat and nothing else.”

I smiled. “Really?” The idea seemed almost quaint, coming from him.

“Humor me. I love that one.”

“Me, naked under a fur-lined trench coat—you got it, baby.”

“Number twenty-eight on my old list,” he typed away, “and never checked off.”

My turn again. I gazed out beyond the dark river that rippled with city lights. “Someplace high above the earth.”

“Mile high.” He typed it in. “One problem—I understand they’re cracking down on airplane bathroom sex.”