The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (26 page)

“Have you had breast augmentation?”

I shook my head.

“Do I have permission to massage your breasts?”

Bradley’s gaze narrowed on Alex.

“Massage therapy can be a very effective wellness treatment for breasts, as breasts need good circulation and what is called tissue mobilization for optimum health. Gentle breast massage reduces breast soreness due to hormonal fluctuations, it also helps to relieve toxin buildup and encourages blood circulation for a healthy lymphatic system.”

I made a point of checking in with Bradley, who gave me a thumbs up.
 

“I suppose, it would be all right.”

“I will begin at the clavicle and axial area around your arm, then the lymph nodes, here at the sides.” He massaged the outside curve of each breast. “This encourages toxins and any excess fluid to drain.” He gently moved his fingers over and under each mound—cupping, then rotating each breast, as he worked the toxins and fluid in the direction of the lymph nodes.

I reached out to the gorgeous man lying beside me and he squeezed my hand. Something darkly sensuous, and wonderfully intimate was happening between the four of us. It was as if Alex’s hands were Bradley’s hands. I sucked in a breath and arched my back.
 

Bradley groaned as practiced fingers swept over the curves of my ribcage, and pressed into the soft pockets above my hip bones. A tsunami of naughty erotic thoughts sent imaginary fingers to every erogenous zone. I wanted to feel Alex explore. And I wanted Laurel to hold Bradley’s cock in her hand.
 

I exhaled a frustrated sigh and winked at Bradley. The look he returned made my belly flutter.

 
“Take a five-minute nap.” Laurel dimmed the lights even darker as she and Alex slipped out the door.
 

“Moneypenny?”

“Yes, Mr. Craig?”

“I needed this badly. Thank you.”

I wondered if I could wait for the herbal-scented shower to jump his bones.

“TEMPERATURE?” NEITHER BRADLEY nor I had a clue, so Alex guessed.

“Let’s try one hundred and four degrees.”

 
He adjusted the shower thermostat while Laurel hung terrycloth robes on hooks. We thanked our talented massage therapists and entered a pale, aqua-blue world of glass shower tiles.
 

 
“Your shower will begin as soon as the water reaches the correct temperature.” Alex closed the frosted glass door.

 
I leaned against the cool glass tiles. We were both covered in salt scrub. Playfully, Bradley nuzzled me, belly to belly.
 

“Scratchy,” I murmured.

Multiple wall jets burst forth at the perfect temperature, rinsing away salt granules and dead skin. The hair on Bradley’s chest, including the thin trail above his belly button and pubic region had been neatly trimmed.

 
“Love the grooming.” Weaving my hands through his new, shorter curls, I ran a sudsy hand up and down his cock, taking long slow pulls. At the top of each stroke, I ran my thumb up and over the head.

He pressed both palms to the sides of the tiled stall. “On your knees, Gracie.”

 
I dropped down and sucked the tip first, licking my way up and down the shaft.

 
“I want to fuck your mouth.” He leaned over and held my head, thrusting deeper. “Relax your throat, so you can take more of me—that’s it.”

I listened to his growls of pleasure and followed his instructions.

 
“Use your nails.”

 
I dug my fingers into the hard muscle of his buttocks, and he growled.

“Suck me, hard—” and quickly thereafter, “Christ, you’re good at this.” He slowed down and pumped methodically. His deep blue gaze followed every lick of my tongue, how my lips moved over the head of his throbbing cock.
 

 
I grabbed his buttocks and sent his cock to the back of my throat.

“Fuck—I’m coming,” he growled and I drained him of every drop.
 

His eyes closed and his head rolled back on his shoulders. I sat back on my heels. His chest heaved, as he gulped in steam-filled air.
 

I smiled up at him, kissing the tip of his cock, which remained impressive in length, breadth and hardness. Bradley reached down and pulled me up against him. “The more I have you, the more I want you.”

I rose up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I feel the same way.”

Someone tapped at the shower door.

“Yes—what is it?” Bradley called out.

“Sorry to rush you—but we’d like to get Gracie into hair and makeup.”
 

He planted a quick kiss on my lips. “I owe you one.”
 

We toweled off, taking turns covering each other in aloe lotion.

“Even if I’m too sensitive to fuck, will you sleep with me tonight—so I can feel your skin against mine?” I asked.

“Of course.” He rubbed a towel over his head. “What’s up with your period?”

“Nearly over. I have a three day period on the pill.” I squinted at him and he chuckled softly. He was acting like a steady boyfriend. I had no doubt he would start keeping track of my monthly cycle.

Bradley took a seat in an empty styling chair while I got beautified. Martin used earthy, warm tones to create smoldering eyes and added a hint of Honey Lust shimmer under newly arched eyebrows. He finished the look with neutral lips and apricot cheekbones.
 

Martin eyeballed my boyfriend over the top of his Wall Street Journal. “Mind if I…?

 
Bradley lowered the newspaper and Martin plucked a few eyebrow hairs.

 
“You have great bone structure, let’s just enhance that a little.” He brushed a bronzer under Bradley’s cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Stepping back, Martin admired his artistry. “Now you’re sun-kissed.”

Bradley winked at me and returned to his paper.

Tyler managed to tame my curls, pulling them into a sleek bun. “I’m going to add a few clip-in extensions—which I’ll run through the crimping iron.” He expertly looped the extensions around the bun, leaving a few pieces sticking out.

The effect was insanely hot and very glam. Bradley said it best.

 
“Straight out of Elle magazine.”

 
In the cab on the way to his mother’s house, he kept looking at me.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. I love your curls, but…” His arm went around me. “It’s like you’re a whole new Gracie.”

“And you’re sun-kissed.” I brushed his nose with mine.

We sneaked into the townhouse via the servant stairs. Bradley’s room reminded me of a luxury hotel suite only with much better art on the walls.
 

“Spectacularly neutral,” he called it.
 

I unzipped the clothing bag and held up two dresses. “Which one?”

His gaze moved from one to the other. “Sorry, you’re going to have to try them on.” He picked up mail from a highboy dresser.

I pulled on the black Tibi. The sleeveless, silk halter dress featured a leather and Ponte knit skirt with an asymmetrical hemline. Bradley looked up from his mail.

“Nice.”

Not exactly the reaction I was looking for. I slithered into the white sheath. “And…?”

“The black is striking, but I must confess, this one hugs your curves, nicely.” He grinned. “Your skin color looks amazing. Reminds me of our first date. You in that little nothing of a raspberry-red frock.”

“You remember that far back?” I teased. “How long ago was that, a week maybe?” I turned around and swept a provocative look at him. “Do me up?”

Bradley struggled with the zipper. “I’m so much better at undoing these…”

A soft snort sounded behind us. “I agree with Bradley, the white Jackie-O over the Tibi. Although you must wear that delightful little black dress to the opera with me—how about you and Bradley and I attend the new production of Eugene Onegin next month? Russian maestro Valery Gergiev conducts.”

Bradley leaned close and spoke in a theatrical whisper. “Mother does so love her Russian opera. Anna Karenina throwing herself onto the train tracks—nicely tragic and grisly.”

She raised her chin and shot him a look along with a tight smile. “You’ll have to blame Tolstoy for that, not Tchaikovsky or the Met.”

Bradley continued to wrestle with my zipper. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bollocks out of this.”

“Here, let me try.”

I straightened my shoulders as his mother ran the zipper back down, loosened the caught lining, and then zipped me up again.

 
“There.” His mother sighed, with satisfaction. “What a lovely figure you have, my dear.” She turned me around for a frontal inspection. “And such a sweet face. No wonder you are taken with her, Bradley.” She glanced back at her son.

“Quite taken,” Bradley murmured, opening a piece of correspondence.

“No doubt you are bright, career oriented. Bradley has never bothered with frivolous women—I taught him that.” She reached out. “Ann Getty Craig.”

 
I took her hand. “Grace Taylor-Scott.”

“Pleased to meet you, Grace.”

“Most everyone calls me Gracie.”

“Not me. I love the name Grace, I hope you don’t mind if I use it?”

Startled, I laughed a little. “No, of course not.”

Ann Getty Craig turned out to be a slightly more sophisticated version of all the moms I’d grown up around in the Palisades. Ash blonde, shoulder-length hair, athletic, trim figure—and those striking blue eyes. Bradley’s eyes. She turned back at the door.

 
“Join me upstairs as soon as you can. Uncle Arthur is here, early as usual and asking after you.” Her gaze traveled back to me. “You are lovely, Grace. I see why my son is enthralled.”

Bradley changed his shirt while I pulled on sheer, thigh-high hose and Jimmy Choo pumps. He watched me through the mirror as he looped his tie.
 

“I like that you wear hose. Very Princess Kate of you.”

I adjusted garters. “Most men prefer naked legs, but not you. Why is that?”

“Something fetishy about garter belts and hose.” He pulled on his jacket. “I like taking them off even more.”

I straightened his tie and smoothed his collar. “And you’re so much better at off, than on.”

Bradley took my hand in his and guided me downstairs to the living area, where the ceilings were higher and the art more spectacular. We crossed a checkerboard of sparkling marble floor tiles on our way to the parlor. Double doors opened onto a spacious room filled with richly upholstered furniture and Persian carpets. Sumptuous, yet comfortable.
 

We were about to do a modern twist on Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. I had been through it several times before when I was younger, with younger men. Meeting the parents always made me nervous, although, not so much this time.

This time, I had Bradley with me.

“Bradley, dear.” Ann waved us over. “Arthur, I’d love for you to meet Bradley’s friend, Grace Taylor-Scott.” She nodded to me. “Grace, my brother, Arthur Getty.”

Attractive, gray-haired, and sixty-something, Arthur shook my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Grace.” He pivoted. “And Bradley, my word you move fast.“ He slapped his nephew on the back. “Back less than a month and look at this lovely creature.” Uncle Arthur’s eyes roved over me.

“I’m a lucky man. The fate’s brought us together.” Bradley’s arm went around my waist, pulling me close. “What would you like to drink, Gracie?”

“Gin and tonic, with two limes.”

“So Grace, I understand you and Bradley work together.”

I nodded. “I write copy, he’s in research. Left brain, right brain—it works for us.”

With Bradley gone, Uncle Arthur thought himself free to ogle. And it wasn’t a harmless old uncle sort of flirtation. He was the type of man, given the opportunity, who wouldn’t hesitate to make a move on his own nephew’s date.

Bradley returned with three drinks, handing one off to Arthur. “Vodka Martini—correct?”

“Grace has been telling me about the agency. She’s sharp, witty—no doubt keeps you on your toes.” Arthur took a long sip of his drink and sighed. “God, I love smart women, but it’s an expensive sport.”

Bradley sipped his single malt, neat. “Uncle Arthur is between marriages at the moment. How many ex’s now, three?”

His uncle flashed four fingers. “Notice, I can’t bring myself to talk about it.”

“Holy Christ, Arthur, it’s been years.” A mature woman approached us trailing what appeared to be a husband behind her.

 
Soon after introductions, Bradley backed away, pulling me with him. “I’m going to show Gracie off as well as show her around.” Apparently this was our chance to circulate.

I nodded to Arthur and friends. “Very nice to meet you.”

Bradley and I circled the room and made polite small talk. We also chatted up a number of his mother’s investment advisors, nearly all of them young men, accompanied by attractive wives or girlfriends. All of them offered their business cards, which Bradley collected and stuffed in his jacket pocket.

He leaned close. “Perhaps a quick tour before dinner?”
 

“Yes, please.” I answered, happy to slip away with this handsome man whose fingers lightly brushed my back.

He guided me into an adjoining room. A long table set for twenty-something guests took up most of the space. “Take a guess—dining room.” Bradley hastened me into a smaller space stuffed with caterers and cooks. “Kitchen.” He moved through yet another door. “Breakfast room.” Very likely a bright, cheerful spot in the morning.

“Now for the fun part.” He guided me down a narrow flight of stairs. “Hello, Laurent—you remember Gracie?” I had met the chauffeur briefly when he delivered a suit of clothes to my apartment.
 

“Hello again.” I smiled at the man as we squeezed by.

“Mr. Craig.” He dipped his head. “Miss Taylor-Scott.”

I figured Laurent to be in his mid-forties. Obviously foreign by the accent. Salt-and-pepper hair, even featured and fit—really very attractive in an exotic, Eastern European way. We landed in a room lined floor to ceiling with bookcases. A large desk dominated the space flanked by two wing chairs and a fireplace. Bradley opened a humidifier on the desk and took out a cigar.