The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (3 page)

My brow must have remained in an elevated position because he mumbled a few words about an ex and changed the subject.

 
“We need something to wedge between the doors.” He glared in defiance at the elevator panels, as if by sheer force of crystal-blue eye magnetism they might remain open. This entertaining new man—my elevator-tilting Don Quixote—caused an upward slant to the ends of my mouth.

Searching around, his gaze landed on my bag. “That giant carryall of yours.”

“And who is Olivia?” I was curious and I had a bargaining chip.

He stared long enough to be contemplating a lie. “Olivia is my daughter.”

“How old?”

His expression softened. “She just turned eight.”

“Nice age…. I have a nine-year-old niece.” I rocked my head a little, thinking about her. “Hannah is nine going on thirty-five—or five, depending.”

He had to a bit of convincing, but eventually I gave in and dragged the satchel over. “Distressed black leather, Armani Exchange messenger bag, eight hundred and fifty dollars on sale.”

And damn, if that oversized bag didn’t jam those doors open.
 

He stared at me. “Why do women do that?”
 

“Do what?”

“Use the words on sale to justify any sort of purchase. If I say, lovely frock, darling, before I even get a thank you, it’s ‘five hundred dollars on sale’.”
 

The phone in my hand rang. He gave me a nod. “If it’s Claire, tell her I’ve fallen down the shaft.”

I slid open the lock. “Hello?”

A weary voice answered. “The world rides on Otis. State the nature of your emergency.”

 
My heart raced in a good way as I described the problem. “Sounds like you’ve had a few calls this evening.” I listened to the man’s tale of woe, repeating his words out loud. “All of lower Manhattan, including Battery Park.”

 
Bradley checked the door panels again while I reconfirmed our names, phone numbers, and the building address. I tried ending the call on a more positive note.

 
“I’d like to say take your time, but don’t.”
 

The second I hung up, the elevator car slipped, or at least it felt like it dropped a few inches.

 
“What was that?” Now my heart raced in a bad way.

Adding to the confusion, my lift companion backed straight into me.

 
“Whoa.” I retreated too quickly and wobbled.

 
Next thing I knew a strong arm swept around my waist, and he braced me against his hip.

 
“Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

He turned toward me wearing that look again. As if I were a luscious pudding tart too tempting to resist. His sensuous hooded gaze promised unholy pleasures and a torrid exchange of bodily fluids. The very thought brought to mind a new cherry-flavored lubricant tucked into a bedside drawer, purchased in anticipation of something rough and hot with Derek after the party tonight. My plans, however, had all been supplanted by a power failure. And this man who hadn’t let go of me…as yet.

His eyes lowered, and I returned the favor with my own study of his mouth. Nicely wide, firm lips, and a well-defined cupid’s bow. Kissable. I suppose my stare lingered as long as his.

“Your heart is racing.” He observed, his voice gently gruff.

“I’m on the verge of a panic attack.”
 

His predatory gaze softened. “Pretend for the next few minutes that you know me, and lean into my chest.” Hard-muscled arms, wrapped around me, protectively. “Try to relax.” They were also comforting arms. “Give me more—just surrender. Trust me.”

 
Not sure how I managed to do it, but I exhaled a sigh and collapsed into the strength and warmth of his body.

Instinctively, I put my arms around him.

 
“That’s it.” His hushed words brushed the fine wisps of hair at my temple. Gently, he began to rock me, side to side. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us, Gracie.” Stroking my bare arm, he found my hand and curled his fingers through mine.

“How can you be so sure?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Ever so slowly, he turned us in circles. “I’m not sure. But, if these are my last moments on Earth, slow dancing with a warm, gorgeous woman…” He nuzzled my ear, and his stubble grazed my cheek. “I’ll die a happy man.”

He must have been curious about the muffled laugh I smothered against his shoulder because he tilted my chin up and returned a smile. I exhaled a breath and held on, swaying back and forth with him. His powerful frame brushed against mine. Thighs, groin, every impressive inch of that hardness. Zero doubt he’d be good in bed. Aggressive and yet attuned to my body. I suspected most women would be climbing on top of him right about now.
 

I ran my fingers through a few unruly hairs that edged his shirt collar. For the next few minutes, the world faded away as we held each other and circled. A beautiful eternal moment between two strangers.

He released me an inch at a time. “Better?”

“Much—the tachycardia—uh, the rapid heartbeat is gone.” Relieved, and maybe a little disappointed, I backed away.

He tilted his head. “Is it just elevators?”

“Closed-in spaces can trigger an attack, but it can happen anytime, anywhere.” Looking around, I exhaled a sigh in the direction of the ceiling.

He nodded. “I was kind of hoping I caused it.”

Locked in his gaze, my heart skipped a beat. “Shall I blame you for the palpitations—the irregular heartbeats? Would that make you happy?” I leaned back against the handrail. “Thank you for the dance, it helped a lot.”
 

“Whenever you are troubled by a racing heart, just ring me up.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung the jacket on the open call box door. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he settled against his side of the elevator car and jangled pocket change.

My four and a half inch heels were the first to go. “I suppose we might as well get comfortable.”

In the emergency twilight of the elevator, there appeared to be a good deal of fascination with my dress optics. I caught a glimmer in those piercing eyes as he traced the illusion of bare skin beneath a swirl of midnight-blue sequins. His eyes suddenly shifted and he met my gaze directly.

 
“I want to fuck you.”

He spoke the words in a husky voice as if we were already lying in bed together. A bold, audacious line, delivered in a most unexpected way. And it was wildly, perfectly seductive because he made me want to say yes, and he hadn’t even asked.

I wasn’t shocked that he said the words, exactly. We were both having brain-to-mouth control issues. I narrowed my gaze. “I’m sure you meant that as a compliment, Brad or Bradley.”

A broad grin crinkled his eyes. “Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that to a beautiful woman I just met.”

“And to think, I was beginning to find you charming.” Damn! How such a sophisticated man could look so boyishly adorable after such a crude remark both annoyed and mystified me.
 

“I’m afraid we both look a bit gobsmacked.” Laughing, he translated. “Utterly astonished—gobsmacked. You must know you are amazingly beautiful, as well as funny, and hot. And I’d like to—”

I squinted another warning at him.

A shrug lifted his shoulders. “I suppose I’d like to check a few things off the do it list with you.”

At the end of a long, cold stare, I blinked. “The do it list?”

“It’s like a bucket list, only for sex.” A lopsided grin lingered.

“And this is something you’ve been working on since…”

“I wrote my first list in prep school. Inspired by Madonna or Julia Roberts. I can’t remember which.”

I admit his confession intrigued me. “A wish list of unattainable conquests or a jerk-off list?”

“More like a list of encounters with any girl who…” He tilted his head as if to better read me. “…gives me an erection.”

“So you’re not too picky.”

His grin flattened, but only slightly. “I was twelve. The school nurse gave me a boner.”

What was it about this man, with his horn-dog talk and ready cock? Two could play this game. A smile brought on a sigh, and before I knew it, I made my own confession. “When I was twelve, there were posters of 98 Degrees and Johnny Depp pinned all over my closet door.”

“Tis a good thing taste matures with age.”

“Johnny Depp will always be hot.” I meant to toss him a dismissive glance, but my gaze traveled down his torso. He had loosened the half-Windsor knot just enough to add to his sexy quotient. “Nice tie.”

He wagged the pointed end. “Harvey Nicks. Twenty quid on sale.”

“I have this theory about expensive silk ties—that they mysteriously act as cock rings for the suit set.”

He snorted a soft chuckle. And I was pleased with myself for making him laugh, even though I cringed at the remark. “Sorry, bad habit. I’ve learned to talk dirty around ad men in self-defense.”

“No doubt you’ve got them trotting after you drooling, tongues hanging out.”

Jeezus…it was the way those intense blue eyes perused the goods as if he wanted to eat me alive, with an added touch of sizzling restraint. Like the slow dance, earlier. Don’t worry, baby, you can trust me…

Frankly, I wondered if I could trust myself. Exhaling a sigh, I dropped my shoes on the floor and angled myself against the brushed-steel handrail. Just one problem, with my hand on my hip, my little slip of a dress rode high up my thighs.

He stared a second too long.

Okay, I admit I was also hot for Bradley Craig. What else could explain the wildly inappropriate thoughts, provocative language, and shockingly intimate questions?

“You wouldn’t happen to have this bucket list for sex on you…by any chance?”

HIS GAZE WAS penetrating, measured. He appeared to be assessing the pros and cons of my request. Finally he extended that impressive physique toward the call box, stretching the European-cut shirt over a muscled chest and trim torso.

“I want you to know, I don’t share this list with just anyone.” He lifted his billfold out of an inside coat pocket and removed a piece of paper.
 

I plucked the folded note from his hand. “Ah, but I’m not just anyone. I’m your lift mate.” I tugged at the hem of my dress which insisted on riding up.

“You have amazing legs, how tall are you?” He appeared genuinely curious, admiring.

“In those?” I nodded to the spike-heeled booties. “Just under six feet.” Even in my stilettos he stood several inches taller than me—a giant plus. Grinning, I added, “And you’re six feet two inches…?”

“Close enough,” he replied, somewhat distracted. “Are those stockings or pantyhose?”

“Stockings and garter belt—interested?” I unfolded the notepaper. “Never mind, of course you are.”
 

Bradley had obviously added to his list many times over the years, hence the torn places along the folds. All of the encounters were numbered, some written in a hurried, masculine scrawl while others had been carefully printed. And quite a few items had been crossed off.
 

“A bona fide catalog of male sex fantasies. From age twelve to…shall we say…thirty-three?”

“Thirty-two. Nice pun by the way—bona fide”

I cleared my throat, which didn’t exactly cover the twitchy smile on my lips. “One—first base. Two—French kiss a girl. Three—get to first base.”
 

Scanning the items, I murmured bits and pieces of his wish list. “Go down on a girl…sex with anal stimulation. Have cock sucked by a female. Have cock sucked by a male. Both checked off.” I turned to him and arched a brow.
 

He glanced at the list over my shoulder. “I know we discussed my education, but I believe I failed to mention boarding school.” A man who was man enough to admit he’d had a pubescent, same-sex encounter with a schoolmate.

I continued to peruse, pausing here and there to read aloud. “Blow job while driving…dangerous…” I had to admit the list got more interesting as the numbers climbed. “Thirty-eight. Tell a beautiful stranger I’d like to fuck her.”

“Check.” He swiped an index finger in the air. “See anything that interests you?”

I held back a sigh. No sense letting Smokin’ Hotness know I was interested—yet. “Wish I could help.” I pointed to a hurried scribble. “Spank her, with a line drawn through it.” I tsked. “I’m too late. Mission accomplished.”

“Just because I cross something off the list, doesn’t mean I never do it again.” His smile drove a spike of electricity down my spine. “I believe you might have overlooked one in the forties.”

Again, I skimmed the list. “Nothing has caught my eye.” I lingered on the last number, seventy-one.

Sex with someone I love.

It appeared to be a new entry and I admit to being curious. He had just spoken to an ex named Claire. And there was a child, Olivia.

I reversed course and started back up the column. “Get her to orgasm from intercourse alone in five minutes.” This one caused an automatic eyebrow arch. “Unchecked.”

“According to a Brown University study, on average, it takes women ten to twenty minutes to reach orgasm. Men reach orgasm after seven to fourteen minutes overall—two to three minutes after insertion.”

 
The obvious discontent in his voice caused a slight flutter in my chest or was it that leisurely smile of his that ended in a dimple?

“Let me guess, you worked on the Trojan UK launch.” How on earth had I missed that dimple? A quick scan up the list brought me to the high forties. “Ah, it appears forty-seven is an invitation.”

There was no avoiding the mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Conveniently, we find ourselves in a lift.”

I shook my head, adding a sigh. “This is my fault. I brought the subject up first.”

“Which means you were thinking about it.”

“I see you are not one of those men who confuse sex with intimacy, Brad or Bradley.” The man had issues, but he was clever. And aware. I held the proof in my hands—scribbled, crossed-off, and numbered—a veritable catalog of dispassionate, semi-public sexual encounters.