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

by Jillian Stone

  Bradley was working on the man-on-the-street interview questions. Merging lists—editing and sorting until he got the right mix. Mid-afternoon, he turned the Knicks game on and kept it low while he read the paper.

  I returned to the bedroom with my hair a mass of newly conditioned soft curls.

  Bradley looked up and smiled. “Much better than that plastic bag on your head.”

  When the Knicks game went into overtime, he turned up the volume. I typed out a few more snippets of voice over. This spot would not be about war heroes, or fireman heroes—but everyday heroes. I picked up my phone and grabbed a few seconds of video footage. Bradley yelling over the top of his newspaper at the flat screen. “Oh, come on—there’s no way that was a charge. He wasn’t set!”

  After the game, he reached over and stole a few sections of the paper from me, including Book Reviews. “Finally—the next installment of the Xi Tauri Chronicles.”

  I raised a brow. “You read science fiction?”

  He put down the paper and crawled over to me. “And what do you read?”

  “Time-travel fantasy, contemporary erotica—anything by Tolstoy.”

  He snorted softly against my throat. “Now, if you were the high priestess Galatea, you would emit pheromones from your navel that would cause my android tongue to vibrate at twenty-one thousand megahertz per second.” He set my laptop aside and lifted off my sweatshirt.

  I moved back onto my elbows, as he pushed up the lace teddy. He licked a trail of kisses down my belly, setting off tiny tremors.

  “I would instantly be in sync with your primary pleasure center.” He slipped off my panties, and his tongue slid lower, parting labia and laving my clit.

  “Oh, Bradley,” I moaned, arching upward.

  His licks were pleasantly unhurried, as he made his exploration. He used flicks of his tongue and long, slow circles to build my arousal.

  He sat back on his haunches. “I think you might also enjoy sex with a tricyber simitaur.”

  “Ooooh, and what’s that?”

  He reached over to the nightstand drawer and found the anal toy and lube. One at a time, he lifted my legs over his shoulders.

  “This won’t hurt?” I was maybe the tiniest bit fearful.

  He smiled down at me—part handsome sex partner, part lusty tricyber simitaur.

  “It is against my programming to ever hurt you. I must only bring you pleasure. I am known as the only creature in the Akkadian Archipelago with two dicks and a tickler. This tickler is a slippery flange that massages.”

  He squeezed a good amount of lube over two fingers and then coated the anal toy, which consisted of a string of beads, which gradually grew larger. The last bead appeared to be an inch or so in diameter. “This is perfect. You chose well, my lovely anal novice.”

  He pushed up the lace teddy so he could cover my nipples with his mouth, sucking them into hard points. His unhurried tongue flicked over each rigid tip, leisurely pleasuring me as he gradually worked one anal bead in after another.

  “Ahh—” I whispered, as he twirled the last large slippery round bead against my reluctant sphincter muscle.

  “Push against the bead, love.” He coaxed me, patiently. The largest sphere slipped into me, filling the forbidden place.

  With the same, patient, methodical slowness, Bradley pulled on the string of beads and something unbelievably pleasurable happened—a wave of exquisite arousal rushed through me as he slowly removed the beads.

  “Again, love.” He pushed the beads back in. Easier now, almost ticklish.

  His one hand played an in and out game with the large bead while the fingers of his other hand worked my clitoris. Every part of my body began to quiver and tingle. The deeper, darker arousal from yesterday was back—the one that created those explosive orgasms.

  “I’m going to come,” I gasped.

  “No.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not.”

  He taunted me by drawing me closer and closer until my hips bucked and thrust in the air. He held me at that delicate threshold—working his cock into me thick and tight, filling me with his velvet hardness.

  “You’ve got to let me come. I swear I‘m going to—”

  “Don’t, Gracie—or I’ll spank you again.” His command nearly sent me over the edge.

  For the first time in my life, I growled during sex.

  “So greedy and impatient—wait for me.” He rocked up hard against my bottom. With every thrust, his balls slapped against my ass, sending hot spikes of need through me.

  He studied his pounding, glistening cock, and growled as if he were some sort of unearthly creature. “Now, Gracie—come with me.” He reached down and pulled the string of beads.

  Desire rose up like a giant wave and crashed through my body. I had never experienced orgasms like this—deeply satisfying pleasure that continued to ripple through my entire body.

  Bradley bellowed his climax like a creature in the wild. Hot sperm shot into me. “Jeezus, Gracie I haven’t come that hard since”—his eyes swept the ceiling above— “I’m not sure when I’ve ever come that hard. He lowered my legs and curled up beside me,

  I rode the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart. When I could speak I managed a weak, “Did we just reach orgasm together?”

  A sexy grin widened on his face. “Must have something to do with those slippery flanges.”

  “I’m not sure how to compliment such a talented creature. That was mega orgasmic, my tricyber simitaur.”

  Bradley’s kiss ended in a cute, loud smack. “Tricyber is hungry—famished, actually.”

  “Earthly sustenance?” I propped myself up on an elbow. “I would have thought you just plug that tickler into a USB or Firewall port.”

  I ordered from Mariella Pizza—half spinach and feta cheese, half meat lovers. We decided on a take-out run instead of delivery. I stuffed my lace teddy into a pair of baggy boyfriend jeans and slipped on a raspberry-red cardigan sweater. Before leaving the apartment, I tied a red bandana through my curls.

  Bradley opened the door. “You look darling.”

  On the way home, we stopped by the corner market and bought two six packs—his and her beers—Stella Artois for me and real beer, or Newcastle, for him.

  Exiting the market, he held the door open for two women coming in. They both smiled at him and blushed slightly. This was how it was going to be with this man. He was a head turner, and yet he didn’t seem overly aware of the effect he had on women.

  Outside, he shifted the grocery bag under one arm and reached for my hand. “Mother is having a dinner party Thursday night, she asked me to invite you.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks and stared. “You’ve talked about me to your mother?”

  “Nothing too personal. She asked if I was getting on with anyone, making few friends, that sort of thing. I told her about a copywriter—a lovely young woman I’d just met and was hoping to get to know better.”

  Respectful and charming turned out to be wonderfully effective, and of course I said yes.

  I could not shake the thought that something big had happened this weekend. Three days of mind-blowing marathon sex, and yet the do-nothing, everyday moments with Bradley were just as satisfying. Lazing around my bedroom, for instance, had been easy, sensuous, and affectionate.

  A chilly breeze caused a shiver. I checked the time on my phone. Just past four on Sunday afternoon, and for the first time ever in my life, I hadn’t thought about when my weekend date would leave. How soon I could get back to the comfort of my single-girl routines—like doing laundry and conditioning my hair.

  Anyway, I was one for two, and I didn’t really care about the laundry.

  SEVENTEEN

  MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED entirely too soon, and we were late.

  “Is it faster to run or ride?” Bradley tugged me down the sidewalk toward Fifth Avenue, our best chance of hailing a ride.

  “Run, but if you see an open cab—go for it.” I t
rotted up beside him.

  We rounded the corner and Bradley whistled at a blur of passing taxis. One pulled over.

  “Jeezus, you’re so good at that.”

  “That’s what you said in the shower this morning.” He opened the door and tossed in his gym bag and overnight suiter.

  I climbed in and he followed after. “Fifteenth and Eighth Avenue.”

  Bradley looked totally hot in a black-on-black pinstripe suit, a warm gray shirt and dark gray tie. I thought about the naked body underneath the quietly fashionable ensemble. All my girl parts would enthusiastically attest to being ravaged up against steamy shower titles this morning. And he had almost succeeded again, when while we were dressing. I blamed the lavender panties and matching bra for his second attempt.

  I shot him a sideways glance. “If you knew you had a meeting first thing, what was all that Bradley fuckery about this morning?”

  “Maybe I just needed to hear a little more ooohing and aaahing.” He tucked me into his side. “You aren’t complaining, are you?”

  We briefly exchanged a minty-mouthwash-flavored kiss.

  “Hardly.”

  He grinned. “We never finished plans for Mother’s dinner party. Your fault. You distracted me in the middle of pizza and beer.”

  I dug for my phone and checked the calendar. “I have a body scrub and waxing at four on Thursday. I could move it, but I don’t want to wax too close to leaving for California.”

  “Dinner starts around eight. Bring a change of clothes. You can dress at my house.” He angled over and I tilted my phone so he could read. “See if you can make two appointments. I could use a bit of grooming up.”

  “Thoughtful of you, darling—a woman appreciates a well-groomed man.” I called the George Salon and left a quick message.

  He shook his head, absently. “Not sure why I’m dragging you into this. I hate my mother’s dinner parties.”

  “Misery loves company.” I looked up from my phone. “How awful could a dinner party be?”

  “Let’s see…there will be the usual Wall Street hedge fund types—the Park Avenue set. She likes to stay abreast of all the latest investment schemes. And then her cronies from the Metropolitan Opera—she’s been on the board for years.”

  “Bradley—just exactly how wealthy is your family?”

  “Anne Getty Craig, three hundred eighty-two on the Forbes list of richest Americans.” He stole a quick, sheepish glance at me. “Old family money, plus she’s a savvy investor. She’s done well for herself.”

  “And your father?”

  “More of a self-made man. Plenty of income, but nothing like Mother. Workaholic—travels constantly. Mostly between London, New York, and Dubai.” Bradley studied my face. “I’m pretty sure he’d flirt shamelessly with you.”

  I reached up and stroked his smooth, clean jawline. We had shared the mirror and sink this morning, and I’d watched him shave. Funny, how such a simple act of personal hygiene could feel so intimate. “I’d like to shave you with a straight razor, like Miss Moneypenny.”

  “Let’s add that one to the list.” Bradley reached inside his coat pocket for his phone. “Tie me to a chair, shave interesting parts, then go down on me.” He shot me a smirky, devilish look.

  “How many have we added, and how many have we checked off?” I peeked over his shoulder.

  The cab pulled over in front of the building. “I’ll send over a spreadsheet this afternoon.”

  I snorted a laugh.

  “Not a bad pun, admit it.” He held open the door to the lobby.

  “No, really bad.”

  Stuffed into the elevator, he edged closer and whispered. “You do realize that every time we get in a lift together we’re going to remember how we met?”

  Without looking up at him, I smiled. He’d read my mind.

  The moment the doors opened onto DWD reception, we clicked into work mode. “Later, Mr. Craig.”

  Bradley nodded. “Moneypenny.”

  I made my way back into the creative department and glimpsed a dreamy-eyed girl in the dark glass of an empty office. No surprise there. Just for my own amusement, I did an orgasm count. Feeling a little tingly and wobbly about the total, I did a quick recount. More orgasms in one weekend, than all year with Derek.

  Not that I was comparing or anything.

  Sarah and I agreed to postpone lengthy weekend updates until lunch break and made huge progress on two different campaigns, Fusion Sportswear and themes for the A/X Spring Collection. Both were due to present internally.

  We worked well into the early afternoon, before breaking for lunch. We ordered tuna salads and iced green teas from the deli downstairs and ate in the near empty lunchroom.

  Sarah finally couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, so now that I know you spent the weekend on your back watching Bond movies.” She rolled her eyes. “Let’s get to the anatomical details—the important numbers. “Double oh seven?”

  I stared over my salad.

  “Double oh eight?”

  I raised a brow.

  “Eight and a half—and I’m beginning to be concerned for you—largely concerned.”

  I leaned closer. “Like, I’m really going to tell you details about his vagina impaler.”

  “How many times?” Her eyes narrowed. “And did you…you know?”

  “Do you have to know everything about my sex life?”

  Sarah sat back, arms folded. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m an open book.”

  “And when are we going to get to the erotic chapters?”

  She grinned. “I’m working on it. Mr. Rabbit says my body is a wonderland.” She shifted in her seat. “How many over the course of the weekend? No dodging.”

  I did a quick scan of the lunchroom and held up five fingers. Sarah’s eyes grew wider when I set down my fork and added another two fingers. “But only if you count this morning in the shower.”

  She lowered her voice. “Jeezus—are you sore?”

  I nodded. “The good kind of sore.”

  Just watching Sarah’s eyes bulge made my day.

  “I demand a recount.”

  “Friday night in the Bentley, and then later at my apartment.”

  Sarah pushed two imaginary abacus beads from left to right.

  “Saturday got off to a rocky start. There was an Audrey event, which turned out to be a misunderstanding of sorts.” I told her about the waffle truck encounter in Union Square, including the forkful of raspberries and whipped cream.

  Her gaze narrowed. “There is something wrong with her. What did Bradley do? He saw you right?”

  “He tried to chase me down, but I lost him in Green Market.” I told her about Bradley’s phone call and texts. “So…I sent him the shot of me and my middle finger.”

  Sarah stared. “And he still came over.”

  I nodded. “Turns out Audrey is moonlighting as a real estate agent. She was showing him a couple of her listings. Did you know her husband had cancer?”

  Sarah rocked her head. “There have always been rumors. Most of them started by her.” She leaned closer. “Great make up sex?”

  I smiled, adding a fist bump.

  She lowered her voice. “You don’t think Audrey’s doing it again? First with Derek and now Bradley?”

  Admittedly, I blinked. “She might be. We ran into her again on Sunday at Chelsea Pier. According to Bradley, she recommended a pick-up basketball game. I got the impression she was waiting for him, only he invited me along so I could try antigravity yoga.”

  Sarah grabbed my forearm. “Isn’t it amazing? Please join so we can go together—they offer it twice a day.” Her gaze shifted darker. The devil girl part of me loved it when Sarah got pissed. Her anger was righteous and funny.

  “Derek once compared Audrey to Bebe Glazer.”

  “Who’s Bebe Glazer?” I asked.

  Sarah dropped her fork in her salad. Something about the gesture reminded me of Hannah.

  “You ne
ver watched Frasier?” The princess of pop culture eyeballed me with one of her how-could-you-not-know-this looks.

  I grinned. “Not regularly, sorry.”

  “Bebe is Frasier’s agent. Niles calls her Lady Macbeth without the sincerity. She has morals that would raise eyebrows in the court of Caligula.”

  I nodded. “So…she’s intensely manipulative and seductive.”

  “Derek once quoted Niles. ‘“She’s the devil, Frasier. Run fast, run far!’” Sarah siphoned up some iced tea.

  I nearly choked on the thought. “Didn’t stop him from fucking her.”

  Sarah sat back. “You were smart to never let him get too close.”

  “Should I be worried about Audrey?”

  “Not…” Sarah flat-lined a grin. “Fatal Attraction worried.”

  I nodded absently. “The fight is on tonight, between Bradley and Derek.”

  Sarah stared at me. “Aren’t you just a wee bit worried?”

  “Here’s how Bradley describes it, ‘We’re just going to knock each other about like sparring partners.’”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon writing copy for banner ads and had just sent them over to Sarah when she arrived at my door holding an ad proof in her hands.

  “Please look at this and tell me what you think—honest opinion.”

  “Do you ever get anything else?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Bright-eyed, she appeared a little breathless. I stared at the two-page spread of a young woman’s torso. A man’s thumb hooked into the belt loop of her jeans, pulling them off her hip. Beautiful, sensuous light and shadow defined the model’s ample curves—definitely not fashion model skinny. The tastefully small headline read: These hips don’t lie.

  The first print ad for Lucky plus-size jeans was fucking hot. “Sarah Springer your awesomeness goes far beyond sauce.”

  “Do you love it? You have to totally love it.”

  Frankly, I couldn’t take my eyes off the proof. This was Derek Moubin level work, and one of Sarah’s best as a solo art director. “I’d say this goes well beyond love.”