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.
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.
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