He doesn’t become any less awkward as we enter the building. From fumbling with the lock to stumbling on the stairs, he seems nervous. My instinct is to take over, but I curb it, even as he misses the table in the foyer of his apartment when he goes to drop his keys and they land on the floor.
“I’m out of practice here. My apologies.” He laughs, but it’s tinny, unlike his laugh five minutes ago.
It’s what makes me listen to my instincts after all. Bradley’s my boss, but I’m in charge of this situation right now. I put my hand over his and say, “I have an idea. How about you show me where I can find the loo and then we have a glass of wine?”
“The loo is straight through here. Come on in.” Bradley doesn’t offer to take my jumper or my bag before disappearing into the flat.
I follow him around the corner and stop dead. If I were to picture Bradley Waring-Smith’s flat, this would not be it. Floor to ceiling windows greet me across a huge open room whose walls are filled with art. From a black and white photograph of a man leaning against a light post to an abstract purple and blue print and a… “Is that a real Ellsworth Kelly?” I blurt out.
Bradley nods. “I got it at an auction a few years ago.”
“Wow.” I take another step into the room and let myself see the rest of the space. Low white couches with colorful throw pillows, a sleek glass coffee table piled with books and magazines, a coffee mug next to a MacBook on the glass side table – Bradley’s apartment is modern and lived in. The man who spends so much time at work isn’t as one-dimensional as I think he is because there’s evidence of…life…everywhere. Of a guy interested in art and, judging by a furtive look at the books on his coffee table, science fiction. Christ, there’s even a pair of slippers tucked under the side of the couch.
“The bathroom is right down that hallway, second door on your left.” Bradley waves a hand behind him. “I’ll get the wine. Do you prefer red or white?”
“Red, I think.” Before I walked in here, I would have said white, but now the higher alcohol volume seems like a good idea. I take a step towards the hallway and stop, saying, “You have a gorgeous place. It’s not what I expected.”
For a second I worry that may have come out wrong, but then Bradley says, “Thank you. I know.”
As I head to the loo, I realize this night might not go as I expect it to either, and I can’t tell if that swooping in my stomach is excitement or nerves.
Chapter Sixteen
Two glasses of wine later, Bradley and I are on his couch, my shoes have been kicked off, legs tucked up under me, looking through a coffee table book called New York Stories. It includes black and white photographs of New Yorkers and a paragraph or two about them in their own words. Poring over the book together and reading the stories, I have to admit I feel more comfortable with Bradley Waring-Smith than I ever thought possible. Even with our knees touching and my fingers brushing against his as we turn the pages.
“Oh my God, look at this one. It’s so sad.” I point to a picture of a young girl sitting on the hood of a taxi and read aloud. “‘My father shares a taxi medallion with a friend. He likes it, likes meeting all the interesting people who take his cab, but I don’t like it because it means he’s never home at night. Sometimes if he has a fare that brings him to the neighborhood, he comes in and says hello, but mostly I see him in the morning before school. By then he’s tired from working all night and he doesn’t want to talk much. My mom always says his customers get the best of him. I think it makes her sad.’”
“My mom used to say the same thing about my dad, although in his case it was the military that got all of him.” Bradley sounds matter of fact until his voice drops as he says, “Literally.”
“Is your dad… I mean, did he…?” I can’t bring myself to ask if he died. It feels like the kind of question that invites either bad luck or sad stories. Or both.
“He died in Afghanistan. He didn’t have to go, but he opted in because, like a lot of people, he felt helpless after 9/11 and he just wanted to do something. On the third day, his unit was attacked and his vehicle took a grenade right in the driver’s seat.” Bradley pauses. “My dad was driving.”
“Oh my God.” My words come out in a low whoosh and I put my hand on Bradley’s knee and squeeze. “I’m so, so sorry. How old were you?”
“Eighteen.” Bradley tilts his head to look at me from under those long lashes. “In case you’re trying to do the math, that makes me thirty-four now.”
“I wasn’t, but thanks for saving me the trouble.” Also, I know that little tidbit because if Bradley thinks for one minute I didn’t Google the hell out of him before I took this job, he’s delusional. “You’re pretty young to have built such a successful company.”
He shrugs. “Bill Gates was twenty when he started Microsoft. I didn’t start WS until I was twenty-six.”
“Slacker.” I grin. “I hope you at least have a misspent youth to show for it.”
“I went a little off the deep end when my dad died. Art saved my life. I’m not even kidding.” Judging by the look on his face, he’s as serious as a heart attack. When I raise my eyebrows in a silent question, he continues. “I dabbled in drugs, did a lot of petty theft, didn’t care about anyone or anything. I was the stereotypical angry young man. Then my mom’s sister invited me to India. I didn’t realize at the time that my mom asked her to do it. She knew one way I’d get out of the vicious cycle I was in was to physically get me out. My aunt lived in the country. There was nothing around for miles and my uncle took the car to work every day, leaving me and my aunt stuck in the middle of nowhere. My aunt painted and eventually I got sick of moping and started painting with her.”
“So, are any of these yours?” I swivel my head around the room, eyeing the paintings on the walls.
“None of these. But I have one in my bedroom.” He doesn’t make eye contact as he says this, which is ironic considering that’s kind of what we’re here for.
Though, truth be told, I’ve forgotten. Ish. This past hour has felt more like a first date than a first shag. And not because the sexual tension has disappeared. It hasn’t. But Bradley is a different person here. He’s open and easy. Occasionally funny. He touches me without hesitation and there’s not even a trace of dickishness to him. Which isn’t a ringing endorsement for someone I’m thinking about shagging, but it is. For him. For the Bradley I think I know.
Which is dangerous thinking all around. If tonight’s proven anything, it’s that I don’t know Bradley at all. And if I’m smart, I’m not going to. More importantly, I’m not going to start thinking I want to. “Can I see it?” I make myself hold his eyes. “Your painting?”
He opens his mouth and closes it. Looks at me, then away, then back again. I see the exact second he decides. In fact, I see it so clearly it’s almost enough to send me running. Far and fast. Because we’re alike, he and I. So alike that we’ve both been lulled into this false sense of camaraderie. The one thing that will solve it is sleeping together. Sooner than later.
Bradley rises from the couch, cradling his glass of wine in one hand and reaching out to me with the other. I put my finger tips in his palm and he squeezes. “I think I should warn you not to be too impressed. I love art, but I was never very good in practice.”
I bite my lip and let my mouth tilt up. “That’s okay. I’m sure there are other things you’re good at.”
“In fact, there are.” Bradley smiles. Even though there’s warmth in it, it’s a practiced smile. I’ve seen enough real ones today to know the difference.
But this script I know, and I play my part. “You sound very confident.”
“I’m fairly confident.” He says this without irony as he leads me down the hall. Half of me wants to remind him of how nervous he was when we got to his flat. But not only would that be a little mean, it would be wrong because I was nervous, too. There’s no trace of apprehension in this hallway.
And maybe that’s the point.
We pass the bathroom and enter the room at the end of the hall. The shades are drawn and Bradley flicks a switch so a bedside lamp clicks on, next to a huge bed covered with a deep brown duvet. But the bed is nothing compared to the painting hung on the wall above it. It’s an abstract and the riot of colors is mesmerizing. Blues, browns, various shades of green, white, splashes of yellow.
“It looks like summer.” My voice comes out breathy and soft.
“It’s called Indian Summer.” Bradley’s voice is close to my ear.
“As in India.” I wonder if I would have known that if Bradley hadn’t said. “Why do you keep it hidden away in here?”
“It’s personal. Not the painting itself, but the time in my life it represents. I don’t like to tell that story.”
“No, I don’t imagine you do.” As I speak, I feel us slip back towards where we were before, but this time I stop it before we can even round the corner. I turn around and take a sip of my wine, holding Bradley’s gaze over the rim of my wineglass. After I swallow, I put it down on the dresser beside me and say, “You know what I’d like you to tell me, though?”
Bradley puts his wine down beside mine. “What’s that?”
“Where and how you like to be touched.” I run my fingernail down the front of his shirt, stopping before I hit his belt buckle.
“How about I show you?” Bradley threads my finger with his and brings it back up to rest in the V of my tank top. Then he drops two of his fingers down my cleavage, tracing along the edge of my bra as he touches the sensitive skin of my breasts.
“I like that plan.” Bradley’s fingertip sneaks behind the lace of my bra, brushing my nipple. I swallow and add, “But you’re going to have to kiss me before we go any further.”
“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
He pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger before I can answer and my words come out as a gasp. “Because what if you’re a lousy kisser? I’d have to bail.”
Bradley’s hand finds my other breast and he begins his exploration. “Hmm. Good point. And likewise. What if you’re the lousy kisser? Or worse, there’s no chemistry?”
I don’t get a chance to respond. In the next six seconds, Bradley’s hand cups my breast and my hand snakes around the back of his neck to pull his face to mine. He’s already halfway there and when his lips meet mine… Whoa. Fireworks on top of Roman candles on top of actual shooting stars.
I’m exaggerating and still not doing this kiss justice. I also know that at least half of what’s making it so great has nothing at all to do with Bradley – or me – being a good kisser and everything to do with chemistry.
God help us both.
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up the next morning, a sliver of sun dancing across the duvet and Bradley’s arm slung over my hip. Crap, crap, crap. Staying seemed like a good idea last night. This morning? Not so much. Especially with my stomach doing that weird lurching thing as I let my eyes wander up to Bradley’s face.
Because, dammit, he’s sexy. Even more so remembering the things his mouth did to me last night. And the deliciously dirty things he said while doing them. When Bradley cracks an eye open and gives me a sleepy grin, that’s the first thing I say. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a dirty talker.”
Bradley’s grin morphs into a laugh. “Wouldn’t you? Why not?”
I shrug, the movement pushing the sheet off my shoulder. “I should have known when I walked in here that you weren’t going to live up to my preconceived notions.”
“Don’t worry. Underneath it all I’m still the asshole from the office you despise.”
“I don’t think you are. I think it’s this persona you put on to seem untouchable.” I’m not sure what’s more alarming – that I’ve come to this conclusion or that I’m voicing it.
Bradley’s hand grips my hip through the sheet. “I think you’ve proven I’m not untouchable.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” I pause long enough that Bradley could fill the silence if he wants to acknowledge this shred of real conversation. When he doesn’t, I reach for his chest under the duvet, letting my fingernails rake over his skin, and say, “However, I will say you are very touchable.”
My hand wanders south, but Bradley grips my wrist before I can get past his abs and glances at the clock on the bedside table. “As much as I’d like you to continue where I think you’re going, I have a call with a supplier in Hong Kong in twenty minutes.”
I furrow my brow. “But it’s Sunday.”
“Which means fewer distractions.” Bradley strokes the inside of my wrist. “Normally.”
“Right. Um, okay. I’ll get out of your way then.” Usually I’m the one who’s urging guys out the door, so at least I recognize his words for what they are.
“You don’t have to leave.” Bradley’s voice is tentative. Like maybe he can’t believe what he’s saying either.
“But if you’re working…”
“It won’t be a long call. I just need to sort out some pricing on fabrics.” Bradley’s grip on my wrist tightens now and there’s an unmistakable heat in his gaze. “You could stay in bed.”
“Oh? And do what?”
“Pleasure yourself while I watch.” There’s no tentativeness in Bradley’s tone now.
The idea of it hits me right between my legs like he licked me. I swallow hard. “Only if you do your call naked so I can see the effect it has on you.”
Bradley moves my hand down to touch his cock, which is hard as a rock. “Do you see the effect just imagining it has on me?”
I lift the sheets and peer down, tightening my fingers around his shaft, then look up with a grin. “I do now. Did you say you have twenty minutes?”
“I need to prep. Besides, twenty minutes isn’t long enough for what I want to do to you.” Bradley shifts away from me, swinging his legs over the bed. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get started.”
I admire Bradley’s back side as he rises from the bed. His gym sessions don’t go to waste, that’s for sure. He walks out of the bedroom, leaving the door open, and I hear him rustling around in the kitchen and the telltale click of the kettle turning on.
Which means I have two minutes to pop to the loo and decide if I’m going to stay. The issue isn’t staying. It’s not even touching myself. God knows I’ve been doing that since I was twelve or thirteen. It’s touching myself while my boss looks on. Not even a random guy who I might see again a few more times. My boss. Who I’m going to see in the office tomorrow like nothing happened.
Last night while we were both in it was one thing, but for Bradley to watch me? To have that image in his head every time he looks at me?
I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are bright. I look awake and alive in a way I haven’t in a long time. Which is what decides it for me.
By the time Bradley comes back in the room – still naked, still aroused – a folder and his tablet stuffed under one arm and a cup of tea in each hand, I’m back in bed wearing a discarded white dress shirt I found hanging over the edge of the tub, the sheet draped across my thighs. He sets a cup of tea on the bedside table and, as I take a sip, says, “I don’t have any coffee. I’ll get some so I have it for next time.”
The hot tea scalds my throat as I swallow and blame that for the way my voice sounds when it comes out. “Next time?”
Bradley takes a sip of his tea and says, “You’re smart and beautiful and sexy as hell.” A grin creeps across his face. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
I laugh. As much from surprise as genuine pleasure. This version of Bradley Waring-Smith is so at odds with the man I thought I knew that I don’t know what to say in response. So, instead, I do.
I put my tea on the side table and lean back against the pillows. Bradley brings his mug to his lips again while I let my fingers trail down the buttons of his shirt until they slide between my legs. His cock twitches as it stands at at
tention.
“You still have a few minutes.” My voice comes out as a low purr.
“And I intend to appreciate every one of them.” He turns away just long enough to sit down in the chair in the corner and trains his gaze on me as he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself. Just once. But enough so his eyes flutter closed and he says, “Forgive me if I need to take the edge off a little until I’m done with this call.”
I open my legs wider and let my fingers hit my wet center, moving in a slow clockwise motion. “Likewise.”
Bradley opens his tablet and balances it on the arm of the chair. For the next three minutes, he divides his attention between his screen and watching me, though watching me wins. He picks up his phone and pauses with it halfway to his ear. “I’m going to get on the phone now. Are you going to make yourself come?”
“Soon.” I bite my lip. “I like the buildup.”
“So do I.” He strokes himself one more time and my abdomen clenches.
If the tables were turned, I think I’d come just from watching him do that a few times. As it is, having Bradley’s intense attention focused on me as he talks about prices and fabric is an unexpected turn on. I try to prolong my first orgasm as long as possible by going slowly, but it’s futile. I tip over the edge before Bradley’s ten minutes into his call.
He doesn’t break his stride in the conversation, but strokes himself again hard. Twice. He does the same next time I come, but the third time, just as I’m about to tilt over the edge, he comes over and grabs my hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Chen. I appreciate your time.” He pauses, twisting his fingers with my sticky ones. “I assure you the pleasure was mine.”
He presses end on the call and tosses the phone to the floor, taking my knees over his shoulders as his hands clench my ass in one smooth motion. I writhe away and say, “No. If I can’t put my hands on you, I’ll scream.”
“Tempting.” Bradley doesn’t let go of my ass as he says, “Sit on my face.”
A Brit Complicated (Castle Calder Book 3) Page 8
