“And?”
“And…it was frightening at times, but he was…jeezus. I shouldn’t be telling you or anyone this.” Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the truth. “He was amazing.” Heat swept over my cheeks.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh…my…God. Please tell me you did it.”
“Next!” The young Asian man took our order.
“Four green teas—two iced, two hot. Three chai’s—one hot decaf, two iced.” I turned to Sarah. “He’s like, half British, so I’m guessing he probably drinks black tea.” I ordered something called Earl Greyer. No joke.
Sarah added, “Four two-percent milks and one nonfat—three sugars, two Equals, and two Splendas on the side.”
Our server tossed sweetener packets and foil-covered plastic cups into a cardboard carryall. “Next!”
While we waited, Sarah rocked her body to a bit of imaginary hip-hop music. “Tell me, Gracie girl—did you do it? I hope you did it.” Sarah angled hard to one side and circled her fists—the Beyoncé move I’d taught her.
I shook my head. “We didn’t do it, exactly.” I plunked a cardboard tray of hot drinks into her open palms, and I handled the tall frosty versions.
“But you would have.” Sarah trotted to catch up with me.
“We were rudely interrupted by auxiliary generators,” I whispered, enduring yet another anxious elevator ride.
Outside Axel’s office, I turned to Sarah and squinted.
“My lips are sealed.” She held fingers to her lips and twisted.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I murmured and ducked into the room.
I was aware of Bradley even before I set eyes on him. He sat comfortably at one end of a long leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, looking GQ-ish.
Axel made introductions. “Sarah Springer, Bradley Craig.”
Sarah nodded, handing him his tea. “We thought you might like Lo’s version of Earl Grey.”
He leaned forward and politely took the cup from her. “Thank you.”
“You-you’re welcome.” Sarah stammered, falling under the spell of Bradley’s blue-eyed gaze. “Sweetener?”
“Sugar and a spot of milk, if you have it.” The half-Brit, half-American bearing gave him an air of rugged sophistication.
Seeing him in this business setting seemed almost alien. Think about it—I had held the man’s cock in my hands and stroked, heard his groan of arousal, trembled from his touch, inhaled his scent. And now here we were in the CSO’s spacious office waiting to be introduced to each other.
Ever since last night, before we entered the elevator together, I’d been aware of his gaze. This morning was no different. I could feel him track my every movement. Jeezus, if he kept this up, this visual stake out of his territory, the gossip would start right after the meeting. I concentrated on passing out the iced versions of chai tea.
So far, I’d managed to steer clear of office liaisons with the exception of Derek, who was more of a close colleague happy to be of service and vice versa. The fact that my attraction to Bradley felt so different put me on edge.
I handed Derek his iced tea.
“Thanks, Taylor-Scotty.” Naturally, Derek had his own name for me. New York’s hottest art director angled his lanky frame into a corner chair and resumed texting.
A self-professed despiser of advertising, Derek struggled with the idea of being sucked into the thirty-second TV spot vortex. All that artistic angst turned out to be the ultimate in bohemian chic, and so damned sexy in a coworker!
He often protested his moniker, Mobius, but the name had taken on a life of its own and this ad man appeared to be going places. Sooner rather than later, we would lose him to some enticing faction of the New York art world, but for now, the money and praise kept him coming into work late every morning.
Derek’s copywriter, Mark Hurley, slouched on a nearby couch. Derek and Mark were polar opposites. While Derek could be aloof and hard to know, Mark won you over with his
“And…it was frightening at times, but he was…jeezus. I shouldn’t be telling you or anyone this.” Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the truth. “He was amazing.” Heat swept over my cheeks.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh…my…God. Please tell me you did it.”
“Next!” The young Asian man took our order.
“Four green teas—two iced, two hot. Three chai’s—one hot decaf, two iced.” I turned to Sarah. “He’s like, half British, so I’m guessing he probably drinks black tea.” I ordered something called Earl Greyer. No joke.
Sarah added, “Four two-percent milks and one nonfat—three sugars, two Equals, and two Splendas on the side.”
Our server tossed sweetener packets and foil-covered plastic cups into a cardboard carryall. “Next!”
While we waited, Sarah rocked her body to a bit of imaginary hip-hop music. “Tell me, Gracie girl—did you do it? I hope you did it.” Sarah angled hard to one side and circled her fists—the Beyoncé move I’d taught her.
I shook my head. “We didn’t do it, exactly.” I plunked a cardboard tray of hot drinks into her open palms, and I handled the tall frosty versions.
“But you would have.” Sarah trotted to catch up with me.
“We were rudely interrupted by auxiliary generators,” I whispered, enduring yet another anxious elevator ride.
Outside Axel’s office, I turned to Sarah and squinted.
“My lips are sealed.” She held fingers to her lips and twisted.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I murmured and ducked into the room.
I was aware of Bradley even before I set eyes on him. He sat comfortably at one end of a long leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, looking GQ-ish.
Axel made introductions. “Sarah Springer, Bradley Craig.”
Sarah nodded, handing him his tea. “We thought you might like Lo’s version of Earl Grey.”
He leaned forward and politely took the cup from her. “Thank you.”
“You-you’re welcome.” Sarah stammered, falling under the spell of Bradley’s blue-eyed gaze. “Sweetener?”
“Sugar and a spot of milk, if you have it.” The half-Brit, half-American bearing gave him an air of rugged sophistication.
Seeing him in this business setting seemed almost alien. Think about it—I had held the man’s cock in my hands and stroked, heard his groan of arousal, trembled from his touch, inhaled his scent. And now here we were in the CSO’s spacious office waiting to be introduced to each other.
Ever since last night, before we entered the elevator together, I’d been aware of his gaze. This morning was no different. I could feel him track my every movement. Jeezus, if he kept this up, this visual stake out of his territory, the gossip would start right after the meeting. I concentrated on passing out the iced versions of chai tea.
So far, I’d managed to steer clear of office liaisons with the exception of Derek, who was more of a close colleague happy to be of service and vice versa. The fact that my attraction to Bradley felt so different put me on edge.
I handed Derek his iced tea.
“Thanks, Taylor-Scotty.” Naturally, Derek had his own name for me. New York’s hottest art director angled his lanky frame into a corner chair and resumed texting.
A self-professed despiser of advertising, Derek struggled with the idea of being sucked into the thirty-second TV spot vortex. All that artistic angst turned out to be the ultimate in bohemian chic, and so damned sexy in a coworker!
He often protested his moniker, Mobius, but the name had taken on a life of its own and this ad man appeared to be going places. Sooner rather than later, we would lose him to some enticing faction of the New York art world, but for now, the money and praise kept him coming into work late every morning.
Derek’s copywriter, Mark Hurley, slouched on a nearby couch. Derek and Mark were polar opposites. While Derek could be aloof and hard to know, Mark won you over with his
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