Dottie 11.
This is insane. We hardly know one another. There isn’t a reasonable explanation for my continued interest…my fascination with the man. The butterflies swarming my belly are unnecessary. And infuriating. I’m 35. I’m not a teenage virgin new to the dating world. I’m jaded. Experienced. Disappointed. Underappreciated.
Am I fixating on him because he’s the first man in years, years , to satisfy me sexually and not give two shits about my physical appearance and its noticeable differences? Or maybe it’s because he didn’t see my tits and scars, that he was able to perform so admirably?
Ugh! I’m overthinking it. Again. My sisters, after Ruth’s unexpected visit, are Team Ezra all the way. It’s clear cut for them. They don’t see the gray, the murky waters I’m attempting to wade through.
It’s just sex. What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s not just sex and you know it!
I’m not going to figure any of it out on my own. I reluctantly pluck my phone from the coffee table, spin it around a few times in my hands, before just getting on with it.
Dottie: Hello. This is Dorothy Goldman. Thank you for the generous gifts.
Fuck. That’s so formal, like I’m writing a Thank You card after a graduation party. My heart stutters when he replies. That was fast. Usually, men take forever to respond.
Ezra: I was getting worried you might not know how to use a phone.
I bark out a laugh when I read his text. His worry is justified. It’s taken me 4 weeks since the first delivery to finally respond. Most men would have given up long ago, if they would have taken the time to woo me in the first place. I shake my head to clear it. I have to stop judging him by the deeds of others. I may have dated before, but I’ve never dated Ezra Kraus. If that’s what we’re doing.
Dottie: Sorry for the delay, I’ve been taking lessons at the local high school. I just got my Texting License today.
Ezra: Congratulations. It’s a big responsibility.
Dottie: I’ve been told.
I don’t know what else to say. Where to begin.
Ezra: Let me take you out to celebrate such a milestone.
Dottie: I’d like that. I’m free most evenings this week.
Ezra: I’ll be there in an hour. Dress comfortable.
Dottie: Tonight?
Dottie: That isn’t enough notice.
What the hell is wrong with him? Has he never taken a woman out before? This is our first date, maybe, I think, and I need more than 60 minutes notice. And what does “dress comfortable” mean? Dress? Jeans? Athletic wear?
Ezra: Not wasting anymore time. Jeans preferred. Hope you’re hungry!
Well, shit. With the clock running, I rush through my house, take a quick shower, shave my legs and underarms, brush my teeth, light makeup, and pull my hair in a low, loose ponytail. Satisfied with what looks back at me in the mirror, I grab comfy and butt hugging jeans, a V-neck t-shirt, and my Hey Dudes.
I stop mid-step in my living room with about 7 minutes left when I hear a loud engine. Glancing out my front windows, I watch a dark dressed figure dismount a huge motorcycle. The helmet is removed and Holy Fuck…It’s Ezra.
I’m not going to survive tonight. He’s too fucking hot. My uterus twitches at the sight of his lean body striding up my walkway, jeans molded to his muscular thighs, t-shirt highlighting his broad shoulders, tan skin, and trim waist, his black hair artfully styled despite his helmet. I let the curtains fall into place before he notices my staring.
I swipe my hands down my body and wait for him to ring the bell. I count to twenty in my head, then feign indifference as I open the door. I bite my bottom lip and stifle a whimper at the sight and scent of him.
I’ve already had sex with him. But that encounter was quick and satisfying but did not provide the opportunity to truly take in all that is Ezra Kraus. And the subsequent disaster in my office didn’t either. Now, though…I had sex with this guy!
With a roguish smirk, he leans past me, then stands up straight, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “What took you so long, Dot? The window isn’t far.” My cheeks feel hot at him calling me out like that. How dare he not pretend!
“It’s rude to comment on a woman’s—”
“Spying?” I huff out something, part groan, part laugh.
“Where’re we going?”
“Aw, come on, Dot. Aren’t you going to comment on my appearance?” When I remain tightlipped, he leans forward until his face is less than a foot from mine. His dark eyes drag down the length of my body, and slowly back up. “Cause, I gotta tell you, you look fucking edible.”
I swallow hard, then mirror his actions, running my eyes up and down his body. “You’ll do.” I say with a bit of attitude and a shrug. Ezra’s laugh is rich and honeyed and addictive. Too distracted by the sound, I startle when he closes the distance between us, his arms cupping my face with such gentle tenderness my breath stalls in my lungs.
“Hi.” He whispers, his eyes darting between mine.
“Hi.” I whisper back just as quietly.
Slowly but purposefully, Ezra presses his lips to mine, holding them there for just a moment, before sliding his mouth side to side. I open to deepen our connection, but he pulls back, drawing a low growl from somewhere inside me.
“You’re more beautiful than I remember.”
“You too.” I admit shyly. Ezra is dangerous. His mere presence has me off-kilter, let alone dizzying kisses that are far too short.
“Thank you, Dottie. You won’t regret giving me a chance.”
Staring into his eyes, seeing the emotions that swirl in their depths, hearing the earnestness of his words…I can’t see me ever regretting him again. My mind reminds me it’s entirely too early to know that, but my heart tells it to shut it.
Ezra smoothly drops his hands from my face to clasp one of mine. Leading me to his bike, I eye the imposing mode of transportation. He must feel my nervousness, since he squeezes my hand, then walks me around the bike and points out different parts. He explains how to get on and off, what to do as we ride, then produces a second helmet from his saddlebags for me to wear.
It takes some maneuvering, but I finally get my ass on the bike. I’m not a fan until he sits in front of me and urges me to wrap my arms around him. I rest my helmeted head against his firm back, my thumbs rubbing absently against his abs. He smells incredible, all warm and spicy and I find myself shifting closer to him. He pats my hands, starts the bike, and glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m ok. It's loud, but the rumble is oddly comforting. I feel connected to the bike in a way you don’t experience in a car. As he pulls out of my driveway and makes his way out of my neighborhood, I understand that a driver tells a car what to do, but a bike is an extension of the rider, working in tandem to navigate the streets of Charlotte.
We ride for about a half hour before pulling into a little diner parking lot. I’ve never been here, and I’m surprised that someone like Ezra knows about it, let alone receives the warm welcome we get once we enter.
A shy young woman, barely out of her teens if at all, shows us to a booth near the back with a smile. We sit in silence for a moment. I pretend to read the menu while my brain tries to assimilate this new information. I feel like I’m always trying to catch up when it comes to Ezra.
“Go ahead, Dot. I’ll never lie to you.”
I place the menu on the table and drop my hands to my lap. “Why are we here? How do they know you?”
“My Aunt Esther, she’s the previous Sarai Ima of the Kosher Nostra, may be particular about a great number of things, including eating at greasy spoon diners, she also possesses one of the biggest hearts of anyone I’ve ever met. She is a benefactor for many in our community, offering them a chance at a life they only believed existed in dreams.”
I look around the small restaurant again with new eyes. It’s family run. The young woman is the daughter of the woman behind the counter. The dad pops up in the passthrough, crooking his finger for the mom to lean over to kiss him. The daughter giggles with a roll of her eyes.
He lifts his shoulder casually, but I can tell this is important to him. “My cousins and I like to frequent her projects, make sure they’re doing alright, keep the riff raff away and eat some damn good food in the process.”
I laugh, but don’t otherwise respond. I can’t. Words won’t formulate. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. He is unlike anyone I’ve known. Unsure what to do, I pick the menu back up and study it like I’m going to be tested on it later. The daughter comes over and takes our food and drink orders.
Awkward silence surrounds us, and the longer it continues the less I know how to break it. I knew that I shouldn’t paint him with the colors of my past, and with everything I learn, it is cemented how badly I judged him. And the more I feel like a giant ass.
Our food is quickly delivered. Two bites in, I can’t take it anymore. “This is so awkward.”
“Yeah. It is.”
I sigh in relief that he feels it too. “There’s all this pressure.” I gesticulate wildly as I explain. “We had one encounter. And then weeks of build-up. And I don’t know about your family,” I do know since Ruth visited me, but I don’t want to out her in case he might be upset, “but mine is very adamant that the two of us are something, that we have something, and I’d be dumb not to explore it. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the elevator, but I thought it was a one and done, a fluke experience, I didn’t think you’d actually look for me. And then I find out that you’re…you, and my gut reaction was to put as much distance between us as possible. And I insulted you! A mistake! And most men would have just given up and told me to fuck off, but not you. You send my sisters and I food and concert tickets and pictures of adorably squishy babies and embarrassing material to hold over you for all time and I don’t think you’re a mistake. I know you aren’t a mistake. But now there’s so much pressure for this to be something and what if the sex isn’t as good as we remember? I’m afraid we’re going to disappoint one another. Or God forbid, our families who are probably scouting venues for wedding receptions as we eat this delicious bad-for-you food.” I take a deep breath and then shove a forkful of French toast into my big mouth hoping it will stop me from spewing the rest of what resides in my overworked brain.
He eyes me for a few seconds, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip. “Best elevator ride I’ve ever had.” I nearly spit out my food as I start laughing. My entire body deflates, and I slump into the booth. “I perform ‘Under Pressure’ well, though my ‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ is better.”
“Oh my God! Did you just dad-joke me?” He nods unrepentantly, making me laugh harder.
“Dottie, I want to spend time with you. Learn anything and everything about you that you’re willing to share. The only pressure I’m concerned with is in my pants when I think about you.” Asshole. “The fire that threatens to consume me when I touch you. And how, the longer we sit here, the more I’m thinking of letting that fire burn.”