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“Right, you’re thirty-six.” She exhaled. “You didn’t get someone pregnant in high school.”
“What? No!”
“But you gave me your real name, right?”
“Yes.”
They didn’t speak anymore, except for directions when he needed them. They were at her dark, empty house in less than fifteen minutes. The avocado tree Ilan had planted eighteen years ago spread its wide canopy over the entrance.
"Nice place," he remarked. “Do you still want to proceed? Given that I’m not my brother. Just to be clear: I want to, very much.”
“Yes,” she answered with no hesitation. She liked it better that he was older and wasn’t a divorcee pleasing stud. It was still a one-night stand but with a person who was more like her.
“Eh, do you want tea, coffee...?” she asked awkwardly as they entered and she turned on the lights, revealing her well-used, modern-looking kitchen.
“Point us to the bedroom, Dafna,” he said, creases of amusement in the corners of his eyes. But there was hunger in the green depths. He wanted her, and he wasn't hiding it. A zap of craving shot through her, mirroring his.
"Upstairs," she blurted.
“Let me carry you. More romantic and boyfriendy.”
He was adorable.
Years ago, when they moved in, her once loving husband had carried her up the stairs. Then they made passionate house christening love together. She didn’t need empty gestures. “It’s okay. I like using my legs, and you should save your strength for more important things.”
His shoulders slumped before he nodded curtly.
Halfway up the stairs, where the staircase turned ninety degrees, there was a landing. Erez stopped and pressed her against the wall, sheltering her head. His mouth landed on hers, seeking and asking, kissing her as if he couldn't wait one more second. She’d all but forgotten the joy of being desired. His large hand gripped the back of her head in a dominant way. A controlled wildness, a thrill that sent her heart beating. He gave her passion, and it didn’t feel contrived, or calculated, or acted. Stop thinking, Erez’s lips were telling her. He pushed against her body, his hardness probing her softness.
"Bedroom," she said, pulling away and turning towards the upper half of the stairs. She gave him her hand, his large palm’s touch light and pleasing. They climbed the stairs, and she led him to her bedroom. Turning on the lights, she froze at the sight of the opposite wall hung with numerous family pictures. This was totally irrational, completely stupid, but it felt like she was cheating. Using the dimmer, she threw her ex’s smiling face into semi-darkness. But she still couldn’t enter. She had never, ever been with anyone else in this bedroom. Just her husband. Just Ilan.
“What is it?”
She shook her head, ordered her legs to move, and sat down, perching at the foot of her large bed. She gulped down her nervousness, reaching for reason, trying to unlock her muscles.
“What is it?” he asked again. He came to stand in front of her, his jeans clad bulge near her nose.
“Nothing.” She wasn’t sure how to go on. It wasn’t about cheating, not really. Earlier this evening, Erez had asked her about her fears. She feared physical intimacy. She used to be sassy and confident. Now she didn’t know what to do next.
“Let me help you with your sandals.” He knelt at her feet and unstrapped her sandals. His strong fingers lightly kneaded the strung tendons of her right foot.
“Good?”
“Yes.” She leaned back on her elbows. He raised her left leg and released her tired foot from the other sandal and rubbed the red marks. She purred in pleasure when his thumbs spread circles on her sore feet. Heaven. He was patient, paying attention to each foot, easing her fears with the right kind of touch. He looked up at her, and she smiled and nodded at him.
“Can you take off your shirt for me?” She was emboldened by his submissive pose.
He laid her feet back gently, until they dangled over the bed’s side, and straightened to peel off his shirt, revealing broad shoulders and a flat chest. A splatter of dark hair around his nipples and tight stomach.
“You have more tattoos.” He had long blue stripes of wave shaped tattoos. The curling waves started on his smooth, tanned shoulder and hugged his biceps, ending above his right elbow.
“I got it in Australia. It’s a surfer’s tattoo. Pretty corny, I guess.”
“No, they’re pretty. Where did you get the manta ray? Somewhere exotic too?”
“Rehovot.” He named a southern sleepy Israeli town. Dafna laughed, and he grinned at her.
“Are you shy about being naked?” he asked.
