by Monica James
However, as I turn to look at my reflection in the mirror, I cringe because my face and hair are one hot mess.
“Yeah, you’ll definitely need to redo your hair and make-up,” Mary says when she sees my reaction to my hobo appearance.
Turning over my shoulder, I chuckle. “You said it doesn’t matter what I wear.”
“Yeah I know, but you don’t want to totally scare him off. I mean, he might be useful to have around,” she explains.
I raise my eyebrow, confused.
“He might have cute friends,” she says with a wink.
* * *
After washing, straightening and curling my hair, and hating all options, I’ve thrown it up into a messy bun, as that’s the only thing I’m semi-happy with. My make-up is minimal, and the only thing that’s “flashy” is my favorite vanilla lip gloss, which plumps up my lips. Mary was right. This most certainly is not a date. I mean, I’m going out with David, for Christ’s sake. But it troubles me that I occasionally need to remind myself of that fact.
When the doorbell chimes right at 7 p.m., butterflies suddenly take flight in my belly, but I tell them to cool it, because this is not a date. Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and taking a deep breath, I open the door and am greeted by the hottest man on earth.
The first breath I took was in vain, as it hasn’t helped calm my nerves whatsoever, so I take another before I pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain.
“Madison,” Dixon says in a deep, husky voice that has me loving my own name.
“H-Hi,” I stutter, shyly brushing a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “Please come in,” I add, opening the door wider and stepping out of the way.
Dixon nods, his lips tipping up into a mischievous, dimpled smile as he takes his first step into my home. I can’t help but note how much younger he looks in casual clothing. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a tight, black Yankees T-shirt, and even though he looks informal, he still looks damn fine.
When I quickly shut the door behind me, he turns to look at me over his shoulder and smirks as he points to my framed From Dusk till Dawn movie poster. “I love Quentin Tarantino.”
“You do?” I ask, as he failed to mention this during our texting marathon.
“Oh yeah. I like anything that screws with the mind.” He taps his temple.
Of course he does.
“Well good, ’cause now I don’t feel like a total nerd,” I say with a faux sigh.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he replies in a conspiratorial tone, and I laugh at his flippant attitude.
“So, did you want your dessert now, or after?” I ask, still standing with my back against the door, too nervous to move, as his gorgeous looks are rendering me useless.
He turns full circle and crosses his arms over his broad chest, a hint of a smile pulling at his supple lips.
“How about we get some studying done first, and then I can pass out into a sugary coma?”
“Good idea.” I smirk, and push off the door. “I don’t really have a desk,” I shyly confess, and look at where my coffee table was once visible, as it’s now strewn with books, papers, highlighters, and the occasional candy wrapper.
“That’s okay. This is like your little study den. I like it. You should have seen my room when I was studying. I lost two cats in there,” he teases.
“Well, now I feel better, ’cause at least I know where my cat is.”
Dixon laughs and I realize this is the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His relaxed attitude calms me down somewhat.
“So, shall we?” he suggests, pointing to my sofa.
“Yeah—yes, of course,” I counter, mentally giving myself a well-needed slap.
I round the sofa, while he does the same, and we both take a seat on opposite ends, our bodies pressed up against the armrests. There’s a huge gap between us, seeing as my sofa seats five comfortably.
Wow, this isn’t at all awkward. But it’s the reality check I needed, as I’ve probably made Dixon uncomfortable with my excessive staring. With that thought in mind, I kick off my sneakers and reach for my textbook.
Tucking a leg underneath me, I turn to face Dixon and almost forget to breathe when I see he’s sporting a pair of thick-rimmed, designer glasses. His incredibly blue eyes are now amplified, and the chic frames give him a sexy professor look.
“Okay, show me whatcha got,” he says, and I close my gaping mouth.
“Well, I’m having problems with Autonomic Pharmacology,” I reply, my fingers shaking as I flip open my book to chapter four.
Dixon shifts closer, looking at the open textbook I’m offering him. “This can definitely be a little overwhelming. What don’t you understand?”
“All of it,” I confess with a smile.
Dixon chuckles, and I ignore how the sound resonates throughout my entire body.
“Well, let’s start with the basics. There are four classes of medications. There are medications that turn on the sympathetic nervous system, and then there are medications that turn off the sympathetic nervous system,” he explains, holding out his left hand.
Holding up his right hand, he then goes on to say, “There are medications that turn on the parasympathetic nervous system. And then there are drugs that turn off the parasympathetic nervous system.”
“Yeah, but how do you remember which do what?” I ask, reaching for my pen.
“You know the autonomic nervous system is responsible for ‘fight’ or ‘flight.’ And ‘rest’ and ‘digest,’ right?”
I nod, because my autonomic nervous system is running haywire at the moment.
“Well, it’s easy. The sympathetic nervous system isn’t that sympathetic after all. Just imagine, it’s a beautiful, sunny day and you’re taking a hike in the woods when suddenly, a bear…”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Dixon has managed to explain to me what my lecturer has failed to do all semester.
“Holy shit, that makes perfect sense!” I exclaim, madly writing out critical points as Dixon speaks.
“Of course it does,” he cockily scoffs. “Are you telling me you doubted my teaching skills?” he mocks, clutching his heart.
“Well…” I taunt, giving him a cheeky sideways glance.
“For your lack of belief, you now owe me two pieces of cheesecake,” he smugly states, taking off his glasses and rubbing his weary eyes.
“I think I can manage that,” I reply, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. However, I stop mid-stride and turn over my shoulder and ask, “So, what do you know about adrenergic drugs?”
* * *
Three hours later, I know things I didn’t even know existed.
After I got over the fact that Dixon was in my house, sitting mere inches away from me, I actually learned stuff. He has turned out to be an incredible teacher, and it doesn’t hurt he’s pretty incredible to look at.
The way he spoke with excitement on topics he obviously felt passionate about just proved to me that I’m intrigued by all sides of him, which troubles me. I find myself easily slipping and forgetting that I’m in a relationship with David.
“Are you going to eat that?” Dixon asks.
“Huh?” I blurt out, his question disturbing my thoughts as I meet his amused eyes.
“That. Are you going to eat it?” he repeats, pointing to my cheesecake with his fork.
“Oh, no, you can have it,” I offer, handing my plate over to him.
He gratefully accepts, and I tell myself to stop staring at his lips as he takes a big bite. I obviously fail, however, because Dixon grins.
“I love desserts.”
“Me too,” I reply, thankful he didn’t address my staring issue.
“Yeah, I blame growing up with an Italian mother,” he replies with a smirk, licking his fork clean.
“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned your parents were Italian,” I say, remembering our texting conversation where I avoided the topic of my family like the plague. “But Mathe
ws isn’t Italian, is it?” I ask, feeling culturally uneducated. “And neither is Dixon.”
Dixon shakes his head and he leans forward, placing the empty plate on top of a closed textbook. “No, it’s actually Di Matteo. But I changed it once I hit college to become a little more Americanized.”
The way his surname rolls off his tongue, I know he must speak Italian, as his accent is very authentic. Holy shit, I have the world’s hottest man sitting in my house, eating dessert, and he’s literally fluent in the language of love.
“And where did Dixon come from?”
He clears his throat before confessing, “I was named after my father’s fishing boat.”
I try not to smile. “Oh.”
When he sees my reaction, he clarifies. “Well, his boat was actually named Dixieland. America was his freedom. A better way of life. So when I was born, my parents mixed a little of their past roots, with their present roots.”
“I like it, it has meaning.”
He nods with a smirk. “I guess so. But honestly, I’m just glad they didn’t call me Dixie.”
I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh.
As I digest everything he just shared, a thought suddenly occurs to me.
Madison, do not ask him to say something in Italian, I silently scold.
“So, do you know any swear words in Italian?” I ask, totally ignoring my inner voice.
Dixon laughs, the muscles in his thick neck flexing. “Why is that the first question most people ask?”
I lift my shoulders into a playful shrug. “I dunno, you tell me—you’re the doctor.”
Dixon nods and moves his mouth from side to side, appearing to be in full contemplation of what to say. “You want tame? Or no holds barred?”
“Give it to me.” I smile.
“Vaffanculo.”
I have no idea what he just said, and he more than likely just insulted me, but I don’t care because that phrase just made me keel over.
“More,” I shamelessly demand.
Dixon’s lips twitch. “You didn’t even ask what I said.”
I bashfully smile, as he so knows I’m impressed. “It doesn’t matter, I trust you.”
And I really do. Dixon looks reflective, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on my over share.
Taking off his glasses, I can see him weighing up on what to say next. “Sei una bella ragazza con gliocchi belli.”
Oh…wow.
I’m on the edge of my seat swooning as Dixon just serenaded me in his native tongue. I know that couldn’t be a curse because I’m not totally clueless, and I know the word “bella” means beautiful. So did Dixon just call me…beautiful?
My heart begins racing at the possibility, and I whisper, “What did you say?”
The air is charged by an unseen static, and I know I should stop talking, but I can’t.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” he says, matching my tone as he inches closer to me, while I do the same to him.
“I changed my mind,” I reply, my eyes involuntarily dropping to his mouth.
“I said, you’re a beautiful girl,” he huskily confesses.
“And what else?” I press, because I know there’s more.
“I also said, you have beautiful eyes.” He moves another inch closer.
“You think I’m beautiful?” I gasp, not noticing our knees are touching until my leg is on fire.
“Yes,” he replies without pause. “You’re gorgeous.”
“T-Thanks,” I stammer as I lean forward, my body wanting to be closer to his.
What am I doing? I need to stop this, it’s wrong. But why does it feel so right?
Being with Dixon is effortless, and with him I’m not afraid or shying away from his touch like I am with others.
“I think you’re gorgeous, too.” It’s out before I can stop myself.
Dixon’s eyes widen, and I kick my ass for not putting a lid on my rampant brain. But he doesn’t look troubled by my confession, and if anything, he looks highly roused by my honesty. I lower my eyes, embarrassed by my frankness, but he gently places two fingers under my chin and raises my face to meet his. I go willingly, and when I meet his heated stare, a gasp escapes me because he looks as if he’s about to pounce.
However, he remains absolutely still, and I breathlessly anticipate his next move.
His thumb, which is still grasping my chin, begins a slow, tortuous journey of my jaw, and as he sashays the tip back and forth over my skin, my mouth parts and I lick my lower lip. Dixon hungrily follows the movement, and I squirm when I’m rewarded with a lopsided smirk. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.
“Sei un angelo,” he whispers, and the smoldering look in his deep blue eyes hint that his words are of tenderness as he softly lets me go.
“What does that mean?” I breathlessly ask, but he shakes his head, not replying.
I’m completely lost in a Dixon bubble, and suddenly, nothing else exists. I know he feels it too, and as he leans forward, painfully slow, wetting his supple, sinful lips, he only stops when our faces are mere inches apart. My breath leaves me in small, winded gasps, and Dixon cockily smirks, knowing what this intimacy is doing to me.
The electricity passing between us has every nerve ending in my body prickling in awareness. My skin hums in pleasure as Dixon raises his finger and, ever so gently, rubs the back of his knuckle down my cheek and across to my parted lips. He’s silently asking for entrance, and damn me, I want him inside.
Opening my mouth wider, Dixon heatedly watches the movement and strokes his finger along the seam of my mouth, before finally placing the tip inside. Timidly, I circle the top of his pointer finger, and he hisses, which has my insides liquefying.
He watches me slowly tongue him, his eyes blistering, but he never pushes. This is my show as much as it is his, and in this moment, I want to kiss him so bad. I know it’s wrong and I should be pulling away, but I can’t. I’ve felt this way from the moment I met him.
Dixon softly removes his finger from my mouth and slides it down the center of my bottom lip, no doubt sensing my need. And like the true man that he is, he boldly bends forward, ready to claim my mouth as his. However, the deathly whistle from Kill Bill chimes loudly, interrupting our moment, and I hastily pull back, nearly giving myself whiplash. My cheeks flame in embarrassment, but also in desire, and I clumsily reach for my cell off the coffee table.
“Shit,” I curse when I see who’s calling me.
Dixon blows out a deep breath as he falls back against the sofa, fisting his hair.
Whether David has the best or worst timing, I’m still undecided, but I answer the phone on the fifth ring.
“Hey,” I say, my shrill voice sounding unlike me.
“Hey, babe, I missed you. Sorry if I interrupted your studying,” he replies, his warm voice causing a ball of guilt to subside in my stomach.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say, feeling heated, as I know Dixon is listening to every word.
I can’t do this with him sitting here, as it feels so wrong and dirty. David is happily chatting away and I slowly stand, turning to look at Dixon, who looks half pissed, half aroused—the look suits him. I raise my pointer finger, indicating I’ll only be a minute and he nods. I excuse myself and duck into my bedroom, taking the first breath since I answered the phone.
“So, what do you think?” David asks as I close the door behind me.
“About what?” I counter, as I haven’t been listening to a word he’s said.
“About meeting my parents this weekend. They really want to meet you. And I really want you to meet them.”
…Shit.
This is so not good timing. Dixon is in the other room, and not to mention, I was seconds away from kissing him. Now my kind-of-boyfriend has just asked me to meet his parents. Oh God, this is too much. I feel a small bout of anxiety creep over me, and I take a seat on the edge of my bed.
“Um…David, I don’t know.”
“Why,
Maddy? You know I’m crazy about you, and I’m not going anywhere,” he softly states.
“I know, and I’m into you, too.”
“But,” he prompts.
“But this is a big step.”
“I know. But I’m ready to take it with you,” he says, his voice displaying nothing but care.
My breath comes out in small pants as I can’t take the pressure. Just say no, Madison, my inner self screams. Learn to say no.
David is sweet, kind, and I am dating him. Just because the man I’m obsessing over is sitting in my living room, doesn’t warrant me to be so detached.
“Okay, fine. Early dinner, though,” I say, finally caving. “I’ve got a ton of homework I gotta get through this weekend.”
“You got it, babe, whatever you want,” David says excitedly, and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “I’ll make all the arrangements. My mom is going to flip. She’s really excited to meet you.”
“I’m excited to meet your mom, too,” I reply, massaging my temple.
I really should go, as Dixon is in the other room, and I’m being extremely rude.
“Maddy?” David questions.
“Yeah?” I reply, not liking his tone.
“Maybe after we’re done, you could, I don’t know, maybe spend the night? I could help you study,” David suggests, and I can hear the apprehension in his voice.
I pause, needing a moment to process his question. David and I have kissed and fooled around a little, but it’s been quite tame. He hasn’t pushed with the sex stuff, and although I haven’t told him about my past, he knows something nasty lies dormant in my memories. However, he respects my need for space and he doesn’t push.
But meeting his parents and spending the night is too much for me.
I just…can’t.
My silence says it all and David says, “It’s okay. I understand. I’m sorry for asking.”
The hint of disappointment stabs me in the chest, so I stupidly reply, “I’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises.”
“Oh, Maddy,” David gushes. “You’re the best. I’m so lucky.”
His kindness really amazes me, and makes me feel like an even bigger bitch for being so insensitive.
