He ended his email with an explicit and detailed suggestion of
a prospective sexual rendezvous, possibly in the late spring. Then he finished his cigarette in the darkness and joined his wife in their matrimonial bed.
34
Chapter 3
Christa Peterson had a privileged upbringing, so really, there
was no excuse for her vicious nature. She had two parents who
loved each other and their only daughter very much. Her father was a well-respected oncologist in Toronto. Her mother was a librarian at Havergal College, an elite, private girl’s school that Christa attended from kindergarten through grade twelve.
Christa went to Sunday school. She was confirmed as an Anglican.
She studied Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer, but none of these actions touched her heart. And when she was fifteen years old she discovered the immense power of female sexuality. Once she discovered it, it became not only her currency but her weapon of choice.
Her best friend, Lisa Malcolm, had an older brother called Brent.
Brent was handsome. He looked like so many other graduates of
Upper Canada College, a private boy’s school that catered to Canada’s old moneyed families. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was tall and fit. He was a rower for the University of Toronto’s men’s team and could easily have starred in a J.Crew commercial.
Christa had admired Brent from afar but because of the four-
year age difference, he’d never noticed her. But then, late one night while sleeping over at Lisa’s house, Christa ran into Brent on her way to the bathroom. He’d been extremely taken by her long dark hair,
big brown eyes, and youthful, nubile form. He’d kissed her gently
in the hallway and brushed tentative fingers across her breast. Then he’d taken her hand and invited her to his room.
After thirty minutes of making out and feeling one another
through their clothes, he was eager to take things further. Christa hesitated, because she was a virgin, so Brent began making wild and extravagant promises — gifts, romantic dates, and final y, a Baume & Sylvain Reynard
Mercier stainless steel watch that had been a present from his parents on his eighteenth birthday.
Christa had admired his watch. She knew it well, for Brent trea-
sured it. In truth, she wanted it almost more than she wanted him.
Brent fastened the watch on her wrist, and she stared at it, mar-
veling at the coolness of the steel against her flesh and the way it slid easily up and down her narrow forearm. It was a token. A sign that he desired her so intensely, he was willing to give her one of his most prized possessions.
It made her feel wanted. And powerful.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you. But God,
I want you. And I promise I’ll make you feel good.”
Christa smiled and let him place her on his narrow bed like
an Incan sacrifice on an altar and gave her virginity up to him in exchange for a three-thousand-dollar watch.
Brent kept his word. He was gentle. He went slowly. He kissed
her and softly explored her mouth. He paid homage to her breasts.
He prepared her with his fingers and tested her to ensure that she was ready for him. When he entered her, he did so carefully. There was no blood. Just large hands rubbing circles on her hips and a
low voice that murmured instructions on how to relax, until her
discomfort disappeared.
As promised, he made her feel good. He made her feel beautiful
and special. And when it was over he held her closely all night. For he was not an entirely vicious soul, driven as he was by carnal needs.
They would repeat this act many times over the next three years,
despite other romantic entanglements. Before Brent entered her, he would always place a gift in her hand.
He was soon followed by Mr. Woolworth, Christa’s grade-eleven
Math teacher. Christa’s encounters with Brent taught her much about men, how to read their wants and desires, how to tantalize and pro-voke, and how to string along and tease.
She teased Mr. Woolworth unmercifully until the man cracked
and begged her to meet him at a hotel after school. Christa liked it when men begged. In the plain hotel room, her teacher surprised
her with a silver necklace from Tiffany. He placed the delicate links around her neck and kissed her flesh softly. In exchange, Christa let 36
Gabriel’s Rapture
him explore her body for hours until he fell asleep, exhausted and sated.
He was not as attractive as Brent, but he was far more experienced.
For every subsequent gift, she would allow him to touch her in old and new ways. By the time their affair ended and Christa moved to
Quebec to attend Bishop’s University, she’d amassed an enormous
amount of jewelry and an extensive knowledge of sexual relations.
Moreover, Christa had become one of few women who viewed the
role of the man-eating seductress as something to emulate.
When Christa completed her master’s degree in Renaissance
Studies at the Università degli Studi di Firenze, her pattern of relationships was fixed. She preferred older men, men in positions of power.
She was excited by forbidden affairs — the more remote, the more
improbable, the better.
She tried for two years to seduce a priest who was assigned to
the Duomo in Florence, and right before graduation, she succeeded.
He took her in the single bed of his tiny apartment, but before he touched her, he wrapped her long, warm fingers around a tiny icon
that had been painted by Giotto. It was priceless. But so, she reasoned, was she. Christa would allow men to have her, but only at a price.
And she’d always bedded the men she wanted — eventually.
Until her first year of PhD coursework at the University of To-
ronto when she met Professor Gabriel O. Emerson. He was by far
the most attractive and sensual of all the men she’d ever met. And he appeared very sexual. His raw, smoldering carnality oozed from
every pore. She could almost smell it.
She watched him hunt at his favorite bar. She noted his stealthy,
seductive approach and the way women reacted to him. She stud-
ied him the way she studied Italian, and she put her knowledge to
good use.
But he spurned her. He never looked at her body. He would gaze
into her eyes coldly, as if she wasn’t even female.
She began to dress more provocatively. He never glanced below
her neck.
She tried to be sweet and self-deprecating. He was impatient.
She baked him cookies and took to leaving anonymous culinary
treats in his mail box at the department. The treats would remain
untouched for weeks until Mrs. Jenkins, the departmental secretary, 37
Sylvain Reynard
threw them into the garbage, worried about a potential infestation of vermin.
The more Professor Emerson rejected her, the more she wanted
him. The more she became obsessed with having him, the less she
cared about receiving gifts in trade. She would give herself to him freely if he would only look at her with desire.
But he didn’t.
So in the fall of 2009, when she had the opportunity to meet him
at Starbucks and discuss her dissertation, she was eager to see if their meeting could turn into dinner and possibly a visit to Lobby. She
would be on her best behavior, but she would be alluring. Hopefully, he would stop resisting her.
In preparation for her meeting, she spent six hundred dollars on
a black Bordelle chemise, along with garters and black silk stock
ings.
She disdained the matching panties. Every time the garters pulled
across the surface of her skin, she felt inflamed. She wondered how it would feel when Professor Emerson released her stockings from
their bonds, preferably with his teeth.
Unfortunately for Christa, Paul and Julia had chosen to inhabit
the same Starbucks at the same time. Christa knew without doubt
that any impropriety on her part would be eagerly watched and noted by her fellow students. The Professor would know this too, and thus be far more professional than usual.
So when Christa confronted Paul and Julia, she was beyond
pissed. She wanted to insult the two of them so they would leave
before the Professor arrived. She did her damnedest to make sure
that happened. Nevertheless, her attempt at intimidating her fellow graduate students went horribly awry. Professor Emerson arrived
earlier than expected and overheard her.
“Miss Peterson.” Gabriel pointed toward an empty table far away
from Paul and Julia and indicated that Christa should follow him.
“Professor Emerson, I bought you a venti latté with skim milk.”
She tried to hand it to him, but he waved it aside.
“Only barbarians drink coffee with milk after breakfast. Haven’t
you ever been to Italy? And by the way, Miss Peterson, skim milk is for wankers. Or fat girls.”
He spun on his heel and walked over to the counter to order his
own coffee while Christa tried valiantly to hide her rage.
38
Gabriel’s Rapture
Damn you, Julianne. This is all your fault. You and the monk.
Christa sat in the chair that Professor Emerson had pointed out,
feeling almost defeated. Almost, for from her vantage point, she had a lovely view of Professor Emerson’s ass in his gray flannel trousers.
Rounded like two apples. Two ripe, delicious apples.
She wanted to take a bite out of them.
At length, the professor returned with his own damn coffee. He
sat as far away from her as possible, while still technically sitting at the same table, and gazed at her harshly.
“I need to speak to you about your behavior. But before I do, let
me make one thing clear. I agreed to meet you here today because
I desired a coffee. In the future, we will meet in the department as we normally do. Your transparent attempts at engineering social
engagements between the two of us will be unsuccessful. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One word from me and you’l be finding yourself a new dis-
sertation director.” He cleared his throat. “In the future you wil address me as Professor Emerson, even when speaking of me in the third person. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Professor Emerson.” Ohhhh, Professor. You have no idea how much I want to scream your name. Professor, Professor, Professor…
“Moreover, you will refrain from making personal remarks about
my other students, especially Miss Mitchell. Is that clear?”
“Clear.”
Now Christa was beginning to seethe a little, but she kept her
reaction to herself. She placed all the blame on Julia. She wanted to drive Julia out of the program. She simply wasn’t sure how to do that. Yet.
“Finally, anything you hear from me about another student or
person connected with the university will be deemed to be confidential, and you will not repeat it or else you will find yourself another dissertation director. Do you think you are intelligent enough to
comply with these very simple instructions?”
“Yes, Professor.” She bristled slightly at his condescension, but
truth be told, she found his grumpiness sexy. She wanted to tease it out of him. To seduce him into doing unspeakable things to her, to —
39
Sylvain Reynard
“Any more abuse directed toward MA students will be brought to
the attention of Professor Martin, the department chair. I believe you are well aware of the regulations governing the behavior of graduate students. I don’t need to remind you about the prohibitions against hazing, do I?”
“But I wasn’t hazing Julia, I was — ”
“No sniveling. And I doubt that Miss Mitchell gave you permis-
sion to use her first name. You will address her properly or not at all.”
Christa bowed her head. Threats of the sort he was making were
not sexy. She’d worked very hard to get into the PhD program at the University of Toronto, and she wasn’t about to let it all slip through her fingers. Not for some pathetic little bitch who had something
cooking with the Professor’s research assistant.
Gabriel saw her reaction but said nothing, slowly sipping his
espresso. He felt no remorse and was beginning to wonder what else he could do to make her cry.
“I’m confident you are well aware of the university’s policies governing harassment. Those policies work both ways. Professors can
file a complaint if they believe they are being harassed by a student.
If you cross the line with me, I’ll drag you to the Dean’s Office so quickly your head will spin. Do you understand?”
Christa lifted her chin and gazed at him with wide, frightened
eyes. “But we — I thought — ”
“But nothing!” Gabriel snapped. “Unless you’re delusional, you’ll
realize that there is no we. I won’t repeat myself. You know where you stand.”
He glanced at Julia and Paul one last time. “Now that we have
dispensed with today’s pleasantries, I’d like to tell you what I thought about your last dissertation proposal. It was rubbish. In the first place, your thesis is derivative. In the second, you’ve made no attempt to provide a literature review that comes close to being adequate. If you cannot amend your proposal to address these issues, you will need
to find another director. If you choose to submit a revised proposal, you will need to do so within two weeks. Now if you’ll excuse me,
I have a meeting that is actually worth my time. Good afternoon.”
Gabriel departed Starbucks abruptly, leaving a rather shell-
shocked Christa staring off into space.
40
Gabriel’s Rapture
She heard part of his speech, of course, but her mind was focused
on other things. First, she was going to do something to get back
at Julia. She didn’t know what and she didn’t know when. But she
was going to shank that bitch (metaphorically speaking) and cut her (also metaphorically speaking).
Second, she was going to rewrite her dissertation proposal and
hopefully win Professor Emerson’s academic approval.
Third, she was going to redouble her efforts at seduction. Now
that she had seen Professor Emerson angry, there was nothing she
desired more than to see him angry with her — while naked. She was going to change his mind. She was going to break through his harsh exterior. She was going to see him kneeling before her, begging for her, and then…
Clearly, the four-inch heels and the Bordelle lingerie weren’t
enough. Christa was going to head over to Holt Renfrew, and she was going to buy herself a new dress. Something European. Something
sexy. Something by Versace.
Then she was going to Lobby to set her third scheme in motion…
41
Chapter 4
In the penthouse of a boutique hotel in Florence, clothes had
been tossed haphazardly across a sitting room floor, trailing
like breadcrumbs from the doorway toward a wall that was no longer blank. Groans and obvious rhythms floated in the
air, wafting over a man’s fine handmade shoes, a black bra, a tailored suit tossed wantonly over a coffee table, a taffeta dress puddled into a Santorini-blue pool…
If one were a detective, one would notice that the lady’s panties
and shoes were missing.
The air was thick with the smell of orange blossoms and Aramis,
mingled with the musk of sweat and naked flesh. The room was dark.
Not even the moonlight streaming in from the terrace reached the wall where two nude bodies clung to one another. The man stood upright, supporting the woman, who had her legs wrapped around his hips.
“Open your eyes.” Gabriel’s plea was punctuated by a cacophony
of sound — skin sliding over skin, desperate cries muffled by lips and flesh, quick gulps of oxygen, and the slight thud of Julia’s back against the wall.
She could hear him as he groaned with every thrust, but her
ability to speak had withdrawn as she focused on a single sensa-
tion — pleasure. Every movement of her lover pleased her, even the friction between their chests and the grip of his hands as he held her aloft. She danced on the very edge of satisfaction, breathless with anticipation that the next movement would push her over. Building, building, building, building…
“Are — you — okay?” He was breathing hard, his last word leaving his mouth as a cry as the slightest turn of her ankles pressed her sharp heels into his flesh.
Gabriel’s Rapture
Julia threw her head back and let out a few incoherent sounds
as she climaxed, intense waves radiating out from where they were
joined and speeding along her nerves until her entire body vibrated.
Gabriel felt it, of course, and followed soon after; two deep thrusts and he cried her name into the crook of her neck, his body shaking.
“You worried me,” he whispered afterward. He lay on his back
in the center of the large, white bed while his sleepy beloved curled into his side, her head resting over the surface of his tattoo.
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t open your eyes. You wouldn’t speak. I was worried
I was too rough.”
She moved her fingers along his abdomen to the few hairs that
trailed down from his navel, tracing the texture lazily.
“You didn’t hurt me. It felt different this time — more intense.
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