Gabriel's Rapture

Soraya’s smile tightened. “I am not a fan of the university’s sexual inquisitions. Anything I can do to embarrass or humiliate Dean Aras is definitely for the good. Believe me, representing your interests will be one of the few pleasures I’ve had recently. I should be paying you for the privilege.”



* * *



Later that evening Julia was curled up into a ball, trying to sleep in Gabriel’s bed. He was in his study, furiously researching all the university policies that applied to graduate students, trying to figure out what had possibly come to the attention of the Dean.



The thought of Gabriel having to do that for her—the thought of his career possibly being threatened because of her, combined with the possibility of losing Harvard, made the tears come. It was all so overwhelming. And the worst part was not knowing what the specific danger was.



She wiped the tears away, willing herself to be strong. Gabriel walked into the bedroom to check on her, and upon seeing her face, slipped into bed behind her.



“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please don’t cry.” He paused. “I wouldn’t have continued working if I’d known you were so upset. We’ve hired the best lawyer and we’re going to fight this complaint. It’s quite possible it’s simply a misunderstanding and by Friday evening, it will all be over.”



“What if this is about us?”



Gabriel clenched his teeth. “Then we’ll deal with it together.”



“What about the harassment complaint?”



“Don’t worry about that. You focus on your thesis and your studies, and you let me worry about myself. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise.”



He rolled her onto her back and began sweeping soft kisses across her face.



“I’m afraid,” she whispered.



Gabriel stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I know. But no matter what, I won’t let them keep you from Harvard. It’s going to be fine.” He gave her a pained look. “What can I do, Julia? I don’t know how to—comfort you.”



“Kiss me.”



Gabriel kissed her mouth—the hesitant, light kiss of a boy who was unsure how the girl next door would react. He needn’t have worried.



Julia responded by wrapping his hair around her fingers and pulling his lips to hers, kissing him fiercely and coaxing his tongue into her mouth.



He kissed her back but with restraint, then pulled away before pressing their foreheads together. “I can’t,” he said.



“Please.” She tugged at him, running her hands across his broad shoulders and down the sinews of his back, pulling him toward her.



“I can’t make love to you while you’re sad. I would feel like I was hurting you.”



“But I need you.”



“Wouldn’t you rather I ran a hot bath or something?”



“Making love with you makes me happy because it reminds me how much you love me. Please. I need to feel like you want me.”



His eyebrows knitted together. “Of course I want you, Julia. I just don’t want to take advantage.”



She was not the sort of woman who made many demands, and what demands she made were almost always good. And almost always about what was good for him.



Gabriel knew this, and it pained him to deny her and those large, sad brown eyes. But the trails of her tears had dampened his libido. He would far rather have held her tightly and tried to soothe her by being close, than to attempt an act he would not be able to perform.



Her face told him that she needed him, that she needed this and them and the conjunction of body and soul. While he stroked her hair, deciding what to do, he realized something about himself. No matter what his therapist had intimated, he was not a sex addict. He was not a wanton hedonist with a massive hunger who was willing to, as Scott had put it, screw anything female and attractive.



Julianne had changed him. He loved her. And even if she begged him, he couldn’t become aroused while seeing her in pain.



She was still staring up at him, her fingers tracing up and down his naked back. He decided to give her part of what she wanted, to touch and caress her, focusing on distracting her with pleasurable feelings and sensations, hoping that it would be enough. He kissed her, slowing their pace to a gentle exploration. She ran her fingers through his hair, anchoring him to her as she softly scratched his scalp. Even in the midst of her sorrow and need, she was kind.



He feathered his lips to her neck and her ear where he whispered about how much she’d changed him. How much happier he was now that she was his.



She began to sigh as he adored her neck, dipping a playful tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat before kissing it chastely. He nipped at her collarbones, gently pulling aside the thin strap of her tank top so the white slope of her shoulder was bare to his mouth.



She would have removed her tank top for him, exposing her breasts, but he stopped her.



“Patience,” he whispered.



He wound their fingers together and kissed the back of her hand, extending her arm so he could draw the flesh of her inner elbow into his mouth, pausing when she began to moan. He kissed every inch of her, gliding strong hands across soft skin, taking his cue from the heat that shot across her flesh and the sounds that escaped her lips.



When he was satisfied that her tears had stopped and she was asking him for more, he cast their clothes aside and knelt between her legs.



Soon she was shaking and crying out his name. In itself, this was the moment he craved most, even beyond his own climax—the sound of his name tripping from her lips amidst the waves of her satisfaction. She’d been so shy the first few times they made love. Every time she said Gabriel in that ecstatic, breathy whisper, a precious warmth overtook him.



This is what love is, he thought. Being naked and bare before one’s lover and unashamedly calling her name in need.



In his own orgasm, he reciprocated, telling her that he loved her. It was inextricably linked in his mind and experience—sex and love and Julianne. The holy three.



He held her tightly while they caught their breath, smiling to himself. He was so proud of her, so happy she could give voice to her desires, even when she was sad. He kissed her softly and was grateful to see that her smile had returned.



“Thank you,” she whispered.



“Thank you, Julianne, for teaching me how to love.”



* * *



Paul walked into the departmental office on Wednesday and was shocked by what he saw.



Julia was standing in front of the mailboxes, her skin pale and dull, with dark circles under her eyes. As he made his way over to her, she lifted her head and smiled at him thinly. Her smile alone pained him.



Before he could ask her what was wrong, Christa Peterson breezed in, her large Michael Kors bag dangling from her wrist. She looked remarkably well rested, and her eyes were bright. She was wearing red. Not cherry red or blood red, but scarlet. The color of triumph and power.



She saw Paul and Julia together and cackled quietly.



Paul’s dark eyes shifted from Julia to Christa and back again. He watched as Julia hid her face while she checked her mailbox.



“What’s wrong?” he whispered.



“Nothing. I think I’m coming down with a cold.”



Paul shook his head. He would have pressed her, gently this time, but Professor Martin entered the office at that moment.



Julia took one look at him and quickly picked up her messenger bag and her coat, hoping to make a break for the door.



Paul stopped her. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I was going to walk over to Starbucks.”



Julia shook her head. “I’m pretty tired. I think I need to go home.”



Paul’s eyes glanced down at her bare neck, her bare unmarked neck, and moved back to her face.



“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.



“No. Thanks, Paul. I’m fine, really.”



He nodded and watched her turn to leave, but before she could enter the hallway, he followed her. “On second thought, I should head home now too. I can walk with you, if you want.”



Julia bit her lip but nodded, and the two friends exited the building into the bone chilling winter air. She wrapped her Magdalen College scarf around her neck, shivering against the wind.



“That’s an Oxford scarf,” Paul observed.



“Yes.”



“Did you buy it in Oxford?”



“Um, no. It was a gift.”



Owen, he thought. I guess he can’t be a complete bonehead if he went to Oxford. Then again, Emerson went to Oxford…



“I really like the Phillies cap you gave me. I’m a Red Sox fan, but I’ll wear it with pride, except when I’m in Vermont. My dad would burn it if I wore it on the farm.”



Julia couldn’t help but smile, and Paul mirrored her expression.



“How long have you been sick?”



“Um, a few days.” She shrugged uncomfortably.



“Have you been to the doctor?”



“It’s just a cold. They wouldn’t be able to do anything for me.”



Paul stole glances at her while they walked past the Royal Ontario Museum, snowflakes swirling around them and the crystal monstrosity that was the north wall.



“Has Christa been hassling you? You seemed upset when she walked into the office.”



Julia stumbled in the ankle-deep snow, and Paul quickly reached out one of his large paws to steady her.



“Careful. There could be black ice under there.”



She thanked him and began to walk a little more slowly after he released her.



“If you slip again, grab hold of me. I don’t go down. Ever.”



She glanced at him sideways, completely innocently, only to see him blush. Julia had never seen a rugby player blush before.



(It was rumored to be impossible.)



“Um, what I meant is that I’m too heavy. You wouldn’t be able to pull me over.”



She shook her head. “You aren’t that heavy.”



Paul smiled to himself at the perceived compliment.



“Has Christa been rude to you?”



Julia looked down at the snow-covered sidewalk in front of them. “I’ve been staying up late every night working on my thesis. Professor Picton is very demanding. Last week she rejected several pages of my Purgatorio translation. I’ve been redoing it, and it just takes so long.”



“I could help you. I mean, you could email your translations to me before you give them to her so I could check them.”



“Thanks, but you’re busy with your own stuff. You don’t have time for my problems.”



He stopped walking and placed a light hand on her arm. “Of course I have time for you. You’re working on love and lust, and I’m working on pleasure. Some of our translations will overlap. It would be good practice for me.”



“I’m not working on love and lust anymore. Professor Picton made me change my topic to a comparison between courtly love and the friendship between Virgil and Dante.”



Paul shrugged. “Some of the translations will still overlap.”



“If we’re working on the same passage we could compare translations. I don’t want to bother you with stuff that’s unrelated to your project.” She looked over at him tentatively.

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