Gabriel's Inferno

shit, she thought. That’s a lot of coffee. It was obvious who had sent it to her and why. Nevertheless, she was very, very surprised.

Until she withdrew the third piece of mail.

The third piece was a long, sleek envelope, which she quickly opened.

It was from the chair of the Department of Italian Studies congratulating her on winning a bursary. She read no further than the amount, which was five thousand dollars per semester, payable on top of her regular graduate student stipend.

O gods of all really poor graduate students with very small hobbit-hole-not-fit-for-a-dog apartments, thank you, thank you, thank you!

“Julianne, are you all right?” The voice of Mrs. Jenkins, comforting and gentle, wafted over her shocked body.

She stumbled uncertainly to Mrs. Jenkins’ desk and wordlessly handed her the award letter.

“Oh yes, I heard about this.” She grinned amiably. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?

These bursaries are few and far between, and suddenly on Monday morning we received a call saying that some foundation had donated thousands of dollars for this award.”

Julia nodded, still in shock.

Mrs. Jenkins glanced down at the letter. “I wonder who he is.”

“Who he is?”

“The person the bursary is named after.”

“I didn’t read that far.”

Mrs. Jenkins held the letter up and pointed to a block of bold print.

“It says that you are the recipient of the M. P. Emerson Bursary. I was just wondering who M. P. Emerson is. I wonder if he’s a relative of Professor Emerson. Although Emerson is a common enough name. It’s probably just a coincidence.”

Chapter 12

Professor Emerson saw light spilling from underneath the door of his library carrel, but since Paul had pasted brown craft paper over the narrow window in the door, Gabriel couldn’t peer inside. He was surprised to find Paul working so late on a Thursday night. It was ten-thirty in the evening, and the library would be closing in thirty minutes.

Gabriel fished around in his pocket for his keys and opened the door without knocking. What he saw inside completely floored him. Curled up in a chair was Miss Mitchell, her head resting on folded arms that were poised elegantly on the desktop. Her eyes were closed, her mouth partially open but not quite smiling. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her chest rising and falling slowly, soothingly, like the waves of the ocean against a quiet beach. He stood in the doorway entranced, thinking that the simple sound of her breathing would make an excellent relaxation cd. One he could imagine falling asleep to again and again.

Her laptop was open, and Gabriel saw her screen saver, which was a slide show of hand drawn illustrations of what looked like a children’s story — something with animals — including a funny-looking white bunny with long ears that fell to its feet. The strains of music filled the air, and Gabriel realized that the sound was coming from her computer. He saw a cd with a rabbit on it. Gabriel began to wonder why Miss Mitchell was so obsessed with bunnies.

Perhaps she has an Easter fetish? Gabriel was halfway through a very elaborate imagining of what an Easter fetish might include before he came to his senses. He quickly entered the carrel and closed the door behind him, taking care to lock it. It would not be good for the two of them to be caught together like this.

He regarded her peaceful form, not wishing to disturb her or to intrude upon what looked like a very pleasant dream. Now she was smiling. He Gabriel’s Inferno

located the book he was seeking, preparing to leave her in peace, when his eyes alighted on a small notebook that lay just out of reach of her fingers.

Gabriel, he read. My Gabriel.

The sight of his name written lovingly, albeit randomly, several times in her notebook beckoned to him like a soft Siren call and sent a thrill coursing up and down his back. He was momentarily frozen, his hand hovering in midair.

Of course, it was possible that she was writing about another Gabriel.

It seemed too incredible for her to be writing about him and calling him her own.

Gazing at her, he knew that if he stayed everything would change. He knew that if he touched her, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge — the undeniable and primal urge — to claim the beautiful and pure Miss Mitchell.

She was there, waiting for him, calling to him, her vanilla scent heavy in the small, too warm space.

My Gabriel. He imagined her voice laving across his name the way a lover’s tongue moves across the skin…His mind traveled at light speed as he envisioned pulling her into his arms. Kissing her, embracing her. Lifting her onto the desk and pressing himself between her knees, her hands tugging at his hair, his sweater, his shirt, undoing his bow tie and flinging it to the floor.

His fingers would explore her wavy hair and trace gentle lines across her neck, causing every space, every pore, to explode into scarlet — his nose nuzzling her cheek, her ear, her perfect milk-white throat. He would feel her pulse at her neck and find himself strangely calmed by the gentle rhythm, and he would feel connected to the beating of her heart, especially as it would begin to quicken beneath his touch. He would wonder if they were close enough, would their hearts beat synchronously…or was that simply a poet’s fancy?

She would be shy at first. But he would be gently insistent, whispering words of sweet seduction into her hair. He would tell her whatever she wanted to hear, and she would believe it. His hands would drop from her shoulders and inch over her lovely and innocent curves, marveling at her receptivity as she blossomed under his touch.

For no man would have touched her like that before. Eventually, she would be eager and responsive to him. Oh, so responsive. They would kiss, and it would be electric — intense — explosive. Their tongues would tangle and tango together desperately, as if they had never kissed before.

She would be wearing too many clothes. He’d want to tease her out of them and spread feather-light kisses against every inch of perfect porcelain skin. Especially her lovely throat and its metro of bluish veins. She would blush like Eve, but he would kiss away her nervousness. Soon she would be naked and open before him, thinking only of him and his rapt admiration, and not the feel of the carrel air against pale, pink flesh.

He would praise her with oaths and odes and soft murmurings of sweet pet names, and she would not feel shame. Honey, sweet girl, dear, my lovely… He would make her believe in his adoration, and her belief would not be entirely false.

Eventually the teasing and tingling would be too much, and he’d lean her back gently, cradling the back of her head in his hand. He’d keep his hand there throughout, for he would be worried he might hurt her.

He would not have her head banging against the desk like an unloved toy.

He was not a cruel lover. He would not be rough or indifferent. He would be erotic, passionate but gentle. For he knew what she was. And he would wish her to be pleased as much as he, her first time. But he desired her spread out beneath him, breathless and inviting, her eyes wide and unblinking, blazing with desire.

His other hand would flex across her lower back, the sweet expanse of arched skin, and he’d gaze into her large and liquid eyes as she gasped and moaned. He would make her moan. Only him.

She’d bite her lip, her eyes half-closed as he slid toward her, willing her with whispered words to relax as she gave herself to him. It would go easier for her that way, the first time. He would still and not rush. He would pause and not tear. He would stop, perhaps?

His beautiful, perfect brown-eyed angel…her chest rising and falling quickly, the flush of her cheeks blooming across her entire body. She would be a rose in his eyes, and she would flower beneath him. For he would be kind, and she would open. He would watch entranced, almost as if it were occurring in slow motion…sight, scent, sound,