Gabriel's Rapture (Gabriel's Inferno #2)(13)

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 finally, a Baume & 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 treasured it. In truth, she wanted it almost more than she wanted him.

Brent fastened the watch on her wrist, and she stared at it, marveling 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 br**sts. 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 provoke, 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 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 Toronto 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 studied 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, 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 stockings. 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.