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.
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.
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’ll be finding yourself a new dissertation director.” He cleared his throat. “In the future you will 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…