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, taste, touch…as she transformed from maiden to matron through loss of maidenhead, all because of him. All because of him.
Maidenhead? There would be blood. For the price of sin was always blood. And a little death.
Gabriel’s heart stopped. It lay silent for half a beat then thudded double time as a new awareness crashed over him. Metaphysical poetry, long forgotten from his days at Magdalen College, sprang to his lips. For in that instant, he saw very clearly that he, Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, would-be seducer of the lovely and innocent Julianne, was a flea.
The words of John Donne echoed in his ears:
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;