Making love, like music or breathing or the tempo of one’s heartbeat, was based on a primordial rhythm. Gabriel had come to read her body and to know the pace that matched it, like a glove that fits a lady’s hand. It was the sort of knowledge that was at once personal and primary, the kind of knowledge King James’s translators had been referring to when they wrote of Adam knowing his wife. The mysterious sacred knowledge that a lover had for his beloved—knowledge that was perverted and maligned in less holier couplings. Knowledge that deserved a marriage in more than name.
Julia put her new knowledge to good use, delighting Gabriel with her body again and again. And the way it felt when he was inside her—warm and thrilling and tropical and perfect.
He was close, oh, so close. He searched her expression and saw that her eyes were opened. Every motion of hers was reciprocated by him. Every motion brought both of them pleasure.
As they stared, a great moan erupted from her chest, and then in a twinkling instant she was throwing her head back and calling his name. It was a glorious thing for him to see and hear. Julianne finally called his name. Soon he was falling, groaning aloud as his body tensed and then released, the veins in his forehead and neck straining and relaxing.
A joyful, tender coupling.
She didn’t want to let him go. She didn’t want to feel him leave her body, and so she curled on top of him, watching his expression.
“Will it always be like this?”
Gabriel kissed her nose. “I don’t know. But if Richard and Grace were any indication, it will only improve with time. I’ll see the reflection of all our shared joys and experiences in your eyes, and you will see the same in mine. Our history will make it better, deeper.”
She smiled at what he said and nodded; then her face grew sad.
“What is it?”
“I’m worried about what will happen next year.”
“Why?”
“What if I don’t get accepted into the PhD program at Toronto?”
He frowned. “I didn’t know that you applied.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“I don’t want you to leave me either, but Julianne, the Toronto program is not for you. You’d have no one to work with. I can’t supervise you, and I doubt Katherine would take on a multi-year commitment.”
Julia’s countenance fell.
Gabriel stroked her cheek with his finger. “I thought you wanted to go to Harvard.”
“It’s so far away.”
“Only a short flight.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “We can see each other on weekends and holidays. I applied for a sabbatical. It’s possible that I could come with you for the first year.”
“I’ll be there for six years. Or more.” She was close to tears now. Gabriel saw them swimming and shimmering in her eyes and his heart ached.
“We’ll make it work,” his voice grew rough. “Right now, we need to enjoy the time we have together. Let me worry about the future. I’ll make sure we aren’t separated.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her.
“The advantage to dating an older, more established man is that he can give you room to focus on your own career. I’ll find a way to make my job fit around yours.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“It would be grossly unfair to expect you to give up your dream of being a professor or to have you enroll in a program that is subpar. I won’t let you sacrifice your dreams for me.” He grinned. “Now kiss me, and let me know that you trust me.”
“I trust you.”
Gabriel held her in his arms, sighing as she rested her head on his chest.
Chapter 7
Christa Peterson sat in her parents’ house in north Toronto, checking her email a few days before Christmas. She’d been ignoring her inbox for a week. A relationship she had cultivated in addition to her pursuit of Professor Emerson had run its course, which meant that she wouldn’t be skiing in Whistler, British Columbia, with her erstwhile lover over the Christmas holidays.
The banker in question had broken up with her via text message. This was in poor taste, to be sure, but what would be in even poorer taste would be the follow-up email that was sure to be waiting for her, like a ticking bomb lurking in her inbox.
Having steeled herself with a glass or two of vintage Bollinger champagne, which she had purchased as a gift for the schmuck who was supposed to take her skiing, she checked her account. And there, sitting in her email, was a bomb. However, it was not the bomb she’d expected.
To say that she was surprised by the content of Professor Pacciani’s email would have been an understatement. In fact, she felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.
The only Canadian woman she had ever seen Professor Emerson show even restrained affection to was Professor Ann Singer. Yes, Christa had seen Emerson with various women at Lobby, but never the same woman twice. He was friendly with other female professors and staff, but only professionally so, greeting them always and only with a firm handshake. Professor Singer, in contrast, was rewarded with a double kiss when he greeted her after his last public lecture.
Christa did not want to rekindle her relationship with Professor Pacciani. He was sorely lacking in a particular physical respect, and she had no wish to return to the previous intimate encounters that had always left her frustrated and wanting. She had standards, after all, and any man who did not measure up to at least the size of her personal service accessory was not worth screwing.