Gabriel's Redemption (Gabriel's Inferno 3)

“Good.” She snuggled closer in his arms.

“There are some adventures I experienced before you that I don’t wish to repeat.”

Julia thought of Professor Pain and winced.

Gabriel’s index finger traced the curve of her neck, up and down and up and down, whisper soft. “Other adventures I’d be willing to explore, if you felt the same way. Our bed is for pleasure. My utmost concern is to please you and to find my pleasure with you, not at your expense. You don’t need to worry that I’ll abandon you if you say no to me. You can always say no. Understand?”

“Yes.” She breathed deeply.

“So if I were to suggest something . . . new, and you were to decide you didn’t want to try it, that’s fine.”

“Really?” Her large eyes searched his.

The edges of his lips turned up. “I might attempt to seduce you and change your mind. But I can think of few things more unpleasant than bedding an unwilling woman.”

He stroked his thumb across the curve of her cheek.

“And in your case, I can think of nothing more painful than looking into your eyes and seeing discomfort or regret.”

He brought their mouths together and they were both momentarily lost in the sweetness of their embrace.

“Do you still feel shy?” He pulled back so he could see her expression.

“No.” She pressed her legs together. “But I’m wondering what kind of sexual adventures you have in mind.”

“Trust me, Julianne, and I’ll show you.” He rolled her to her back before pinning her arms above her head and whispering his lips against her throat.

The next morning, the Emersons slept late despite their intention to awake early and visit the Ashmolean Museum. Gabriel left the bed first, kissing Julia before walking to the en-suite.

After he’d showered and shaved, he entered the bedroom, clad only in his glasses and a towel. Julia was still asleep.

He gazed on her with no little satisfaction. She’d been absolutely shattered the night before, the result of an exceptional series of orgasms. His chest swelled with pride.

For Gabriel, it had been a night spent initiating her into activities she’d never done before. He couldn’t help the primal possessiveness he felt at being the one to teach her—at being the one to share her pleasure. But his possessiveness was tempered with tenderness, as he recognized how much Julia had come to trust him.

Their couplings were always passionate, always loving. Gabriel watched her relentlessly when they were together, so that any sign of hesitation was immediately addressed. And knowing that she was safe in his bed, she gave herself freely.

Sex could be all-consuming. He knew this and had once been consumed, caught like an animal in a trap. He knew that even with his wife, there were times when he felt the temptation to push everything aside so he could find himself inside her.

Julia could be voracious and passionate. Her confidence in her safety made her brave, and her passion for him made her an enthusiastic lover. Her experience was limited to what he’d taught her, a fact in which he took no little pride. It seemed as if every sexual act between them was fraught with newness.

He didn’t know how to communicate his feelings on these matters to her, without bringing up the specter of his past. But he felt the differences among his wife and his lovers in his very flesh and tried to reassure her of how much she pleased him in word as well as deed.

Within the bedroom as without, they followed the wisdom of St. Augustine: Love and do what you will.

(They’d loved and willed several times the night before.)

He eyed the remnants of his surprise—strawberries and truffles for both of them, champagne for Julia and sparkling water for him. The concierge had been very obliging when he’d appeared at his desk on impulse the night before.

Gabriel began picking up the clothes they’d discarded. He hung up her things first, smiling at the corset and minuscule panties she’d worn underneath her conservative suit. She knew just how to tantalize him, without losing any of her innate modesty.

He hung up his own suit, emptying his pockets as he did so. Something white fluttered to the ground.

He bent over to retrieve it. It was a business card with printed lettering.

Christa Peterson, M.A.

Graduate Student

Department of Italian

Columbia University

Email: [email protected]

/* */

Tel. (212) 458-2124

Gabriel stared in disgust at the item, turning it over. On the back of the card he found writing, in a sloping woman’s hand,

Malmaison Hotel, Room 209.

Tonight.

With a curse, Gabriel crumpled the card and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

Christa must have slipped it in his pocket the day before. No doubt she’d written on the card before she saw him, having planned her seduction in advance. Perhaps she’d even traveled to Oxford solely for that purpose.

Given that explanation, much of her behavior made sense. Gabriel was the mark, not Julia. Christa’s outrageous actions were carefully calculated to entrap him, capitalizing on his desire to protect his wife. Of course, that didn’t stop Christa from taunting Julia and suggesting she wouldn’t be able to hold on to her husband, as if Christa knew her seduction would be successful.

His stomach lurched.

Gabriel walked to the bed, looking at Julia’s face in profile as she slept. They’d enjoyed an evening of tremendous pleasure, and Christa wished to take that away from them. Her lust had turned into envy and treachery as she conspired to become an adulterer and steal him from his wife.

It’s a good thing Julia didn’t find that card.

Hopefully, she would have confronted him about it and not gone and bared her soul to Paul.

A tremor traveled up and down Gabriel’s spine. Julianne’s budding career was precious. His marriage was precious. And he wasn’t about to let anyone or anything threaten either.

Picking up his cell phone, he strode back to the bathroom, dialing the number for John Green, his lawyer.

In the Malmaison Hotel in Oxford Castle, Christa stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She raised a shaking hand to her lip, ghosting over where the skin was split. She winced, slowly inspecting the bruise that was blossoming in her cheek and the marks where his fingers had dug into her flesh.

She looked terrible.

She’d opened the door to her room the night before, expecting to see Professor Emerson. Instead, Giuseppe was standing there, drunk and furious.

He’d pushed past her and locked the door, ranting about how she was going to cost him an academic position in America. His rants were slurred and in Italian.