fectionate, deeply intimate experience. She was naked before him,

as he washed away her shame.

He was naked too, but was careful not to crowd her, or to allow

his slightly embarrassed arousal to brush up against her. This was not about sex. This was about making her feel loved.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so emotional.” Her voice was quiet.

“Sex is supposed to be emotional. You don’t have to hide your

feelings from me.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging

her. “I feel very deeply about us as well. These past few days have been the happiest of my life.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “You were shy when you were

seventeen, but I don’t remember you being so wounded.”

“I should have dumped him the first time he was cruel.” Her voice

shook. “But I didn’t. I didn’t stand up for myself and things got worse.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She shrugged. “I stayed with him. I held onto the times when he

was charming or thoughtful, hoping the bad times would disappear.

I know that what I told you made you sick, but believe me, Gabriel, no one could be as disgusted with me as I am with myself.”

“Julia,” he groaned, turning her to face him. “I’m not disgusted

with you. I don’t care what you did; no one deserves to be treated that way. Do you hear me?” His eyes flamed a brilliant, dangerous blue.

She covered her face with her hands. “I wanted to do something

for you. But I couldn’t even get that right.”

He pulled at her wrists, lowering her hands. “Listen to me. Be-

cause we love each other, everything between us, including sex, is a gift. Not a right, or an entitlement or an exaction — a gift. You have me now. Let him go.”

“I still hear his voice in my head.” She brushed away a stray tear.

Gabriel shook his head, shifting them so they stood in the center

of the downpour, the hot water spilling over them. “Do you remember what I said in my lecture about Botticelli’s Primavera?”

She nodded.

“Some people think that Primavera is about sexual awaken-

ing — that part of the painting is an allegory for an arranged marriage.

62

Gabriel’s Rapture

At first, Flora is a virgin and she’s afraid. When she’s pregnant, she appears serene.”

“I thought Zephyr raped her.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. “He did. He fell in love with her after-

ward and married her, transforming her into the goddess of flowers.”

“Not a very good allegory for marriage.”

“No, it isn’t.” He swallowed noisily. “Julia, even though some of

your sexual experiences were traumatic, you can still have a fulfilling sexual life. I want you to know that you’re safe when you’re in my arms. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t enjoy, and that includes oral sex.”

Gabriel wrapped an arm around her waist, watching the hot

water as it traveled over their naked bodies before splashing to the tile at their feet. “We’ve only been sleeping together for a week. We have our whole lives to love each other, in multiple ways.”

He silently and lovingly soaped the nape of her neck and across

her shoulders with a sponge. Then he traced the lines of her shoulders and the individual bumps of her spine, pausing regularly to place his lips where the soap had been rinsed away.

He washed her lower back and the two little dimples that marked

the transition to her backside. Without hesitation, he soaped each cheek and massaged the backs of her legs. He even washed her feet, grasping her hand and placing it on his shoulder to steady her as he soaped between her toes.

Julia had never felt more cared for in her life.

He attended the front of her neck and the slope of her shoulders.

He washed and caressed her breasts with his hands, putting the sponge to one side as he kissed them. Then he was gently touching between her legs, not sexually but reverently, rinsing the suds that accumulated among her dark curls and finally pressing his mouth there as well.

When he was finished, he took her into his arms and kissed her

like a shy teenager, chastely and simply. “You are teaching me to

love, and I suppose I’m teaching you to love too, in a way. We aren’t perfect, but we can have happiness. Can’t we?” He pulled back so

he could read her eyes.

“Yes,” she murmured, her eyes filled with tears.

63

Sylvain Reynard

Gabriel clutched her to his heart and buried his face in her neck

as the water rained down on them.

P

Emotionally exhausted, Julianne slept until noon the following

day. Gabriel had been so kind, so loving. He’d foregone what Julia had always thought was a man’s basic need — oral sex — and given

her what could only be described as a cleansing of shame. Gabriel’s love and acceptance had its intended, transformative effect.

As she opened her eyes, she felt lighter, stronger, happier. Carrying the secrets of how he humiliated her had proved to be a very heavy burden. With the weight of guilt lifted, she felt like a new person.

She thought it was probably blasphemous to compare her experi-

ence with that of Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress, but she saw an important resemblance between their respective deliverances. Truth sets one free, but love casts out fear.

In her twenty-three years, Julia hadn’t realized how pervasive

grace was and how Gabriel, who considered himself to be a very great sinner, could be a conduit of that grace. This was part of the divine comedy — God’s sense of humor undergirding the inner workings of

the universe. Sinners participated in the redemption of other sinners; faith, hope, and charity triumphed over disbelief, despair, and hatred, while the One who called all creatures to Himself watched and smiled.

64

Chapter 6

Gabriel awoke in the middle of their last night in Umbria to an

empty bed. Dazed, in a semi-dreamlike state, he extended his

arm to Julianne’s side. The sheets held no warmth.

He swung his legs to the floor, wincing as his bare feet touched

the cold stone. He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and made his way downstairs, scratching at his bed-mussed hair. The light was on in the kitchen, but no Julianne. A half-drunk glass of cranberry juice sat on the counter next to a remnant of cheese and a crust of bread.

It looked as if a mouse had been there for a nocturnal feeding but had been surprised and scurried off.

Walking into the living room, he saw a dark head resting on the

arm of an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. In sleep, Julianne looked younger and very peaceful. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks and lips had a rosy hue. Gabriel would have loved to compose a

poem about her mouth and resolved to do so. In fact, her appear-

ance reminded him of Frederick Leighton’s Flaming June. She was clad only in an elegant ivory silk nightgown. One of the thin straps had fallen off her right shoulder, leaving the beautiful curve bare.

Gabriel couldn’t help himself as the pale, smooth skin called out

to him. He kissed her shoulder and crouched near her head, floating a hand over her hair and petting her softly.

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking twice before smiling

at him.

Her slow, sweet smile set his heart aflame. He actually felt his

breathing speed. He’d never felt this way about anyone before, and the depth of feeling she drew from him consistently surprised him.

Sylvain Reynard

“Hi,” he whispered, smoothing her hair away from her face. “Are

you all right?”

“Of course.”

“I was worried when I reached for you and you weren’t there.”

“I came down to get a snack.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows knit together, and he rested his hand lightly

on the top of her head. “Are you still hungry?”

“Not for food.”

“I haven’t seen this before.” He traced a finger across the neckline of her nightgown, skimming the tops of her breasts.

“I bought it for our first night together.”

“It’s beautiful. Why haven’t you worn it?”

“I’ve been wearing all those things you bought me in Florence.

What did the clerk call them? Basques and body suits? Your taste in women’s lingerie is surprisingly old-fashioned, Professor Emerson.

Next you’ll be buying me a corset.”

He chuckled and kissed her. “I’ll remember to look for one. You’re right, I tend to favor items that leave more to the imagination. It makes the unwrapping so much more enjoyable. But you’re equally lovely in everything and nothing.”

Julia reached over to touch his face and pulled him close for a

deeper kiss. She dragged her lips across his jaw line until she was whispering in his ear. “Come to bed.”

She took his hand and led him past the kitchen table, exchanging

a saucy smirk with him before walking upstairs. She moved him to sit on the edge of the canopied bed while she stood before him, pausing.

She pushed the straps of her nightgown over her shoulders. It

pooled at her ankles, leaving her naked.

In the semi-darkness of the room, he drank in her tempting

curves. “You are an argument for God’s existence,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Your face, your breasts, your beautiful back. St. Thomas Aquinas

would have had to add you as his Sixth Way if he’d ever been blessed enough to see you. You must have been designed and not merely made.”