Page 2 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter One

Noah

* * *

The parking lot at the Claremont School of Theology looked like a car commercial—sleek sedans, shiny hybrids, the occasional BMW that probably belonged to someone’s daddy.

My car didn’t fit the vibe. A dented silver Toyota Corolla with a temperamental air conditioner and one speaker that only worked if you smacked it just right.

I wedged it between a Tesla and a Lexus and killed the engine.

My phone buzzed.

Dad had texted.

Will you be joining us for Rosh Hashanah this year? It would mean so much to your mother. And your sister. Plus, your grandmother. And to me, of course, though I understand you are busy with… whatever it is you do these days.

Translation: Your absence will break the heart of every woman in our family and probably make God sigh heavily in your direction.

I rolled my eyes and shoved the phone into my bookbag before I could type something sarcastic like Sorry, can’t make it, I’m busy dancing naked for strangers while working on my dissertation about biblical smut.

I didn’t even know if I wanted to go this year. Rosh Hashanah started Monday, ended Wednesday, and my life wasn’t exactly holiday-friendly. I had class, shifts at the club, and zero desire to sit through hours of polite family tension where every question felt like a veiled critique.

A glance at my watch made my stomach drop. Crap. Running late.

I jogged toward the humanities building, my sneakers squeaking against the tile when I burst through the doors and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I slipped into the classroom, everyone was already there, chattering in little knots. I was the last one in.

Every seat was taken except for one near the back. I slid into it, catching a few curious glances before I dropped my bag on the floor and dug out my notebook.

That’s when I saw him.

A guy in the second row, broad shoulders outlined under a crisp button-down, dark hair falling just enough to make you want to push it back.

His eyes—holy hell—green like the first bite of a Granny Smith apple, sharp and unexpected.

He was listening intently to a girl beside him, but there was this stillness about him, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and didn’t apologize for it.

My brain made a note: Danger. My body made a different note: Yes, please.

The door swung open, and in walked the professor, Dr. Scheinbaum.

If you told me she was the president of an artsy, left-leaning European country, I would’ve believed you. Platinum hair in a sculpted bob, severe black dress offset by a scarf that looked like it had been painted in a single stroke by an avant-garde genius.

“Good morning,” she said in a rich, precise voice that made you sit up straighter whether you wanted to or not. “Welcome to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon. This is not a class for the prudish, the fainthearted, or those who believe the Bible is entirely about smiting.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Eroticism in the ancient world,” she continued, pacing with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to control a crowd, “was not tucked into the shadows. It was celebrated, sung about, carved into temple walls. Song of Solomon—or Song of Songs, if you’re feeling poetic—was essentially an ancient playlist of love ballads, seduction poetry, and borderline graphic metaphors.

You think Shakespeare was sexy? Solomon was the original thirst trap. ”

A guy in the front row choked on his coffee.

“Now, don’t misunderstand me—this was not pornography as we know it. This was artful. Symbolic. A woman’s hair wasn’t just hair; it was like a flock of goats descending Mount Gilead. Which, granted, is not the compliment it used to be. I don’t recommend trying that one on your next date.”

More laughter.

I tried to focus. I really did. But my mind drifted. Mostly toward the green-eyed guy. The way his jaw flexed as he scribbled notes. The casual way his sleeves were rolled up, showing tan forearms dusted with dark hair.

Then he spoke.

“Dr. Scheinbaum,” he said, and his voice hit me like a bass note—deep, smooth, with the kind of resonance that curled low in my stomach.

“I’ve read arguments that the Song of Solomon isn’t just an allegory for divine love, but also a celebration of physical love as part of God’s design.

How do you reconcile the two interpretations without erasing either? ”

I blinked. I didn’t expect him to sound like that. Or to ask something that made me want to underline every word.

Dr. Scheinbaum’s eyes lit up. “Ah, Mr…?”

“Forrester. Henry Forrester.”

Henry. Even his name felt deliberate. Sexy.

Dr. Scheinbaum tilted her head toward Henry like he’d just tossed her a particularly fine chocolate truffle.

“A fine question, Mr. Forrester. The short answer is, you don’t reconcile them.

” She moved to the front of the desk and perched there like a queen surveying her court.

“Ancient writers were not interested in the binary we moderns love so much. They didn’t feel the need to separate the sacred from the sensual, because to them, they were part of the same thing.

When you see the divine in everything, why wouldn’t you see it in the human body? ”

She let the question hang, scanning the room with a hawk’s patient stare.

“That said,” she continued, “theologians across centuries have tied themselves into interpretive pretzels trying to ‘sanitize’ Song of Solomon. Personally, I think it’s more interesting if we let it be messy.

God, desire, love, sweat, it’s all in there.

Trying to strip the text of its eroticism…

” She paused, letting a sly smile curl her lips.

“Well, that’s like trying to eat baklava without the honey. What’s the point?”

The class chuckled.

She rose, heels clicking, and began pacing.

“Let’s remember—this was before Tinder, or Grindr. You didn’t swipe right on someone’s selfie; you met them at the village well, or the threshing floor, or during a sacrificial feast. Courtship involved livestock—literal flocks of goats.

You wanted to impress your beloved? You brought her a prize ewe.

Maybe a couple of camels, if you were really feeling it. ”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“And fertility rituals weren’t tucked away in some back chamber.

They were public, celebrated. You prayed for rain and for a good harvest, yes—but you also prayed for sons, daughters, and a bed that wasn’t cold.

” She gestured toward the whiteboard, where she wrote in bold strokes: Desire was communal currency.

“Your body was part of the divine economy, just like your land or your crops.”

Her gaze swept over us like she was daring anyone to look away.

Toward the end, Henry raised his hand again. “What about the metaphor in chapter four, verse twelve?” And then, smooth as silk, he quoted it in perfect Hebrew, the words rolling off his tongue with an ease that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Dr. Scheinbaum’s brows arched. “Excellent. And can anyone answer Mr. Forrester’s question? Namely, why that verse is so provocative in the context of ancient Hebrew poetics?”

Before I could think better of it, my hand shot up.

“Yes…?”

“Noah Miller,” I said. “The verse refers to a ‘locked garden’—gan na’ul, ma’ayan chatum—a closed spring. In ancient Hebrew imagery, that meant exclusivity and invitation withheld. It wasn’t just romantic; it was an erotic challenge.”

A flicker of approval lit her eyes. “Very good, Mr. Miller.”

She clapped her hands once, the sound snapping through the air like a whip.

“Since we have students who already have more than a passing familiarity with the material, we’re going to start the semester with paired projects.

Each pair will examine how desire is presented in a sacred text of their choosing. ”

Groans from the room.

“Yes, yes, I’m cruel,” she said dryly. “Mr. Forrester, you’ll work with Mr. Miller. Consider yourselves the first pairing.”

My inner slut, who’d been quietly purring ever since Henry opened his mouth, sat up and stretched. Hours with him? Talking about desire? Oh, this semester had potential.

Dr. Scheinbaum clapped her hands again, the sound echoing off the whiteboard.

“All right, lovers of sacred filth,” she said. “Find your assigned partners. You have fifteen minutes to get acquainted and,”—her gaze swept over us like a hawk—“to name your project. Something memorable. Preferably something that makes the rest of the class squirm.”

A few students laughed, but others looked like they’d just been asked to pick out lingerie in public.

I glanced at the blonde girl in the front row with the halo braid and Bible-shaped tote bag.

Yeah, she was going to go with something like Purity and Praise.

Then there was the muscular guy in the “Jesus is My Spotter” T-shirt.

He was leaning forward, brow furrowed like he was prepping to submit his title to the Vatican for approval.

Henry slid into the seat beside me, his notebook tucked under one arm. The second his knee brushed mine, a current zipped up my leg.

Up close, he was even more dangerous.

Perfect face, firm jaw, green eyes that looked like they’d been hand-painted by God on a day when He was feeling especially generous.

His voice was deep and smooth when he said, “So… I was thinking we could call it Metaphorical Horticulture: An Analysis of Agricultural Imagery as Relational Framework in Song of Songs.”

I stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What? It’s accurate.”

“It’s a mouthful.”

“Yes, well… precision matters to…”

“No, Henry.” I leaned back in my chair. “Dr. Scheinbaum literally just told us to make the class squirm. Nobody’s squirming over ‘agricultural imagery.’”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not supposed to be tawdry.”

“Tawdry is the point. Song of Songs is basically ancient sexting.”

His ears went pink. “That’s… debatable.”

“Oh, it’s not,” I said, leaning forward just enough to watch his blush deepen. “What about Your Mouth is Wine, Your Kisses are Better Than Spices? Or, Let Him Kiss Me with the Kisses of His Mouth? Hell, we could just go with The Locked Garden—classy, but still filthy if you know your Hebrew.”

He actually looked like I’d slapped him with a wet fig leaf. “That’s… suggestive.”

“Exactly.” I grinned. “It’ll make the holy rollers in the front row clutch their pearls and Dr. Scheinbaum proud.”

Henry hesitated, then sighed like he’d just agreed to smuggle contraband. “Fine. The Locked Garden. But only if we keep the analysis rigorous.”

“Sure,” I said, biting back a smirk. “Rigor is my specialty.”

I didn’t tell him I was already looking forward to watching that blush spread across his cheeks every time we met.

I wrote The Locked Garden in bold letters at the top of my notebook and slid it across for Henry to see. He glanced at it like it might combust.

That was when Dr. Scheinbaum’s shadow fell over our desks.

“Mr. Miller, Mr. Forrester.” Her eyes flicked down to my scrawl, and one corner of her mouth curved upward in a smirk so quick you might miss it if you weren’t watching for it. “Provocative. I approve.”

Henry’s posture went ramrod straight, but she was already gliding away, heels clicking against the tile, tossing casual comments to other pairs.

The rest of the class went by in a blur—her voice weaving through metaphor and translation, assigning first readings, reminding us that we’d need to present our project in four weeks. I caught Henry sneaking glances at me once or twice, though it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or curious.

Finally, Dr, Scheinbaum closed her notes. “That’s all for today. Go forth and study biblical desire. And don’t be squeamish."

Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. Henry stood, and I fell into step behind him as we moved toward the door. The hallway was clogged with students, and I didn’t mind the slow pace. Not with the view.

Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, perfect posture, and—God help me—that ass.

High, tight, and made for thoughts I shouldn't be having about a study partner in an academic setting. My mind flashed to an image, uninvited, to how Henry’s ass would look without tailored trousers in the way.

The thought warmed me in places that had nothing to do with scholarship.

We stepped out into the afternoon sun, the campus buzzing around us. Henry glanced back at me, those green eyes catching the light like polished glass.

The question hit me before I could stop it: Was I going to spend this semester just looking at Henry Forrester… or was I going to find a way to actually touch him?