Page 3 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Two

Henry

* * *

I woke with a jolt, my brain a split second ahead of my body, registering that something was off before I even opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me wasn’t the familiar white plaster of St. Joseph’s Seminary, but the peeling beige paint of my new place — if you could even call a single-bedroom shoebox in the San Fernando Valley “new” with a straight face.

Two weeks here, and I still felt like someone had dropped me into a poorly staged set.

The bed was wedged so close to the window that I could roll over and smudge my forehead against the glass if I wanted.

Through that window, dawn was approaching — thin gold light stretching over the haze.

Somewhere down the block, a leaf blower whined like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I sighed, shut my eyes, and tried to will myself back into unconsciousness.

Rolling onto my stomach, I immediately became aware of the problem.

“Damn it,” I muttered into the pillow. I was possibly the only man on earth who wished his dick would just clock in for work when absolutely required and otherwise keep its head down.

Even though I wasn’t on the priesthood track anymore, the Catholic guilt flipped on automatically, like a bad motion sensor light in an alley. Thoughts of the body, the flesh, lust — they all carried the faint stink of sin, even if no one else was in the room to see me wrestle with them.

I groaned, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and padded to the bathroom.

The corner had a cracked tile, and the overhead light hummed when I flipped it on.

Standing in front of the toilet, I waited — not for the urge to go, but for the stubborn erection to retreat enough to make it possible.

It took almost a full minute, which felt like an hour under the buzzing fluorescent light.

Once I’d finally relieved myself, I shuffled back into the bedroom.

The place was small enough that I could practically stand in the middle and touch all four walls if I leaned the right way.

A narrow dresser sagged under the weight of too many theology texts and a pile of unwashed laundry.

I dressed quickly, deciding there was no point in crawling back into bed.

The “kitchen” was just a strip of counter along one wall of the main room, a two-burner stove, and a fridge that groaned louder than I did when I woke up.

I filled the dented percolator with water, set it on the stove, and dug into the cupboard for my favorite contraband: chocolate-flavored cereal shaped like cartoon animals.

Technically aimed at eight-year-olds, but the sugar hit was better than any adult virtue I could manage before sunrise.

As I poured the cereal into a chipped bowl, my mind wandered uninvited to yesterday.

Noah.

It wasn’t just that he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen — though God help me, he was.

Dark hair, broad shoulders, an easy kind of beauty that felt unstudied and therefore more dangerous.

But there was something else, something under the skin of the moment, as if meeting him had tripped a wire I didn’t know I had.

He unsettled me in a way that went beyond sex, though sex was certainly in the mix.

It was like some part of me recognized him. Not in the “we’ve met before” way, but in the “you’ve wandered into my unguarded territory” way. He provoked a response I didn’t have the language for yet. And that terrified me more than attraction ever could.

My thoughts darted backward to the seminary I’d left three months ago, to Paul.

I’d been certain then that the tightness in my chest around Paul was a crush, innocent enough in thought, harmless in deed. But the memory now felt like a pale watercolor compared to the way Noah’s presence lit me up.

Paul was a kind of gentle yearning I could tuck away behind cassock folds and half-smiles. Noah was something else entirely. Not a flickering candle, but a flare gun fired into the night.

Which was exactly why I needed to steer clear of him.

I dumped the milk over my cereal with a little too much force, splashing some onto the counter, and muttered to myself, “Dangerous.” That was Noah in a word.

When I got to campus today, I’d corner Dr. Scheinbaum and politely ask for a different study partner. If I could get Noah at least ten feet away from me at all times, maybe I could think straight again.

Or at least straighter than this.

* * *

The city bus reeked.

Not just a faint, stale smell, but a wall-to-wall stench that clung to the inside of your nostrils and refused to let go.

The man wedged into the seat beside me hadn’t shaved in… I couldn’t even guess how long. His clothes were matted and crusted in places I didn’t want to identify. His hair was a greasy halo around his head, and his breath—God forgive me—could’ve stripped the varnish off a church pew.

I tried to breathe through my mouth, which only made me feel like I was panting in panic. I kept telling myself: compassion, Henry. This is what compassion looks like. This is a child of God. You are better than your reflex to shrink away.

Except apparently, I wasn’t.

Because every time the bus lurched and his shoulder brushed mine, my stomach pitched, and my brain started composing prayers I didn’t mean.

I wanted to tell myself he was a metaphor for Christ in disguise, something we’d discussed endlessly at seminary.

Love the least among us, see the face of God in everyone.

But right now, the only thing I wanted to see was daylight and ten feet of fresh air between us.

My stop finally came into view like a personal salvation. I pressed the strip to alert the driver, the bell dinging in that tinny way that promised deliverance. I stood, but the man didn’t move, didn’t even glance my way. Just sat there, a human blockade between me and freedom.

The bus wheezed to a halt. I murmured, “Excuse me,” but my voice came out strangled. I squeezed past him, holding my breath so hard I felt lightheaded, and the moment my feet hit the sidewalk, I sucked in a lungful of smoggy Los Angeles air like it was a perfume sample from heaven.

And then the guilt hit.

Because that’s what I did. Guilt was my native language.

It didn’t matter if it was about sex, faith, or hygiene-related prejudice.

If there were a way to feel bad about it, my brain would find the script.

By the time I’d walked halfway up the block toward Claremont’s campus, I’d already drafted a mental essay about my lack of Christian charity.

I promised myself I’d do better next time, even though I knew I’d probably fail again.

I pushed open the glass doors to the main building, telling myself to focus—today was about taking control. About boundaries. About getting Noah Miller out of my academic orbit before I embarrassed myself.

And there she was: Dr. Scheinbaum, leaning against the reception desk, deep in conversation with a man in a navy baseball cap. His back was to me, broad across the shoulders, one hand gesturing easily as he spoke.

Moving forward, I rehearsed my polite request in my head. I would be calm and rational. And I wouldn’t think about Noah’s muscular body seated so close to mine.

The man turned around.

Noah.

That easy, unstudied beauty hit me in the chest again, and before I could catch my breath, he winked. Just a flicker of one eyelid, playful and knowing, as if we had a secret between us.

My stomach did a full somersault, my palms went damp, and every reasonable thought fled. All I had left was the rush of heat and a fresh wave of—what else—guilt.

I muttered something that might’ve been a greeting and bee-lined for the classroom before either of them could trap me in small talk. My pulse was thudding in my ears, my mind a mess of rules and longings.

Boundaries. I desperately needed them.

I made a beeline for the back row, my pulse still doing double-time from that wink. The rear of the classroom was a safe zone—nobody watching my every move from behind, an easy escape if I needed it.

Sliding into a chair, I unzipped my backpack and began unloading my arsenal: a stack of neatly organized papers, two notebooks (one lined, one grid), three pens in blue, black, and red.

I aligned them on the desk like I was arranging relics for veneration.

If I couldn’t control my reaction to Noah, I could at least control the order of my workspace.

I scanned the room. A few classmates caught my eye and smiled, so I forced my lips into what I hoped passed for warmth instead of barely contained panic. My cheeks felt stiff, but no one seemed to notice.

Then the door opened.

Dr. Scheinbaum walked in, Noah a step behind her. My stomach did a graceless flip. She was heading for the front. He—God help me—was heading for the back.

Please, Lord, let him sit anywhere but—

Of course. The project. The shared project. Of course, he was going to sit right next to me.

“Morning,” he said, dropping into the chair like he owned it—and me—with one of those half-smiles that somehow felt like a proposition.

I swear he was flirting. My brain immediately supplied a hundred reasons why that couldn’t be true—starting with the fact that he was far too gorgeous to be into me and ending with the statistical likelihood he was straight.

But desire doesn’t wait for data. It just floods in, uninvited and all-consuming.

Dr. Scheinbaum launched into the day’s lecture, her voice steady and warm. “Today, we’ll be talking about the psychology of desire, particularly as it relates to the Song of Songs.”

And that’s when Noah’s leg pressed against mine.

Not accidentally brushing—pressed. Warm, solid, a subtle reminder of how big he was in every sense. My vow to keep boundaries intact disintegrated like a communion wafer on the tongue.

I shifted in my seat, just enough to break contact, silently congratulating myself for reclaiming an inch of dignity.

Then Noah raised his hand. “Dr. Scheinbaum,” he said, all casual confidence, “if the Song of Songs is basically ancient erotic poetry, does that mean King Solomon was the original romance novelist?”

A couple of students laughed.

Dr. Scheinbaum didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you’re willing to grant that he also invented the happy ever after.”

The room chuckled, Noah included. Then he leaned back in his chair, the very picture of male comfort, and spread his legs.

Wide.

His thigh was back against mine, firmer this time, and my pulse spiked. Heat raced up my chest, pooling in my face and—God help me—lower. I was suddenly, unmistakably hard.

Damn it.

Why did he have to take up all the space? Just existing next to him felt like a full-body experience I hadn’t signed up for.

For a brief, treacherous moment, I wondered if he was doing it on purpose. But then I told myself the truth I could survive with: he was probably straight, oblivious, and utterly unaware of the havoc he was wreaking.

Straight men were like that. They walked around as if the laws of physics bent for them, never noticing the explosions they left in their wake.

And here I was, sitting in the wreckage, trying not to breathe too fast.

“…and that’s why the Song of Songs endures,” Dr. Scheinbaum was saying, “because desire—genuine desire—isn’t just about physical hunger. It’s about longing, about the ache for connection that sits under the skin.”

I barely heard her. All my focus was on the steady press of Noah’s leg against mine. It was a maddening, unbroken line of heat that made my breath shallow and my body hum. My mind kept whispering, move away while every nerve ending screamed don’t you dare.

“Desire,” she continued, “isn’t rational. It’s primal. You can analyze it, theologize it, even moralize it—but you can’t tame it.”

God, was she looking at me when she said that?

My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath for the entire lecture. I told myself I was fine. I was in control, but the pounding of my heart said otherwise.

“And now,” Dr. Scheinbaum said, “the rest of the period is yours. Find your study partners, and start brainstorming.”

My stomach dropped. That meant talking to Noah. Sitting next to him was already a sensory overload; speaking to him felt like volunteering for martyrdom.

Noah shifted toward me, closing the already nonexistent gap. His cologne was faint but intoxicating—warm cedar and something darker. He leaned over, his arm brushing mine, and pointed at the notebook on top of my neatly arranged pile.

“St. Joseph’s Seminary?” His voice was low, curious.

I followed his finger to the embossed cover—my old seminary’s name, plain as day. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it today.

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes steady and searching. It was a look that made it feel like he was peeling back layers I’d worked years to protect.

“So… did you go there?” His mouth curved just slightly, as if he already knew the answer. “Isn’t that where guys study to be priests?”