Page 4 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Three

Noah

* * *

“So… did you go there?” I asked, still pointing at the notebook with St. Joseph’s Seminary stamped across the cover.

Henry’s gaze flicked down like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’d… planned on becoming a priest, but—” He hesitated, looking at the table instead of me. “Things didn’t work out.”

The way he said it made me want to pry, but not in the “tell me your deepest trauma” way. More in the “let me find out every single thing about you” way. And maybe the “let me see how red I can make your ears” way, too.

“Shame,” I said, leaning back in my chair with a grin. “I think you’d have made a hot priest.”

He shot me a look that was half scandalized, half… something else. “We should focus on the project,” he said stiffly, rearranging his pens like they were going to save him from me.

Ah, skittish kitten energy. I’d seen it before. The trick was to keep my hand out, metaphorically speaking, and let him sniff it until he decided to come closer.

“Right,” I said, sitting forward. “The Locked Garden. Catchy title for a term paper, huh?”

He relaxed slightly, which was my cue to keep going.

“We’ve got to tie it into the Song of Songs. Which, unless I’m way off base, is basically the world’s oldest dirty poem collection.” I grinned at him, waiting for the inevitable eye roll.

His mouth twitched. “It’s not… entirely that.”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s about longing, intimacy, yada yada. But it’s also about a guy describing his girlfriend’s boobs like twin fawns grazing among the lilies. You can’t tell me that’s not a little filthy.”

The corner of his mouth fought a smile, and I knew I’d scored a point.

“So, here’s my pitch,” I said, tapping the notebook between us. “We frame The Locked Garden as a metaphor for guarded intimacy—how desire builds when access is limited. You know… like when someone’s holding back.”

His eyes cut to mine, and I made sure my grin stayed just this side of cocky.

“That’s not… entirely inaccurate,” he drawled.

I leaned closer. “And in the Song of Songs, the garden eventually gets unlocked.”

He flushed, just a little, but enough to notice.

I sat back, pretending to study my own notes. “So maybe we structure the paper around the build-up. The poetic foreplay, if you will.”

He coughed into his fist. “We’ll… we’ll need to cite credible commentary.”

“Totally. But we can still make it engaging.” I gave him my best innocent face. “You know, really draw the reader in before we… uh… reveal the conclusion.”

His ears were turning pink now. I didn’t even have to touch him to know I was getting under his skin.

I flipped open my textbook, casually letting my knee brush his under the table. “So. Let’s start with chapter four, verse twelve: ‘You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride.’” I let the verse hang between us, slow and deliberate. “We could unpack that. The tension. The anticipation.”

Henry’s pen hovered over his notebook like he was ready to take notes on my every word—if only to keep his eyes down and away from me.

“So,” I said casually, “the fact that the garden is locked means someone has the key. Which is interesting, right? Because if you’ve got the key, you could open it anytime… but maybe you don’t. Maybe you wait until the timing’s perfect.”

He glanced up, just long enough for our eyes to meet. “That’s… one interpretation.”

I grinned. “Oh, I’ve got interpretations for days.

” I leaned in, letting my arm brush his.

“Like maybe the waiting is the whole point. Maybe you don’t want the fruit to ripen too fast. You let it hang on the vine until it’s sweet enough to…

” I let the sentence trail off, watching the flush creep from his neck to his cheeks.

Henry cleared his throat and flipped a page in his notebook like it owed him money. “We should probably stick to what the major commentaries say.”

“Sure,” I said. “But even the commentaries can’t resist the imagery. ‘Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates…’” I skimmed the verse with deliberate slowness, my tone dropping low. “You know pomegranates are a fertility symbol, right?”

His hand tightened around his pen. “I’m aware.”

“And myrtle,” I continued, tapping the margin with my fingertip, “that’s in there too. That one’s all about love and marriage. Kind of makes you wonder if the garden isn’t just a garden.”

His eyes darted anywhere but me—textbook, wall clock, the front of the classroom—but every tiny movement gave him away. He was squirming, and I loved it.

“So our paper could explore that double meaning,” I said. “Sacred space versus physical space. You know… the way the same place can be holy and… well… not so holy, depending on what you’re doing in it.”

“Or we could focus on,” Henry said, his voice a notch too tight, “the allegorical meaning—the relationship between God and His people.”

“Allegories are great,” I said, smiling slowly, “but sometimes a fig tree is just a fig tree.” I let my knee press against his again, steady this time. He didn’t move away, which I was counting as a personal victory.

I flipped another page, pretending to read. “The Song of Songs is really just about wanting someone so much you can’t stand it. Being close but not quite there yet. That tension.”

His pen scribbled something down, but his ears were on fire.

And maybe I was imagining it, but his breathing had gone a little uneven, like the locked garden wasn’t just a metaphor anymore.

I leaned back in my chair, tapping my pen against the margin of my textbook like I was thinking hard about ancient Hebrew metaphors when really I was thinking about the way Henry’s jaw flexed every time I pushed him.

“So,” I said, “our big thesis could be that the locked garden is a place of invitation, not exclusion. It’s locked, sure, but the right person gets in. Which, if you think about it, makes it even more intimate. You only let one person have the key.”

Henry’s pen stilled on the page. “We’d need to cite where the text supports that idea.”

“Oh, it’s there,” I said. “Chapter four is basically a love letter to exclusivity. My garden, my bride, my fountain. Possessive in the best way.” I smiled at him. “You know, the kind of language that says, you’re mine and no one else’s.”

He glanced up, and I caught the flicker of heat in his eyes before he looked away.

I kept going. “We could even argue that the garden imagery is layered—physical beauty, emotional connection, spiritual resonance… and yeah, sexual attraction too.”

He muttered something about “staying on topic,” which was adorable considering I was on topic, just not in the way he wanted.

“Alright,” I said, flipping to another passage. “‘You are a garden spring, a well of fresh water, streams flowing from Lebanon.’ Tell me that doesn’t sound like the buildup before…” I let my voice trail off again.

His blush deepened, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide.

I leaned forward, lowering my voice as if we were conspiring. “So we structure the paper to mirror the text. Start slowly, laying out the imagery, the context, the symbolism… then increase the pace, bring in the intensity, until the conclusion hits with full force. Like—bam.”

Henry made a small noise that might’ve been agreement, or possibly exasperation.

“That way,” I continued, “when someone reads it, they’re not just learning about Song of Songs… they’re feeling the tension, the restraint, and the release by the end.”

His pen snapped shut, the click louder than it needed to be. “We’ll… outline that for next time.”

I grinned. “Looking forward to it.”

His cheeks were flushed, and I knew I’d gotten to him. Not in a cruel way—just enough to make him think about me when he was lying in bed tonight, trying to figure out why he couldn’t concentrate.

This locked garden of his? I had no intention of forcing my way in. I was going to make him want to open the gate.

Dr. Scheinbaum drifted over like a cat who’d scented cream, her bangles clinking as she leaned one hip against our table. “Well, well,” she purred, eyeing the scattered papers between us. “How’s my favorite pair of scholars doing?”

Henry immediately began gathering his notes as if she’d caught him with contraband. “We—we’re just finishing up—”

“Oh, don’t you dare hide those from me.” She pressed a manicured hand to the top page and pinned it in place. “I want to see.”

I turned toward her, letting my voice drop into the same register I’d just been using on Henry.

“We’ve decided our presentation will focus on the imagery of a walled garden as a metaphor for desire—how what’s locked away can be even more tempting than what’s offered freely.

” I let that hang in the air, my gaze sliding toward Henry. His ears turned pink.

“Mmm.” Dr. Scheinbaum’s smile was positively indecent. “I do love a project with… layers.” She tapped her temple. “And I like the way you two are thinking. Keep going in that direction. This will be a very memorable presentation.”

She straightened, shooing us with a flick of her fingers. “All right, everyone—class dismissed. Go forth and water your gardens.”

Henry was on his feet before the words had finished leaving her mouth. His notebook was clutched tight against his chest, his head ducked, and he all but bolted for the door. I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself.

Looks like my locked garden might just have a hidden gate after all.

* * *

Babylon smelled like sweat, citrus, and desperation—basically my natural habitat.

The bass hit like a body blow the second I stepped inside, and the lights spun lazily over the crowd like they were drunk on power.

Jim, the bartender, spotted me from across the bar and lifted his shaker like a salute.

“Solomon,” he called, voice thick with smoke and bourbon, “the usual crowd’s been asking about you.”

Of course they had.

I made my way through the throng like Moses parting the Red Sea, except my followers weren’t Israelites—they were horny twenty-somethings and closeted dads pretending they were “just here for the music.” Hands brushed against me as I passed, fingertips grazing my arms and my hips. I didn’t slow down.

Not when my mind was still stuck in that classroom, replaying the way Henry flushed every time I so much as leaned toward him.

God. That blush. The way he fidgeted like I was speaking in tongues instead of just quoting Song of Songs in my best bedroom voice.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was catching feelings—but no.

This was the chase. The delicious agony of prying a shy, nerdy man out of his shell and watching him bloom under my touch.

And Henry? He was going to bloom for me.

In the dressing room—well, undressing room for me—I peeled off my jeans, my T-shirt, my sneakers, until all I had left was the glittery thong that had become something of a signature. I reached inside and gave myself a quick fluff. The more...presentation I had to offer, the better my tips.

“Solomon, you’re up!” the DJ shouted, his voice booming over the sound system.

The stage lights hit me hard, and I let the music slide over my skin like silk.

As I started to move, the thought that always struck me first popped into my head: if my father—the good rabbi—could see me now, he’d drop dead on the bimah.

His golden boy shaking his ass in front of a sea of dollar bills, all to pay for a PhD in biblical literature.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Men crowded the edge of the stage, throwing singles, fives, and the occasional twenty. I bent low to collect them, letting my body roll in ways that made them groan. The room smelled of beer, sweat, and lust.

I closed my eyes for a second, and Henry’s face bloomed in the dark behind my lids. The slow pink spread of his blush, the way his lips parted like he was about to say something but swallowed it instead. My hips started moving dirtier, sharper, as the fantasy settled in.

When I opened my eyes, a guy I’d hooked up with a few weeks ago was standing front and center, grinning like he was about to get round two. I gave him a cursory nod, but…nothing. No spark, no heat.

That was freaking weird.

I was always ready for a good time. Always.

So why was the only man I could picture right now a buttoned-up Catholic scholar who wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence without blushing?