Page 5 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Four

Henry

* * *

I walked into the theology building with my insides tied in more knots than the rosary I used to keep under my pillow. Confusion. Guilt. Always guilty. It clung to me like a second skin—hot, itchy, and impossible to shed. And under it, curling like smoke, was something worse: desire.

Noah Miller.

The name itself was a temptation.

He was the first thought I had when I woke up—before coffee, before prayer.

The last thing on my mind before I fell into the shallow, restless sleep of a man at war with himself.

I’d dream about him in half-formed fragments—his laugh, the roll of his shoulder beneath a too-tight T-shirt—and wake up sweating, muttering Hail Marys like they could erase what I’d just imagined.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed out.

Either a new study partner or Dr. Scheinbaum’s intervention in this so-called “project.” The way Noah was presenting Song of Songs…

borderline scandalous didn’t even begin to cover it.

He spoke about the text like he was whispering secrets into my ear, like every syllable was some decadent, forbidden thing.

I couldn’t think straight—literally or figuratively.

I had a few minutes before class. My feet carried me down the hall, past the bulletin board covered in fliers for Hebrew study groups and grad mixers, straight to Dr. Scheinbaum’s office. I knocked before I could lose my nerve.

“Come in.”

She was behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose, scribbling notes in that looping handwriting I could never read. “Henry,” she said warmly. “What’s on your mind?”

I sat down across from her, palms sweating against my thighs. My voice was trembling before the words even left my mouth. “I… feel uncomfortable with the assignment I’m working on with Noah.”

Her pen paused. “What’s the matter with it?”

I swallowed hard. “Instead of writing about the Locked Garden, which—” I shifted in my seat, heat crawling up my neck, “—makes me seriously uncomfortable, I’d prefer if we explored how Song of Songs is an allegory for the relationship between God and His people.”

Her lips twitched. Amusement? Pity? I couldn’t tell.

“What is it about the Locked Garden that makes you uncomfortable?” she asked, voice perfectly even. “Is it the material? Song of Songs is in the Bible after all. And the name of the course is Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon.”

I clenched my jaw. She wasn’t wrong, and that only made my skin burn hotter. “I just think… The imagery is—” I broke off, unable to put it into words without picturing Noah’s face as he read those verses aloud, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

Dr. Scheinbaum glanced at her watch. “Class is about to begin. Walk with me.”

I stood, grateful for the chance to escape her knowing eyes, but she kept talking as we made our way down the hallway.

“Perhaps you need to loosen up,” she suggested, her tone light but edged with something sharper. “Or figure out what it is about the erotic nature of Song of Songs that makes you so uncomfortable.”

I already knew exactly what the problem was. Because it’s Noah’s voice coming out of his perfectly shaped mouth. Because I want things I’m not allowed to want.

We rounded the corner, and there he was—like the thought of him had conjured him into being. Noah, leaning casually against the wall, jeans hugging his thighs in a way that should be a sin.

“Morning,” he said, his voice all easy charm. Then he winked at me. Not Dr. Scheinbaum. Me.

Heat shot through me so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.

I caught the look on Dr. Scheinbaum’s face—sharp, assessing, almost amused. Shit. Could she see how attracted I was to him? Could everyone? Was I that transparent?

The panic curled in my gut, battling with the traitorous pull of attraction that wouldn’t leave me alone. I’d spent years keeping myself locked up tighter than that garden in the text, and now… one man, one project, and I was fumbling with the key.

And God help me, I wasn’t sure I could stop.

We stepped into the classroom, and I did my best to keep my eyes anywhere but on him. It didn't matter. Noah was already watching me like I was the only person in the room worth looking at.

There were plenty of empty seats, but of course, he took the one next to mine—close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table. Accidentally. On purpose. I couldn’t tell. My skin lit up like someone had taken a match to it.

“Morning, partner,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

Partner. My brain immediately betrayed me, conjuring an image of his hand sliding down my back, his mouth at my ear as he said that word in an entirely different context. I gripped my pen so hard my knuckles went white.

Dr. Scheinbaum began the lecture, but I barely heard a word. My focus was shot to hell the moment Noah leaned forward, forearms on the table, biceps stretching his sleeves. He smelled faintly of soap and something warmer—like cedar and heat.

When Dr. Scheinbaum asked us to turn to the passage about the garden, Noah volunteered to read.

Of course he did.

His voice poured into the room like honey—slow, thick, sinful.

A garden locked is my sister, my bride… The words slid over my skin, curling low in my stomach. A spring locked, a fountain sealed…

I shifted in my seat, praying no one could tell exactly why I was uncomfortable. My collar felt too tight. My thighs, tense. Every syllable he spoke felt like he was aiming it straight at me.

He paused just long enough to glance sideways, lips quirking like he knew exactly where my mind was. And maybe he did, because the next verse came out almost as a dare—soft, deliberate, every syllable drawn out like he was savoring it.

“Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates with all choicest fruits… myrrh and aloes, with all chief spices.”

His voice dipped lower.

“A garden fountain, a well of living water, and flowing streams from Lebanon.”

He didn’t look at the book when he read it—he looked at me. And it wasn’t just a look, it was possession wrapped in invitation, as if he were describing me instead of some ancient poem, as if he could taste every word before it left his mouth.

Heat surged up my neck and into my face.

My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out whatever Dr. Scheinbaum was saying.

I felt pinned in place, like the space between us was charged with something heavy and molten.

My shirt clung to my back under my sweater vest, every inch of me too warm, too aware.

My dick was painfully hard, and I shifted in my seat, praying no one noticed. It was useless—my body was betraying me in every possible way. Breath short, heart racing, skin hypersensitive. Even the brush of my pen against my fingers felt too much, too intimate.

I gripped the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ached, trying to anchor myself in something that wasn’t Noah’s voice or the way his gaze lingered. It was obscene, the way a few bible verses and a look could undo me this completely. And worse—deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stop.

Dr. Scheinbaum’s voice broke through the haze, pulling me back into the room like someone had yanked a chain around my neck. She was leaning casually against the lectern, her gaze flicking between Noah and me with unnerving precision, like she’d been watching us the whole time.

“As I’ve mentioned before,” she began, “this course is about more than simply translating or parsing the text. It’s about understanding why this poetry exists, why it was preserved, and what it meant in the context of both the sacred and the sensual.”

Her eyes landed on me for a heartbeat too long. I froze.

“I’ve noticed,” she continued, still looking at me, “that some partnerships seem… very engaged with the material.”

Heat crawled up the back of my neck.

Dr. Scheinbaum gave a small, knowing smile—one I didn’t trust for a second. “Which is why I’m going to insist that each pair spend more time on this project outside of class. Discuss, interpret, argue—however you work best. This text rewards intimacy with the material.”

The word intimacy landed in my stomach like a stone. I didn’t dare look at Noah, but I could feel him turn his head toward me, the warmth of his attention practically pressing into my skin.

“Consider this,” Dr. Scheinbaum went on, “a requirement for your midterm grade. Meet on your own time, in whatever space best fosters… focus.” The pause she gave before that last word made my heart trip over itself.

Then she dismissed us.

The room buzzed as students shuffled out, but I stayed rooted in my seat, pretending to organize my notes. Noah lingered, leaning slightly toward me until his shoulder brushed mine.

“I’m free this afternoon,” he said, voice pitched low so only I could hear. “Around five. Want to meet in the library?”

My throat tightened. Words seemed like an impossible task, but I managed a stiff nod. The library was public. Safe. Neutral. Walls of books and plenty of witnesses—nothing could happen there.

At least… that’s what I told myself.

* * *

I got to the library twenty minutes early, partly because I didn’t want to keep Noah waiting, and partly because I wanted to control the battlefield.

No cramped reading rooms. No quiet corners where the air felt too warm and the walls seemed to lean in.

I picked a table smack in the middle of the main floor, directly beneath the huge chandelier that spilled light over the space like a spotlight.

We’d be surrounded on all sides—students reading, typing, whispering. Witnesses. Neutral ground.

When Noah walked in, every head seemed to turn just slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for me to notice. He had that kind of presence—the casual, effortless confidence that made people want to look twice.

“Nice table,” he said as he slid into the chair across from me. His grin told me he knew exactly why I’d chosen it.

I opened my notebook and pretended to focus on the margins. “Plenty of light,” I said flatly. “It's easy to spread out our work.”

He leaned his forearms on the table, that easy posture that made it look like he had all the time in the world. “So,” he began, “I thought we could start by outlining the key imagery in the garden passage, then compare it to some of the other metaphors in the text—”

I exhaled, relieved he was actually talking about the project.

“—but before we do that,” he said, interrupting himself, “where are you from?”

The question threw me. “Why?”

“Because I want to know.” He rested his chin on one hand. “You’ve got this quiet, Midwestern professor vibe.”

I stared at him. “Bellevue. Small town in northern Ohio.”

His eyebrows went up. “Isn’t that where Sherwood Anderson grew up? The Winesburg, Ohio guy?”

My mouth fell open. “You know that?”

He grinned. “Of course. Except in the book it’s called Winesburg, right?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “I’ve never met anyone outside of my high school English teacher who knew that.”

It happened so easily I didn’t see it coming. Noah tapped the cover of the text with his pen. “I bet you’re the type who likes novels with no wasted words. The kind that gut you in under two hundred pages.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you’re the type who gets lost in thousand-page epics and quotes the sensual parts like scripture.”

“Guilty,” he said, grinning. “Give me lush, lyric-heavy poetry any day.”

I shook my head, fighting a smile. “Academic puritanism suits me just fine, thanks.”

He leaned back, pretending to look wounded. “Puritanism? Henry, every novel’s just a love story in disguise.”

I snorted, the sound louder than I meant. “That’s absurd.”

“Prove me wrong,” he challenged, his eyes catching the light in a way that made it impossible to look away.

Apparently, we were enjoying ourselves a little too much, because a sharp “Shhh!” cut through the air. The librarian behind the desk—mid-sixties, with horn-rimmed glasses—was glaring at us like we’d just started singing in the middle of the room.

We both mumbled an apology, grinning like kids who’d just been caught passing notes in class.

Noah lowered his voice, but he didn’t stop. “So what else? Bellevue, favorite books, what’s next? Siblings? Weird hobbies? What makes you happy?”

I should have shut it down. This wasn’t supposed to be personal. But the truth was, I liked the questions. I liked that he was listening—not just waiting for his turn to talk. And the more I spoke, the more I caught that glint in his eyes, like he was memorizing me one answer at a time.

Noah’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down at the screen, and just like that, the warmth in his eyes dimmed.

“Sorry,” he whispered, reaching for it. “I’ve gotta cut this short. Someone I work with called out sick, so I’ve gotta take his place.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Where do you work?”

For the first time since I’d met him, Noah actually looked flustered. Color rose along his cheekbones, and he mumbled, “It’s… a bar. Called Babylon.”

The words slipped out before I could stop it. “That’s very biblical.”

That earned me another blush—deeper this time—before he ducked his head, gathering his notes and shoving them into his bag.

“Yeah. Guess it is.” He gave me a quick grin, more shy than his usual smirk, and then he was gone, moving through the library with easy strides until the doors closed behind him.

I stayed where I was, staring at the space he’d left behind.

The thing was, I’d never had many friends growing up. No one stuck around long enough to get past my nose-in-a-book, homework-over-weekends personality. School had always been my companion, my project partner, my safety net. People were… complicated.

But Noah didn’t feel like a complication right now. Then an idea slid into my mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

Go to Babylon.

It was a bar, which meant he was probably a bartender. I could sit at the counter, order a glass of wine, and we could keep talking. Pick up where we left off about Winesburg, Ohio or argue about whether every novel was secretly a love story.

But showing up at his job might send the wrong message.

Then again… was it the wrong message?