Page 7 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Six

Noah

* * *

Sleep wouldn’t come.

I flipped onto my back, then onto my side, then onto my stomach.

My sheets were twisted around my legs like I’d been fighting demons in my dreams—except I hadn’t even made it to dreaming yet.

I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Henry.

Not the Henry who sat next to me at school with polite questions and that cautious, thoughtful smile.

Not the bookish Henry with a stack of notes tucked under his arm.

No, what haunted me was Henry in the club. Henry standing there in Babylon, eyes wide, looking at me like—God, I didn’t even know. Like I was something dangerous. Like he’d stumbled across a temptation that terrified him.

And it had gutted me.

I’m used to people looking. That’s literally the point of what I do. I’m paid to be looked at. To be wanted. To be the guy who makes it okay to stare and ache and tip generously. Normally, I thrive on that energy. But with Henry, it had felt different. His gaze had burned straight through me.

And then—he bolted.

I rolled over again, punching my pillow like it had answers.

Why did his leaving sting so much? Why did it feel like his rejection had sunk a hook into me?

I don’t get embarrassed about my body, or about the fact that I dance.

Its art and its survival rolled into one. I’ve always been unapologetic about it.

But the second Henry looked at me—sweet, sharp, devastating Henry—something in me shriveled. Like suddenly I was wrong, indecent, caught out in a sin I didn’t believe in. Shame had crawled up my throat, hot and choking, and I hated it.

Why him? Why now?

I sat up in bed, raking my hands through my hair. The room was dark, but my brain was a strobe light of memory. Henry’s mouth tightening. His eyes widened. That flicker—Christ, that flicker of emotion—before he’d turned and rushed for the door.

And then it hit me.

It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t disgust. I knew those looks. I’d seen them on enough faces to catalog them: pity, contempt, moral superiority. But this had been different.

This had been hunger.

He hadn’t run because he was appalled by me. He’d run because he’d wanted me.

The thought shot a thrill straight through me, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath. I leaned back against the headboard, heart pounding like I’d just stepped off stage again. Could it be? Could quiet, careful Henry be that attracted to me? And if so—what did it mean for him?

I pictured his face again, the way his lips had parted, like he couldn’t breathe. The fear wasn’t of me. It was of himself.

“Holy shit,” I muttered into the empty room.

I dropped back down against the mattress, curling on my side. If I was right, if Henry’s fear was really desire… then I had to know. I had to press. Tomorrow, I'll find him. I’d ask. No—better, I’d make him admit it.

But for now, all I had was the thrum under my skin, the maddening loop of his face in the crowd, and the growing, undeniable pull in my chest. I’d thought Henry was just another curious mind, another guy I’d swap a few theological sparring matches with before he drifted back to his academic ivory tower.

Turns out, he might be the one who could undo me.

I exhaled, long and shaky, trying to shut off my brain. It didn’t work. All it did was make me more aware of the ache between my ribs.

Henry Forrester had run from me tonight.

But tomorrow—I wasn’t going to let him run again.

* * *

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh against the polished oak tables.

The classroom always felt too bright, too clean, like a sanctuary where every shadow had been banished.

I walked in expecting the usual: students hunched over laptops, caffeine clutched like talismans, the low buzz of morning chatter.

But today, something snapped me wide awake.

Henry was there, but not seated at our usual table. He was seated near the very front, right beside her.

Rebecca Lyle. The one with the halo braid and the perpetual air of smug chastity.

She was perched perfectly upright, sweater draped over her shoulders like she’d stepped out of a glossy evangelical pamphlet.

Her notebook was already open, pen lined up beside it like she was preparing to transcribe scripture straight from the heavens.

Henry, though… Henry couldn’t look at me.

His head was bent low, eyes locked on his notes, but not really reading them.

His cheeks burned pink, the color creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.

That was all the confirmation I needed. The heat in his face wasn’t judgment—it was an attraction he didn’t know how to cage.

I walked past, making sure my stride was slow, deliberate, letting Rebecca’s judgmental gaze slide over me. I smirked to myself and claimed my usual seat in the back, sprawling just enough to make it look casual.

The door opened a moment later, and in breezed Dr. Scheinbaum.

Her platinum-blonde bob was razor sharp, her lipstick crimson, her tailored black blazer offset with a string of pearls that looked far too elegant for eight in the morning.

She carried no coffee, no books—just a single slim Bible tucked under her arm like a weapon.

She set it on the lectern with a thud and surveyed us all with a cool, appraising stare. “Welcome back to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon,” she said, voice clipped but sly. “And yes, in case anyone here has amnesia, this is the class where we read scripture and talk about sex.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter traveled through the room.

“Now.” She opened the Bible with practiced precision. “Song of Songs, chapter one, verse two.” She read aloud: ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—for your love is better than wine.’

Her lips curled faintly. “There you have it. No coyness. No euphemism. Just the blunt, ecstatic voice of desire.” She looked around the room, daring anyone to squirm. “The ancients did not separate lust from love. They understood them as entwined. Desire was life. And it was sacred.”

She flipped a page. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine; he grazes among the lilies.”

Dr. Scheinbaum arched an eyebrow. “Grazes among the lilies. Do we need to decode the metaphor? Or have you all been on the internet?”

Laughter rippled again, though Henry’s head sank even lower, his pen suddenly very busy. His blush deepened, and I caught myself biting back a grin.

Of course, that was the moment Rebecca raised her hand. Her halo braid gleamed in the light as she said primly, “Professor, I can’t help but wonder… would God really approve of this? These… indulgences? Isn’t the purpose of love supposed to be purity, not fleshly lust?”

The room went still.

Dr. Scheinbaum removed her glasses with exaggerated care, folded them, and set them on the lectern. Her platinum bob swung slightly as she tilted her head. “Miss Lyle, are you asking me if God approves of desire?”

Rebecca lifted her chin, a saccharine smile in place. “Yes. Surely this can’t be what God intended.”

For a beat, silence. Then, Dr. Scheinbaum’s laugh—sharp, incredulous. “My dear, if God did not intend desire, then why on earth did God make us this way? Do you think libido was a cosmic accident? That the Creator tripped and spilled yearning into the human design?”

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed pink, but she held her posture, prim and stubborn.

“Consider this instead,” Dr. Scheinbaum continued, her voice cutting clean through the air.

“If God made us to hunger, wouldn’t it be a sin not to eat?

If God made us to love, to crave, to reach for one another, then wouldn’t it be the greater sin to suppress it?

At the very least”—her lips curved in a dry smile—“I suspect God, he or she or they, would be amused watching us flail in denial.”

The class broke into laughter, except for Rebecca, who squirmed in her seat as though her halo braid had tightened into a noose.

Dr. Scheinbaum snapped the Bible closed. “Enough. I’ve had my daily ration of human absurdity. Pair off with your partners, drag yourselves to the library, and pretend to work on your projects. Perhaps when you return tomorrow, you’ll have grown a collective brain cell.”

The room erupted into noise: chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, conversations bubbling. Rebecca practically flew out of her chair, racing to get out of the room.

I stood, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked straight up to Henry’s table. He was still packing his notes, fumbling like his hands didn’t quite know how to function.

I leaned down just enough to catch his profile, my voice low, steady. “Let’s go to the library.”

He couldn’t meet my gaze. His hands froze for a moment, then he shoved the last of his notes into his bag. Without a word, he stood and followed me out of the room.

The walk to the library was all silence.

Henry’s shoulder brushed mine once in the crowded hallway, and he immediately edged away, clutching the strap of his bag like it was some kind of shield.

I bit my tongue to keep from saying something—anything—that might spook him further.

Every instinct in me screamed to tease him, to call him out, to dig at whatever it was that made him blush that way.

But I couldn’t. Not yet. He was a skittish animal, and I wasn’t about to send him bolting down the hall again.

We passed Rebecca in the corridor, her halo braid bobbing as she clutched her Bible to her chest like it was armor. Her lips pinched into disapproval the moment she saw me. We’d never spoken a single word to each other. Perhaps she sensed that I thought she was a stuck up pious prig?

I smirked, leaning close enough for Henry to hear. “Bet she dreams in black-and-white. Poor girl probably faints if she sees an exposed ankle.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to me, just for a second, but he said nothing. Not a word.

The silence between us stretched all the way into the library. When we stepped inside, it was packed. Every table was crammed with students, laptops glowing, the air thick with whispered study sessions and the shuffle of books.

“Well, this is useless,” I muttered. Then I jerked my chin toward the back. “Private study rooms. Bet there’s one open.”

We weaved through the maze of tables and shelves, all the way to the rear. And there it was: a single empty study room, glass walls, a tiny table wedged in the middle, with two chairs pressed close together.

“This’ll work.” I reached for the door.

Henry froze. “Wait—uh—we might need something from the stacks, or—” He gestured vaguely, his words tangling. “Maybe we should just—”

“This is it,” I cut him off, sharper than I meant to, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

I pulled the door open and walked in without giving him a chance to object further. After a beat, he followed, shoulders tight, like he was heading into confession.

The space was cramped, barely enough for two people. Henry sank into his chair, fumbling with his notebook, trying to act busy. His face was pale, but his ears—God, his ears—were scarlet.

I shut the door. The click echoed in the tiny room, and Henry’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat, he looked terrified, like he thought I’d locked us into something dangerous.

I crossed the narrow space and dropped into the chair beside him instead of the one opposite. Close enough that our arms touched when I set my elbow on the table. He stiffened, staring at his notebook like he could will words to appear on the page.

The tension in my chest coiled tight, heat spreading low and insistent.

I’d never been this close to him before, never had the chance to breathe him in, and now it was overwhelming: soap and paper and something subtle and clean, like linen warmed by the sun.

I wanted to bury my face in his neck just to see if it smelled the same there.

My attraction to him was no longer some abstract thought—it was fire, roaring to life in my veins. He was beautiful in his restraint, in the way his hands trembled slightly as he opened his notebook, in the way his jaw clenched like he was fighting for composure.

I reached out before I could stop myself. My hand landed on his, stilling his pen. His skin was hot under mine.

Henry froze.

“You saw me at the club last night,” I said softly, my voice low enough to make him lift his eyes, just barely. “Are you going to pretend you didn’t?”