Page 100 of Divine Temptations

“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 smilecurl 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 Hebrewimagery, 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.”