Page 103 of Divine Temptations

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.