Page 104 of Divine Temptations

“…and that’s why the Song of Songs endures,” Dr. Scheinbaum was saying, “because desire—genuine desire—isn’t just about physical hunger. It’s about longing, about the ache for connection that sits under the skin.”

I barely heard her. All my focus was on the steady press of Noah’s leg against mine. It was a maddening, unbroken line of heat that made my breath shallow and my body hum. My mind kept whispering, move away while every nerve ending screamed don’t you dare.

“Desire,” she continued, “isn’t rational. It’s primal. You can analyze it, theologize it, even moralize it—but you can’t tame it.”

God, was she looking at me when she said that?

My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath for the entire lecture. I told myself I was fine. I was in control, but the pounding of my heart said otherwise.

“And now,” Dr. Scheinbaum said, “the rest of the period is yours. Find your study partners, and start brainstorming.”

My stomach dropped. That meant talking to Noah. Sitting next to him was already a sensory overload; speaking to him felt like volunteering for martyrdom.

Noah shifted toward me, closing the already nonexistent gap. His cologne was faint but intoxicating—warm cedar and something darker. He leaned over, his arm brushing mine, and pointed at the notebook on top of my neatly arranged pile.

“St. Joseph’s Seminary?” His voice was low, curious.

I followed his finger to the embossed cover—my old seminary’s name, plain as day. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it today.

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes steady and searching. It was a look that made it feel like he was peeling back layers I’d worked years to protect.

“So… did you go there?” His mouth curved just slightly, as if he already knew the answer. “Isn’t that where guys study to be priests?”

Chapter Three

Noah

Song of Songs 2:4 — He brought me to the banquet hall, and his banner over me was love.

“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.