Page 107 of Divine Temptations

That was freaking weird.

I was always ready for a good time. Always.

So why was the only man I could picture right now a buttoned-up Catholic scholar who wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence without blushing?

Chapter Four

Henry

Song of Songs 3:1 - I sought him, but I did not find him.

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 ashe 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.