Page 112 of Divine Temptations

“Henry,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting it. “Classic. Strong. Rolls off the tongue.”

“Mm, yes, it… it does.” I nodded, sipping too quickly at the wine.

“Don’t worry,” he said, lips quirking into a smirk. “I’ll take good care of you tonight.”

It was only then, with his eyes locked on mine and that wicked smile still curling his mouth, that the lightbulb finally flickered on. He was… flirting. With me.

“Oh,” I blurted, nearly choking on the wine. My face heated so quickly it felt like I’d been slapped.

“Matt,” he said suddenly, as if delivering a punchline. “That’s me. And I’ll remember Henry.” He gave me a wink, then slid down the bar to fill a row of cocktail orders, leaving me reeling in the aftershock.

I gripped my wine glass like it was a lifeline, my heart still doing its nervous tap dance.

Was this even the right place? Could there possibly be two bars named Babylon in LA, and I’d walked into the wrong one? Because nothing about this felt like it belonged to Noah.

I scanned the room again, forcing myself to look past the crowds of men, past the pulsing colored lights. My gaze snagged on a small stage tucked into one corner. A man wearing nothing but a black jockstrap was grinding against a speaker while some throbbing beat played. His body moved with the kind of liquid confidence I’d never possessed. He was handsome, I could admit that—sharp jawline, a body built for spectacle. But compared to Noah? Not even close. Noah’s smile alone outshone this entire room.

“Give it up for Dino!” a man’s voice boomed over the sound system, snapping me out of my daze.

Applause rose from the crowd as the dancer hopped off the stage, blowing kisses.

I turned back to the bar just as Matt reappeared, still wearing that knowing smile. He leaned in like we were in on a secret together, murmuring something I couldn’t quite catch over the applause. My head spun from the sensory overload, the music, the lights, the unfamiliar weight of being noticed in this way.

And then, before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Does a guy named Noah work here?”

Matt’s smile faltered. His eyes flicked away for just a second, and in that second, I had the strangest, sinking notion I’d disappointed him.

The DJ’s voice boomed again: “And next up, say hello to our very own Solomon!”

Matt tilted his chin toward the stage.

I turned just in time to see him.

Noah.

He strode onto the stage with the confidence of someone born for the spotlight, wearing nothing but a white thong so sheer it might as well have been smoke. My jaw went slack, and my brain short-circuited. His skin gleamed under the lights, every muscle shifting like poetry as he moved. The crowd erupted around me, whistles and cheers filling the room.

But all I could hear was the pounding of my heart, each beat louder than the music.

Noah was Solomon. And I was sitting in Babylon, red wine trembling in my glass, watching the boy I’d come to surprise walk out in barely anything at all.

The crowd erupted, hungry and wild, but I didn’t hear them. My ears rang with the rush of my own blood as Noah moved across that little stage like he was made of rhythm itself.

He rolled his hips against the beat, every slow grind deliberate, teasing. His hand slid over his chest, down his stomach, lingering at the thin white fabric clinging to him. He turned, the lights catching on his skin, his back flexing as he bent low, then rose again with a snap that made men in the front row cheer like it was a sermon and they’d just seen the light.

I couldn’t breathe.

My mouth had gone dry, my palms slick, and my chest tight with something between awe and panic. Noah was so hot, so impossibly sexy, and I—God help me—I couldn’t look away.

What the hell was I doing here?

I’d spent my whole life dreaming of service, of devotion, of an altar and a chalice and a quiet life in the fold of God’s will. And here I was, planted in a gay bar called Babylon, staring at a man I barely knew while he danced nearly naked, my body burning with desire I couldn’t even begin to control.

My throat constricted. My vision swam.

Before I could think twice, I grabbed my wine glass and downed it in one desperate swallow. The sweetness turned bitter in my mouth, but I didn’t care. I needed something, anything, to drown the ache, to steady my shaking hands.

It didn’t work.