Page 114 of Divine Temptations

And then it hit me.

It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t disgust. I knew those looks. I’d seen them on enough faces to catalog them: pity, contempt, moral superiority. But this had been different.

This had been hunger.

He hadn’t run because he was appalled by me. He’d run because he’d wanted me.

The thought shot a thrill straight through me, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath. I leaned back against the headboard, heart pounding like I’d just stepped off stage again. Could it be? Could quiet, careful Henry be that attracted to me? And if so—what did it mean for him?

I pictured his face again, the way his lips had parted, like he couldn’t breathe. The fear wasn’t of me. It was of himself.

“Holy shit,” I muttered into the empty room.

I dropped back down against the mattress, curling on my side. If I was right, if Henry’s fear was really desire… then I had to know. I had to press. Tomorrow, I'll find him. I’d ask. No—better, I’d make him admit it.

But for now, all I had was the thrum under my skin, the maddening loop of his face in the crowd, and the growing, undeniable pull in my chest. I’d thought Henry was just another curious mind, another guy I’d swap a few theological sparring matches with before he drifted back to his academic ivory tower.

Turns out, he might be the one who could undo me.

I exhaled, long and shaky, trying to shut off my brain. It didn’t work. All it did was make me more aware of the ache between my ribs.

Henry Forrester had run from me tonight.

But tomorrow—I wasn’t going to let him run again.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh against the polished oak tables. The classroom always felt too bright, too clean, like a sanctuary where every shadow had been banished. I walked in expecting the usual: students hunched over laptops, caffeine clutched like talismans, the low buzz of morning chatter.

But today, something snapped me wide awake.

Henry was there, but not seated at our usual table. He was seated near the very front, right beside her.

Rebecca Lyle. The one with the halo braid and the perpetual air of smug chastity. She was perched perfectly upright, sweaterdraped over her shoulders like she’d stepped out of a glossy evangelical pamphlet. Her notebook was already open, pen lined up beside it like she was preparing to transcribe scripture straight from the heavens.

Henry, though… Henry couldn’t look at me. His head was bent low, eyes locked on his notes, but not really reading them. His cheeks burned pink, the color creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. That was all the confirmation I needed. The heat in his face wasn’t judgment—it was an attraction he didn’t know how to cage.

I walked past, making sure my stride was slow, deliberate, letting Rebecca’s judgmental gaze slide over me. I smirked to myself and claimed my usual seat in the back, sprawling just enough to make it look casual.

The door opened a moment later, and in breezed Dr. Scheinbaum. Her platinum-blonde bob was razor sharp, her lipstick crimson, her tailored black blazer offset with a string of pearls that looked far too elegant for eight in the morning. She carried no coffee, no books—just a single slim Bible tucked under her arm like a weapon.

She set it on the lectern with a thud and surveyed us all with a cool, appraising stare. “Welcome back to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon,” she said, voice clipped but sly. “And yes, in case anyone here has amnesia, this is the class where we read scripture and talk about sex.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter traveled through the room.

“Now.” She opened the Bible with practiced precision. “Song of Songs, chapter one, verse two.” She read aloud: ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—for your love is better than wine.’

Her lips curled faintly. “There you have it. No coyness. No euphemism. Just the blunt, ecstatic voice of desire.” She looked around the room, daring anyone to squirm. “The ancients didnot separate lust from love. They understood them as entwined. Desire was life. And it was sacred.”

She flipped a page. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine; he grazes among the lilies.”

Dr. Scheinbaum arched an eyebrow. “Grazes among the lilies. Do we need to decode the metaphor? Or have you all been on the internet?”

Laughter rippled again, though Henry’s head sank even lower, his pen suddenly very busy. His blush deepened, and I caught myself biting back a grin.

Of course, that was the moment Rebecca raised her hand. Her halo braid gleamed in the light as she said primly, “Professor, I can’t help but wonder… would God really approve of this? These… indulgences? Isn’t the purpose of love supposed to be purity, not fleshly lust?”

The room went still.

Dr. Scheinbaum removed her glasses with exaggerated care, folded them, and set them on the lectern. Her platinum bob swung slightly as she tilted her head. “Miss Lyle, are you asking me if God approves of desire?”