I kept going.“We could even argue that the garden imagery is layered—physical beauty, emotional connection, spiritual resonance… and yeah, sexual attraction too.”
He muttered something about “staying on topic,” which was adorable considering I was on topic, just not in the way he wanted.
“Alright,” I said, flipping to another passage.“‘You are a garden spring, a well of fresh water, streams flowing from Lebanon.’Tell me that doesn’t sound like the buildup before…” I let my voice trail off again.
His blush deepened, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice as if we were conspiring.“So we structure the paper to mirror the text.Start slowly, laying out the imagery, the context, the symbolism… then increase the pace, bring in the intensity, until the conclusion hits with full force.Like—bam.”
Henry made a small noise that might’ve been agreement, or possibly exasperation.
“That way,” I continued, “when someone reads it, they’re not just learning about Song of Songs… they’re feeling the tension, the restraint, and the release by the end.”
His pen snapped shut, the click louder than it needed to be.“We’ll… outline that for next time.”
I grinned.“Looking forward to it.”
His cheeks were flushed, and I knew I’d gotten to him.Not in a cruel way—just enough to make him think about me when he was lying in bed tonight, trying to figure out why he couldn’t concentrate.
This locked garden of his?I had no intention of forcing my way in.I was going to make him want to open the gate.
Dr.Scheinbaum drifted over like a cat who’d scented cream, her bangles clinking as she leaned one hip against our table.“Well, well,” she purred, eyeing the scattered papers between us.“How’s my favorite pair of scholars doing?”
Henry immediately began gathering his notes as if she’d caught him with contraband.“We—we’re just finishing up—”
“Oh, don’t you dare hide those from me.”She pressed a manicured hand to the top page and pinned it in place.“I want to see.”
I turned toward her, letting my voice drop into the same register I’d just been using on Henry.“We’ve decided our presentation will focus on the imagery of a walled garden as a metaphor for desire—how what’s locked away can be even more tempting than what’s offered freely.”I let that hang in the air, my gaze sliding toward Henry.His ears turned pink.
“Mmm.”Dr.Scheinbaum’s smile was positively indecent.“I do love a project with… layers.”She tapped her temple.“And I like the way you two are thinking.Keep going in that direction.This will be a very memorable presentation.”
She straightened, shooing us with a flick of her fingers.“All right, everyone—class dismissed.Go forth and water your gardens.”
Henry was on his feet before the words had finished leaving her mouth.His notebook was clutched tight against his chest, his head ducked, and he all but bolted for the door.I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself.
Looks like my locked garden might just have a hidden gate after all.
* * *
Babylon smelled like sweat, citrus, and desperation—basically my natural habitat.The bass hit like a body blow the second I stepped inside, and the lights spun lazily over the crowd like they were drunk on power.Jim, the bartender, spotted me from across the bar and lifted his shaker like a salute.
“Solomon,” he called, voice thick with smoke and bourbon, “the usual crowd’s been asking about you.”
Of course they had.
I made my way through the throng like Moses parting the Red Sea, except my followers weren’t Israelites—they were horny twenty-somethings and closeted dads pretending they were “just here for the music.”Hands brushed against me as I passed, fingertips grazing my arms and my hips.I didn’t slow down.
Not when my mind was still stuck in that classroom, replaying the way Henry flushed every time I so much as leaned toward him.
God.That blush.The way he fidgeted like I was speaking in tongues instead of just quoting Song of Songs in my best bedroom voice.If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was catching feelings—but no.This was the chase.The delicious agony of prying a shy, nerdy man out of his shell and watching him bloom under my touch.
And Henry?He was going to bloom for me.
In the dressing room—well, undressing room for me—I peeled off my jeans, my T-shirt, my sneakers, until all I had left was the glittery thong that had become something of a signature.I reached inside and gave myself a quick fluff.The more...presentation I had to offer, the better my tips.
“Solomon, you’re up!”the DJ shouted, his voice booming over the sound system.
The stage lights hit me hard, and I let the music slide over my skin like silk.As I started to move, the thought that always struck me first popped into my head: if my father—the good rabbi—could see me now, he’d drop dead on the bimah.His golden boy shaking his ass in front of a sea of dollar bills, all to pay for a PhD in biblical literature.
