I stared at him.“You’re kidding.”
“What?It’s accurate.”
“It’s a mouthful.”
“Yes, well… precision matters to…”
“No, Henry.”I leaned back in my chair.“Dr.Scheinbaum literally just told us to make the class squirm.Nobody’s squirming over ‘agricultural imagery.’”
His brow furrowed.“It’s not supposed to be tawdry.”
“Tawdry is the point.Song of Songs is basically ancient sexting.”
His ears went pink.“That’s… debatable.”
“Oh, it’s not,” I said, leaning forward just enough to watch his blush deepen.“What about Your Mouth is Wine, Your Kisses are Better Than Spices?Or, Let Him Kiss Me with the Kisses of His Mouth?Hell, we could just go with The Locked Garden—classy, but still filthy if you know your Hebrew.”
He actually looked like I’d slapped him with a wet fig leaf.“That’s… suggestive.”
“Exactly.”I grinned.“It’ll make the holy rollers in the front row clutch their pearls and Dr.Scheinbaum proud.”
Henry hesitated, then sighed like he’d just agreed to smuggle contraband.“Fine.The Locked Garden.But only if we keep the analysis rigorous.”
“Sure,” I said, biting back a smirk.“Rigor is my specialty.”
I didn’t tell him I was already looking forward to watching that blush spread across his cheeks every time we met.
I wroteThe Locked Gardenin bold letters at the top of my notebook and slid it across for Henry to see.He glanced at it like it might combust.
That was when Dr.Scheinbaum’s shadow fell over our desks.
“Mr.Miller, Mr.Forrester.”Her eyes flicked down to my scrawl, and one corner of her mouth curved upward in a smirk so quick you might miss it if you weren’t watching for it.“Provocative.I approve.”
Henry’s posture went ramrod straight, but she was already gliding away, heels clicking against the tile, tossing casual comments to other pairs.
The rest of the class went by in a blur—her voice weaving through metaphor and translation, assigning first readings, reminding us that we’d need to present our project in four weeks.I caught Henry sneaking glances at me once or twice, though it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or curious.
Finally, Dr, Scheinbaum closed her notes.“That’s all for today.Go forth and study biblical desire.And don’t be squeamish."
Chairs scraped.Papers rustled.Henry stood, and I fell into step behind him as we moved toward the door.The hallway was clogged with students, and I didn’t mind the slow pace.Not with the view.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, perfect posture, and—God help me—that ass.High, tight, and made for thoughts I shouldn't be having about a study partner in an academic setting.My mind flashed to an image, uninvited, to how Henry’s ass would look without tailored trousers in the way.The thought warmed me in places that had nothing to do with scholarship.
We stepped out into the afternoon sun, the campus buzzing around us.Henry glanced back at me, those green eyes catching the light like polished glass.
The question hit me before I could stop it: Was I going to spend this semester just looking at Henry Forrester… or was I going to find a way to actually touch him?
ChapterTwo
Henry
Song of Songs 5:4 — My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening; my heart began to pound for him.
* * *
I woke with a jolt, my brain a split second ahead of my body, registering that something was off before I even opened my eyes.The ceiling above me wasn’t the familiar white plaster of St.Joseph’s Seminary, but the peeling beige paint of my new place — if you could even call a single-bedroom shoebox in the San Fernando Valley “new” with a straight face.
Two weeks here, and I still felt like someone had dropped me into a poorly staged set.The bed was wedged so close to the window that I could roll over and smudge my forehead against the glass if I wanted.Through that window, dawn was approaching — thin gold light stretching over the haze.Somewhere down the block, a leaf blower whined like it had a personal vendetta against me.
