Page 113 of Divine Temptations
The room pressed too close, the lights too bright, the music too loud. I pushed through the crowd, murmuring apologies that nobody heard, my heart battering against my ribs as though it wanted out.
The door. I just needed the door. Air. Space. Silence.
And then it happened—like the universe wanted to punish me one more time.
My eyes locked with his.
Noah froze mid-step, his body stilling as if the music had cut out. His gaze pinned me, sharp and unflinching, and in that single moment the world collapsed to just the two of us: me, raw and unraveling; him, caught in the spotlight, suddenly unmasked.
Panic shot through me like lightning.
I tore my eyes away and bolted, shoving past bodies, stumbling for the exit. The cool evening air slapped my face as I burst through the door and onto the sidewalk, lungs heaving, heart still hammering.
Run. Just run.
I sprinted down the block, my shoes striking the pavement, the city spinning in my periphery. My mind screamed—shame, lust, disbelief all tangled into a knot I couldn’t untie.
And then—
“Henry!”
I skidded, the sound of my name cleaving through the chaos.
I turned.
There he was. Noah, standing on the sidewalk in that damn white thong, his chest still slick with sweat, calling out to me under the glow of the neon Babylon sign.
For half a second, something inside me reached for him—wanted to stop, to turn back, to let myself be seen.
But shame was faster.
I spun and ran, faster this time, leaving him behind in the neon glow.
Chapter Six
Noah
Song of Songs 1:7 — Why should I be like one who veils herself beside the flocks of your companions?
Sleep wouldn’t come.
I flipped onto my back, then onto my side, then onto my stomach. My sheets were twisted around my legs like I’d been fighting demons in my dreams—except I hadn’t even made it to dreaming yet. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Henry. Not the Henry who sat next to me at school with polite questions and that cautious, thoughtful smile. Not the bookish Henry with a stack of notes tucked under his arm.
No, what haunted me was Henry in the club. Henry standing there in Babylon, eyes wide, looking at me like—God, I didn’t even know. Like I was something dangerous. Like he’d stumbled across a temptation that terrified him.
And it had gutted me.
I’m used to people looking. That’s literally the point of what I do. I’m paid to be looked at. To be wanted. To be the guy who makes it okay to stare and ache and tip generously. Normally, I thrive on that energy. But with Henry, it had felt different. His gaze had burned straight through me.
And then—he bolted.
I rolled over again, punching my pillow like it had answers. Why did his leaving sting so much? Why did it feel like his rejection had sunk a hook into me? I don’t get embarrassed about my body, or about the fact that I dance. Its art and its survival rolled into one. I’ve always been unapologetic about it.
But the second Henry looked at me—sweet, sharp, devastating Henry—something in me shriveled. Like suddenly I was wrong, indecent, caught out in a sin I didn’t believe in. Shame had crawled up my throat, hot and choking, and I hated it.
Why him? Why now?
I sat up in bed, raking my hands through my hair. The room was dark, but my brain was a strobe light of memory. Henry’s mouth tightening. His eyes widened. That flicker—Christ, that flicker of emotion—before he’d turned and rushed for the door.
