Page 125 of Divine Temptations
I tried to play it cool, moving my hips in rhythm, making my face blank, pretending he was just another customer. I’d done this a thousand times—ignore, compartmentalize, seduce without feeling. But it only lasted a few seconds. My heart was punching against my ribs, and I couldn’t stop looking at him.
That was when some drunk guy staggered forward, grinning wide, and shoved a twenty into the waistband of my thong. The man’s fingers grazed my skin, and I forced out a fake laugh,stepping back. But I saw it. The flicker in Henry’s eyes. Like something had cracked inside him—anger? Jealousy? Shame?
Before I could even process it, a couple more men came up, tossing bills at my feet, reaching, watching. It was the usual scene, a Thursday night ritual. But Henry never moved. He didn’t even blink. He just stared at me like the whole world was collapsing around him.
And then—tears.
I froze mid-step as they started rolling down his cheeks, catching in the dim bar lights. Henry Forrester, the man who buried every ounce of softness beneath layers of Catholic armor, was standing there unraveling in front of me.
My throat tightened. I couldn’t do this anymore—not the act, not the mask. I hopped down from the stage, landing right in front of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of his soap under the stale beer air.
Before he could pull away, I wrapped my arms around him. His whole body trembled against mine, rigid at first, then melting like he didn’t know how to hold himself up anymore. I leaned in, pressing my lips close to his ear.
“Please don’t go,” I whispered. My voice cracked, raw and unguarded. “Let’s talk after I’m through with work.”
Chapter Eleven
Henry
Song of Songs 2:16 – My beloved is mine, and I am his.
The windshield wipers beat back and forth like a metronome set too fast, squealing against the glass as rain hammered down in sheets. Noah’s dented silver Corolla rattled with every gust of wind, the thin metal frame barely standing between us and the chaos outside. Headlights from oncoming cars smeared across the wet road, hazy and distorted, and my chest tightened every time Noah’s tires hissed through standing water.
I sat stiff in the passenger seat, hands clasped in my lap so tightly my knuckles ached. I knew Noah wanted to talk—that was the only reason he’d told me to wait for him, the only reason I was in this car instead of hiding in my apartment, licking my wounds. But now that we were actually headed to his place, I had no idea what words would come out of my mouth. I’d lived my whole life in silence, burying my truths under layers of obedience, ritual, and fear. And now—now, for the first time—I could see the faintest hint of light breaking through. And it terrified me.
A jagged flash of lightning split the sky, followed a second later by a crack of thunder so loud it made the steering wheel jump in Noah’s hands. I flinched despite myself. That was when I felt his palm press gently against my knee. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.
“You okay?” His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the storm, but I heard it. Felt it.
The easy answer rose immediately, reflexive: I’m fine. Sure. Okay. But the words stuck in my throat. What good had platitudes ever done me? What life had they bought me except one filled with shame and loneliness? The truth broke out instead, raw and uneven.
“No,” I said, voice cracking. “I’m really not well.”
Noah glanced at me, eyes shining from the glow of the dashboard, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “What’s going on?”
I swallowed hard. My chest ached. The words were there, a storm of their own, but too jagged to release on this narrow stretch of road. So instead, I covered his hand with mine, squeezing it like I might drown without something to hold onto.
“I’ll tell you,” I said, forcing the words out. “When we get to your place.”
Rain drummed harder against the roof, a steady roar that filled the car. My reflection stared back at me in the dark window, ghostly and worn, and my mind spiraled into places I’d fought to avoid. How the hell was I going to tell my family? My parents had raised me to be a priest—the dutiful son offering his life to God. And here I was, not only abandoning that path, but stepping outside the church altogether. And if that weren’t enough, the final nail in the coffin: I was gay.
I could already hear my mother’s sharp intake of breath, my father’s silence like a wall slamming down. Disappointment.Condemnation. A family name soured. Would they see me as lost? Broken? Or worse—damned?
My throat closed. I pressed my face into one hand and exhaled, long and heavy, a sound dragged from somewhere deep in my chest.
That was when Noah touched me again. His hand, warm and certain, settled on my shoulder, rubbing slow circles that made my heart stutter. A gesture so simple, yet it cracked something open inside me, reminding me I wasn’t entirely alone.
The Corolla bumped into the lot outside his apartment building, the tires splashing through puddles. Noah shifted into park, and for a moment the storm outside seemed to pause, suspended around us. Then he killed the engine, and the silence was deafening.
“Come on,” he said.
We flung the doors open at the same time, rain lashing at us the instant we stepped out. The wind whipped my shirt against my body as we sprinted across the slick pavement, shoes splashing through water that soaked my socks instantly. Lightning flashed again, throwing the apartment building into stark white relief, and then we were inside, breathless, dripping, the storm pounding on the door behind us like it wanted in.
The lobby smelled faintly of rain and bleach. A fluorescent light above us flickered, buzzing softly, casting Noah’s face in uneven shadows. We stood side by side before the elevator, waiting, and I couldn’t seem to stop wringing my hands. My damp shirt clung to my back, chilled against my skin, and when I caught the reflection of myself in the brass elevator doors, I hardly recognized the man staring back. Hollow-eyed. Unshaven. A ghost in borrowed clothes. I wanted to meet Noah’s gaze, but instead I fixed on the numbers above the door, watching them blink down toward us with agonizing slowness. Each second felt like another chance to bolt.
The elevator arrived with a ding, doors yawning open, and we stepped inside. Noah pressed the button for the seventh floor, then slipped his hands into his pockets, and silence swelled between us. I could feel him beside me, solid and warm, but I couldn’t bring myself to look his way. My chest ached with everything unsaid. The thought that I might lose him—before I’d even let myself have him—made my stomach twist. I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and counted the floors as we rose. One. Two. Three. Each number lighting up felt like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for.
When we reached his floor, Noah unlocked the door to his apartment and let me step in first. The place was small but tidy, books stacked neatly on shelves, the faint smell of sandalwood lingering in the air. A blanket was folded carefully over the back of the couch, as if waiting for me. He took my drenched jacket without a word and hung it on a hook by the door, then asked, softly, “Do you want something warm to drink? Tea, maybe?”
