And God help me, I wasn’t sure I could stop.
We stepped into the classroom, and I did my best to keep my eyes anywhere but on him. It didn't matter. Noah was alreadywatching me like I was the only person in the room worth looking at.
There were plenty of empty seats, but of course, he took the one next to mine—close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table. Accidentally. On purpose. I couldn’t tell. My skin lit up like someone had taken a match to it.
“Morning, partner,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
Partner. My brain immediately betrayed me, conjuring an image of his hand sliding down my back, his mouth at my ear as he said that word in an entirely different context. I gripped my pen so hard my knuckles went white.
Dr. Scheinbaum began the lecture, but I barely heard a word. My focus was shot to hell the moment Noah leaned forward, forearms on the table, biceps stretching his sleeves. He smelled faintly of soap and something warmer—like cedar and heat.
When Dr. Scheinbaum asked us to turn to the passage about the garden, Noah volunteered to read.
Of course he did.
His voice poured into the room like honey—slow, thick, sinful.
A garden locked is my sister, my bride… The words slid over my skin, curling low in my stomach. A spring locked, a fountain sealed…
I shifted in my seat, praying no one could tell exactly why I was uncomfortable. My collar felt too tight. My thighs, tense. Every syllable he spoke felt like he was aiming it straight at me.
He paused just long enough to glance sideways, lips quirking like he knew exactly where my mind was. And maybe he did, because the next verse came out almost as a dare—soft, deliberate, every syllable drawn out like he was savoring it.
“Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates with all choicest fruits… myrrh and aloes, with all chief spices.”
His voice dipped lower.
“A garden fountain, a well of living water, and flowing streams from Lebanon.”
He didn’t look at the book when he read it—he looked at me. And it wasn’t just a look, it was possession wrapped in invitation, as if he were describing me instead of some ancient poem, as if he could taste every word before it left his mouth.
Heat surged up my neck and into my face. My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out whatever Dr. Scheinbaum was saying. I felt pinned in place, like the space between us was charged with something heavy and molten. My shirt clung to my back under my sweater vest, every inch of me too warm, too aware.
My dick was painfully hard, and I shifted in my seat, praying no one noticed. It was useless—my body was betraying me in every possible way. Breath short, heart racing, skin hypersensitive. Even the brush of my pen against my fingers felt too much, too intimate.
I gripped the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ached, trying to anchor myself in something that wasn’t Noah’s voice or the way his gaze lingered. It was obscene, the way a few bible verses and a look could undo me this completely. And worse—deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stop.
Dr. Scheinbaum’s voice broke through the haze, pulling me back into the room like someone had yanked a chain around my neck. She was leaning casually against the lectern, her gaze flicking between Noah and me with unnerving precision, like she’d been watching us the whole time.
“As I’ve mentioned before,” she began, “this course is about more than simply translating or parsing the text. It’s about understanding why this poetry exists, why it was preserved, and what it meant in the context of both the sacred and the sensual.”
Her eyes landed on me for a heartbeat too long. I froze.
“I’ve noticed,” she continued, still looking at me, “that some partnerships seem… very engaged with the material.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck.
Dr. Scheinbaum gave a small, knowing smile—one I didn’t trust for a second. “Which is why I’m going to insist that each pair spend more time on this project outside of class. Discuss, interpret, argue—however you work best. This text rewards intimacy with the material.”
The word intimacy landed in my stomach like a stone. I didn’t dare look at Noah, but I could feel him turn his head toward me, the warmth of his attention practically pressing into my skin.
“Consider this,” Dr. Scheinbaum went on, “a requirement for your midterm grade. Meet on your own time, in whatever space best fosters… focus.” The pause she gave before that last word made my heart trip over itself.
Then she dismissed us.
The room buzzed as students shuffled out, but I stayed rooted in my seat, pretending to organize my notes. Noah lingered, leaning slightly toward me until his shoulder brushed mine.
“I’m free this afternoon,” he said, voice pitched low so only I could hear. “Around five. Want to meet in the library?”
