Page 29 of The Naughty Professor
I kicked them off with relief.“Oh, thank God.Those loafers were a hate crime.”
He positioned my foot on the measuring tool, his fingers brushing my ankle.“Ohhh, careful, Daddy, I’m ticklish.”
His lips twitched.“Is that so?”
“Yeah, and hey—while you’re down there, remember: enormous feet equals big—” I waggled my brows suggestively.
He smirked.“That theory doesn’t always hold up.”
“Trust me,” I shot back, leaning in with a wicked grin, “in my case, it definitely holds up.You’ll need two hands and a prayer.”
Lorna groaned into her bracelets.“Sweet merciful Jesus, help me.”
The salesman glanced at her, then back at me, his eyes sparkling.“Guess I’ll just have to measure carefully, then.”
When his hand slid along the arch of my foot, a spark shot through me.I sucked in a breath.“Well damn.I think I just discovered I’ve got a foot fetish.”
The salesman looked up, eyes glinting, and pressed his thumb just a little firmer against my sole.“Lucky me.”
I nearly moaned.“Sir, if you keep touching me like that, we’re going to need to clear this department.”
Lorna clutched her pearls—or she would’ve if she wore any.“I have never been embarrassed in my life,” she hissed, “but this might be the first time.”
The salesman winked at me.Actually winked.Then he started rubbing my foot.No, massaging it.
“Oh God,” I groaned dramatically, throwing my head back.“I’ll take them!”
Shoppers were staring.A woman with a stroller steered her baby away as if we were contagious.
Lorna slapped the salesman’s arm.“For heaven’s sake, go get the damn shoes!”
The man laughed under his breath and finally let go of my foot.“Yes, ma’am.Right away.”
* * *
The men’s department was paradise number two.Sleek displays of folded shirts, shelves stacked with jeans, racks of jackets that screamed money.But me?I zeroed in on the underwear like a sinner stumbling into confession.
“Baby Jesus,” I whispered reverently, staring at an entire wall of underwear in neat little rainbow rows.
Lorna sidled up, clutching her purse as if it might sprout legs and run.“Now this,” she said, plucking a pack of Calvin Klein’s off the shelf, “this is what real men wear.”
I undid my belt and popped the button of Felix’s chinos, unzipping just enough to peek down at my sad reality.White cotton.Baggy.A crime against gay men everywhere.I held the waistband out with two fingers like it was toxic.“Damn.These are like government-issued undies.They’re probably older than YouTube.”
“Boxer briefs,” Lorna insisted, waving a pair under my nose.“Classic.Masculine.Sexy.”
“Classic?Boring.Masculine?Also boring.Sexy?Not unless your kink is Mormon missionary chic.”
Her bangles clinked as she shoved another package at me.“Everyone loves boxer briefs, Jax.”
“Correction, everyone tolerates boxer briefs.Big difference.”
Then I saw them.Hanging there like a beacon of salvation: skimpy bikini briefs in electric blue, fire-engine red, even leopard print.Next to them, a couple of thongs—tiny straps of fabric that promised both scandal and freedom.
“Ohhh, Daddy,” I breathed, pulling the leopard print pair off the rack.“Now this?This is poetry.This says, ‘I might mow your lawn, or I might steal your boyfriend.You’ll never know until it’s too late.’”
Lorna covered her mouth to keep from laughing.“You can’t be serious.”
“Baby, I am always serious about underwear.Look at this thong.”I held it up, letting the tiny triangle dangle between my fingers.“This doesn’t just whisper confidence—it screams it, spins it around, and slaps you across the face with it.”
