Page 37 of The Naughty Professor
And to my horror, I understood.
Jax wasn’t just dancing — he was conjuring something primal.He rolled his shoulders back and let the music crawl through him, his hips circling slow and deliberately.His movements weren’t just erotic; they were philosophical, a living argument about the nature of beauty, of power, of the body as the purest form of expression.Plato would’ve lost his fucking mind.
“Oh, my word,” Joan breathed beside me.
I couldn’t look away.The thong shimmered as he turned, the glitter catching on the air like sparks.He bent low, ran a hand down his leg, then snapped upright, his mouth curved in a half-smile that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing to us.
I told myself I wasn’t that kind of man.I didn’t fall for exhibitionists, preferring valued restraint, intellect, and conversation.Men who quoted Kierkegaard in bed, not ones who could crack walnuts with their glutes, turned me on.
But there was something about him — something that silenced all those little academic hierarchies in my mind and replaced them with pure, animalistic lust.
Joan clutched my arm.“He’s magnificent, Thorne!”
“I—suppose,” I managed, though it came out strangled.
“Suppose?”She turned to gape at me.“He’s a walking dissertation on lust!”
If that thong had been a syllogism, it would’ve been flawless.
The crowd chanted his name.“Jax!Jax!Jax!”He soaked it in, pivoting on the stage, hips swaying, chest gleaming.The music slowed — a deep, pulsing rhythm that seemed to sync with my pounding pulse.
Then Joan did the unthinkable.
She reached into her purse, yanked out a stack of bills, and stood up.
“Joan,” I hissed.“Don’t—”
She was already waving them in the air.“Over here, darling!Over here!”
I buried my face in my hands.“For the love of God.”
Jax spotted her instantly.His smile turned predatory, then he sauntered to the edge of the stage, crouched down, and extended a finger toward her.
The crowd roared its approval.
Joan squealed — squealed — and teetered forward in her heels.He took her hand, drew her up onto the stage, and suddenly my department chair was standing under a disco ball in a black mini-skirt, blinking like she’d just discovered religion.
I wanted to die.
“Give it up for Miss Thang!”the MC bellowed, and the audience went ballistic.
Jax spun her around, guiding her by the hips, moving with slow, obscene confidence.Joan giggled — actually giggled — and began gyrating like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.Her skirt rode higher, her jewelry clattered, and she threw her head back with a laugh that made me reach for my drink.
I couldn’t not watch.It was the kind of social collapse that begged for witnesses.
I pulled out my phone, snapped a few photos, and muttered to myself, “Insurance.”It was purely for professional leverage if she ever decided to mess with my career.
Jax twirled her one last time, and for a fleeting instant, he looked straight at me — eyes glinting, mouth curled.It wasn’t amusement.It was a challenge.
Then, just as abruptly, he released her.
Joan wobbled, startled.Before she could protest, Jax turned to the audience and plucked a slim, tattooed twink from the crowd — the kind of boy who glowed under stage lights, his grin wide and wicked.
The crowd screamed as the twink pressed himself against Jax, grinding like it was his calling in life.
Joan froze, then the smile drained from her face.Then — as if possessed by some furious Victorian ghost — she stormed toward them and grabbed the twink by the arm.
“That’s my dancer!”she barked.
