Page 38 of The Naughty Professor
The twink snarled, actually snarled, and shoved her backward.Joan shrieked, lost her balance, and tumbled straight off the stage — landing squarely in my lap.
“Oh, for the love of—”
My chair tipped backward under the force, my drink went flying, and suddenly I had one hundred and thirty-something pounds of indignant academia sprawled across me, covered in perfume and wounded pride.
“Thorne!”she sputtered.
I groaned.“You’re crushing me!”
She scrambled off, muttering, and in that moment Jax’s attention snapped downward — toward me.
The air changed.
He froze mid-dance, head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly as they met mine.The lights glinted off his skin, his glittery thong catching a shard of red that flickered like flame.
And then — with a smile that could end civilizations — he jumped down from the stage.
My pulse hammered.
This wasn’t happening.I was a philosophy professor.I debated metaphysics, not body mechanics.My greatest thrill lately had been a new espresso machine.And yet — there I was, sitting stock-still as a man in a sparkly red thong stalked toward me like temptation itself had taken human form.
When he stopped in front of me, the smell hit first — warm skin, and sweat.The scent of desire.His brown eyes held mine as he rolled his hips once, then again, each motion a slow, merciless circle that made my brain fizzle out like an unplugged lamp.
Someone shouted, “Get him, Jax!”and the crowd exploded with laughter.
I tried to say something rational.“This—this is highly inappropriate.”
He grinned and shouted, “You say that like it’s a bad thing!”
And then, God help me, he straddled me.
The audience howled.Joan screamed in protest somewhere behind me.My body, traitorous thing that it was, reacted instantly — every nerve alight, my breath catching as the heat of him pressed down against my lap.
My cock was suddenly a steel rod.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear.“Relax, Professor.You look like you’re about to write a dissertation about me.”
I made a sound.Not a word — a sound.Something primal and humiliated and hungry all at once.
He ground against me again, slower this time.I could feel everything — the heat, the rhythm, the weight.My hands clenched the sides of the chair hard enough to ache.
The rational part of my mind — the one that had spent years parsing arguments and footnotes — was screaming, “What the hell are you doing?”
The other part — the one made of blood and desire and some deep-buried loneliness — didn’t give a damn.
He chuckled, sensing it.“You love watching me, don’t you?”
“I—what—”
His breath ghosted over my cheek.“You’ve been staring since I walked out.You’re not as subtle as you think, Professor.”
Something about the way he said “Professor” tugged at me.The cadence.The faint amusement.
I blinked, trying to think through the fog.“Do I—know you?”
He smiled, slow and devastating.“You do now.”
And before I could form another thought, his mouth was on mine.
