Page 67 of The Naughty Professor
I lunged.She counter-lunged.We collided in a shower of sequins.For thirty glorious seconds, it was less catfight and more interpretive dance of rage—two sparkly demons tangled in a whirl of wigs, powders, and profanity.
“You fucking drama queen!”Velvetina growled.“Let go of my shit!”
She tried to choke me with her feather boa.I grabbed it mid-swing and yanked, spinning her like a glittery tornado.“You asked for drama!”I cried.
“I am drama!”she screamed back—right before tripping over her own stiletto heels.
Velvetina pinwheeled, arms flailing, and I swear time slowed down.
“Ya-a-a-as!”echoed through the room before she toppled backward into the vanity.A rain of rhinestones followed, and Velvetina Jackson went down.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, boa in one hand, purse in the other.Glitter drifted through the air like angel dust.
“Sweet dreams, queen.”
ChapterTwenty-Two
Jax
The lights hit me like a promise.Hot, golden, alive.
The first bass drop hit, and I rolled my hips to it — slow, teasing, deliberate.The crowd roared, a tidal wave of hunger that hit my chest and rushed straight to my ego.
I threw my arms out wide, grinning like I owned the place.“You love me, Badlands?”
The answer was a scream that rattled the glassware.
I strutted to the edge of the stage, dragging a finger along my slick chest.A guy in the front row reached for me — tall, gym-built, jawline that could open letters.I bent low enough for him to smell the sweat and cologne on my skin.His hand hovered just shy of my thigh.I smirked, whispered, “You couldn’t handle me,” and backed away before he could blink.
The crowd howled.
A woman tossed a twenty-dollar bill at me like it was a bouquet.I caught it and winked.“Sweetheart, I’m not cheap,” I said around the paper.“But keep them coming.”
Laughter rippled through the room.I dropped the bill into my thong and spun, giving them what they came for.
Flashbulbs went off like fireworks.
Someone shouted, “Take it off!”and I turned toward the voice, pretending to scan the audience.“You want more?”I called, tracing my fingers down my chest to the waistband of gold.“I don’t hear you!”
The sound that came back was pure chaos — cheering, clapping, stamping feet.The floor vibrated under me.
I pointed at a man in a floral shirt.“You.You look like a sinner.”I motioned him closer, just to watch him blush.“Don’t worry,” I said into the mic, my voice low and wicked, “confession starts after midnight.”
He practically melted.
God, it was intoxicating — all those eyes, all that desire.I could taste it in the air — thick and sweet.Every move I made, they matched with sound — every twist of my hips, every flick of my tongue, every wink.
I was the music, the motion, and everyone’s fantasy.
I laughed, breathless and drunk on adoration.“You love me,” I said, and they screamed yes.“You need me,” I teased, rolling my body to the beat.
A hundred phone screens captured every second, but I didn’t care.I wanted them to see all of me.And just like that, I wasn’t performing anymore — I was consuming them, one glance, one gasp, one cheer at a time.
When I looked down at the front row, there he was.
Thorne.
