Page 12 of The Naughty Professor

“She’s the one,” Lorna hissed, clutching her purse strap like it was a rosary, “who told me at the faculty mixer last spring that my lipstick looked ‘brave.’”

I choked out a laugh. “Brave?”

“As in clownish!” Lorna spat. “And then she turned around and said I was ‘so authentic for not worrying about aging gracefully.’”

“Oh, hell no,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Who gave her the right to judge you? It’s not like she’s all that.”

Joan stepped off the escalator and straightened her blazer. She was all poise, all gloss, like a Stepford Barbie who ate men for breakfast. I squinted at her and leaned toward Lorna. “Baby, I bet that woman hasn’t been laid since the Clinton administration.”

Lorna burst out laughing so loudly that two shoppers turned their heads. “Jax!”

Joan’s eyes flicked over, sharp as stilettos. Her lips curved into a smile, and she started walking straight towards us.

“Oh God, hide me,” Lorna whispered, turning half behind a rack of socks.

“Hide? Are you kidding? Baby, you’re ten times hotter than that Botox bobblehead.”

Lorna, despite herself, grinned. But it faltered when Joan stopped right in front of us.

“Well, well,” Joan cooed, her voice dripping fake sugar. “Lorna. What a…surprise.”

“Joan,” Lorna said tightly.

Joan’s gaze slid to me, raking me from head to toe. “And who is this handsome man you’re shopping with?”

Lorna opened her mouth—then shut it again like her brain had stalled.

“Jax,” I said flatly, giving her a single nod. I wasn’t about to waste charm on this woman.

“Jax.” Joan rolled my name around her tongue like it was a new cocktail recipe. “Charming.”

I yawned in her face.

“So, Joan,” Lorna said, regaining her voice, “what brings you to Nordstrom?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Joan flicked open the garment bag she carried as if she were unveiling treasure. Inside hung four silk dresses in different jewel tones. “Professor Carr and I are dining at Stella’s tonight. I wanted something…sexy.”

At the mention of Carr, my ears perked. Thorne. Felix’s Thorne. But I didn’t let it show.

“I always prefer trying them on at home,” Joan went on. “My mirrors are better lit. I’ll only keep one, of course.”

Joan’s eyes followed me, then she winked. And damned if I didn’t see a blush creep up her neck and bloom across her chest.

I pretended to stifle a yawn. “Riveting. Anyway, I’m going to try on these.” I hefted my pile of jeans, shirts, and underwear. “Good luck with your mirror,” I smirked at Joan, then turned and sauntered toward the dressing rooms.

The dressing room was a little box of fluorescent sin, mirrors angled just enough to catch me from every angle. I dropped the pile of clothes on the bench and, without ceremony, stripped. Shirt, pants, socks, everything—gone.

I stood there, bare, admiring the goods. “Damn, baby,” I murmured to my reflection. “If I saw myself walking down the street, I’d run in front of traffic to get my number.”

For half a second, a shadow crept in. Some dull memory of Felix hunched over a laptop, clicking add to cart on a multipack of plain white briefs. Practical, boring. Felix never looked in the mirror, not really. He couldn’t stand what stared back.

I shook my head hard, brushing the thought away. Poor bastard. That was then. Now? Now he was me. Jax. Hot as hell and proud of it.

My eyes fell to the thong. The bright red one, dusted in glitter like it had rolled around in a drag queen’s makeup bag. My grin spread slow and dirty.

“Oh, you’re coming home with me,” I whispered, hooking the waistband with my index finger.

I stepped into it, tugged it up my thighs, and—ohhhh. Glory hallelujah. That tiny scrap of fabric hugged me like it had been custom made. Front? Full. Perfect. Rear? Cheeky as sin.

I turned left, right, cocked a hip. The mirror didn’t lie. “Shit,” I breathed, a shiver running down my spine. “I look like the cover of Gay GQ.”

Without a second thought, I yanked the door open and strutted out onto the sales floor.

“Ta-da!” I sang, arms wide.

Lorna and Joan's mouths opened in unison, and Joan’s garment bag slipped right out of her manicured hands and flopped to the ground.

I adjusted myself with a blatant grab, shifting the goods just so. “Well? What do you think?”

Lorna made a strangled sound that was somewhere between laughter and a death rattle. “Sweet… merciful… Jesus.”

Joan just blinked at me, frozen, her lips parted like she’d forgotten how to speak English.

I struck a pose, one hand on my hip, the other tugging at the glitter waistband. “I think I’ve found my new Saturday night uniform.”

Lorna finally slapped her hand over her mouth, shaking like she was about to pass out from trying not to cackle.

I gave my junk one last proud adjustment and looked straight at her. “Tell me, baby—don’t you want to go out dancing tonight? Shake your ass, get drunk, cause a scandal?”

Her eyes watered from holding in laughter.

Then I glanced at Joan, who was still staring like I’d grown horns and a halo all at once. And for a flicker of a moment, I actually pitied her. Perfect hair, perfect blazer, and not a spark of joy in sight. Maybe I could get her to pull that stick out of her ass?

“You can come along too if you want, Joan.”