Page 14 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Twelve

Jax

The doors to Badlands swung open and a wash of heat hit me—sweat, cologne, the heavy thrum of bass that pounded right into my bones. Men’s laughter, the scrape of boots on the floor, the crash of glasses at the bar. It was chaos mingled with sex, and it was exactly where I belonged.

And I looked like sin wrapped in denim. Tight jeans clinging to me like a second skin, black boots polished to a wicked shine, and the gauzy black shirt that was almost see-through. Every line of my chest, my abs, even the cut of my shoulders showed through like I was on display.

Felix would’ve hidden under a cardigan, while I strutted boldly into the fire.

Behind me, Joan and Lorna trailed like mismatched accessories.

Joan couldn’t stop staring at me. I’d seen the way her pupils dilated when I pulled her out of the Nordstrom earlier, when I traded her conservative silk dresses for a tight little mini-skirt that showed off legs she’d probably forgotten she had.

Tonight she was working overtime to be the center of my attention, even cancelling her dinner plans just to come here.

But she looked more like a lost little lamb following a wolf.

Lorna? She was a vision of lace—enough to make Stevie Nicks scream and throw a tambourine.

Red hair piled high, bangles clinking every time she moved, and a smile like she already knew the punchline to the joke.

She was my wing-woman, my accomplice, maybe my biggest fan.

And if she got the chance, she’d probably drag me into bed, too.

Too bad, sisters, because tonight it was all about the boys.

The guy at the door with the mustache and hairy chest pinched my ass like he had every right to. “Sweetheart,” he purred, “you get in free.” His eyes flicked to the women. “Hey Lorna, it’s been a while. That’ll be ten bucks apiece, ladies.”

Joan’s face fell, sharp with offense, but her wallet was out before she could think better of it. Lorna just chuckled and handed over a crumpled bill.

Inside, Badlands came alive. The lights were low, splashing color over bare chests, leather straps, glistening muscles.

Men packed the bar, pressed shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor, grinding and sweating, every glance hungry.

I breathed it in — the heat, and the desire.

It was like being touched all over without anyone laying a finger on me.

Felix had sat at home grading papers every night, miserable.

I was being reborn under the strobe lights.

We pushed our way to the bar, the three of us forming a strange parade—sex god, lace witch, jealous devotee.

The bartender turned, and I nearly laughed.

He was barely legal, smooth chest strapped in a leather harness and a leather bikini barely containing him.

He leaned on the bar and gave me a look that was pure lust.

“What can I get you?”

“Vodka Collins.”

He winked, made the cocktail, and slid the glass to me. “On the house.”

Joan ordered wine with a sharp voice, and Lorna asked for a glass of wine too. The kid didn’t even blink. “Twenty bucks.”

Joan bristled. “Why should we pay when—”

The bartender cut her off, smile gone sharp. “Because if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Her mouth dropped open, stunned. Lorna threw her head back and laughed, the sound like a witch’s cackle, and raised her glass in salute to me. I took a long pull of vodka, cool and crisp, and enjoyed watching Joan fume while she forked out the cash.

That’s when a hot Daddy appeared.

An older man in full leather—vest, chaps, silver chain slung across his chest. His beard was salt-and-pepper, cut close, and his eyes were sharp and greedy. He put his hand on the bar right beside me, leaning in close.

“You,” he said, voice rough with age and desire. “You’re the finest man I’ve seen in Badlands. Ever.”

The words rolled over me like silk, and my cock stirred. I tilted my head and let him drink me in, all smug smile and lazy posture. I lived for this, for being the heat behind men’s stares. Lorna winked at me, while Joan looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

And then—another guy.

Younger. Muscular, with a body that could throw me around a room. He didn’t ask permission — he just grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the dance floor. I went without hesitation, leaving my drink on the bar.

The lights cut across us in strobes of red and blue. The music roared, a heavy bass that rattled my ribs. Men pressed close, sweat slick against me, but it was him—this stranger—who spun me around, pulled me in, and crushed his lips into mine.

I kissed him back. Hard. Grinding, hungry, needing. My hips rolled against his, my jeans straining over my hard cock. He tasted of whiskey and smoke, and the world blurred until it was only us.

Then, I saw motion at the edge of my vision. Joan was pushing her way onto the floor, with Lorna tugging at her arm like she was trying to reel in a bad idea. Joan’s face was twisted, sharp with desperation, and fury.

She tried to wedge herself between us. But the man only tightened his grip, pulling me flush to him, sealing his mouth against mine again. I moaned against him, eating up the attention, and his hunger. Joan’s fury only sweetened it.

When he pulled back, he shouted over the music, words almost lost in the noise. “Have you ever danced before?”

I laughed, breathless, and cocky. “What the hell do you think we’re doing now?”

His grin was wicked. “No, I mean on stage. Have you ever danced on stage?”

The image slammed into me like a lightning strike. Me on a platform, lights blazing, men screaming, throwing money at me and begging for more. All of them worshipping me, showering me with the attention Felix never even dreamed of.

“No,” I said, grin wide. “But I sure as hell want to.”

He leaned in closer, his mouth hot against my ear. “I run the revue upstairs. Tonight’s amateur night. You’d kill it. If you can really move, I’ll hire you. Professionally.”

I nearly laughed with the sheer thrill of the idea. Poor Felix had been a ghost, invisible, and forgotten.

I was about to become a god.

“Let’s go,” I told him. He grabbed my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. The music throbbed as he dragged me toward the stairs at the back of the club. I didn’t even look back, though I could hear Joan’s heels clicking furiously behind us, and Lorna’s laughter.

The stairs were narrow, the metal vibrating with the heavy beats of the bass. I could already hear the muffled thump of music from above, different from the floor below—higher, sharper, a beat that begged for bodies on a stage.

When we reached the top, the hallway opened wide, neon spilling from the doorways. Posters lined the walls—men in harnesses, in leather pants, and some in nothing but a smile. The smell of sweat and cologne thickened.

“This is it,” the man said, pushing open a door.

Inside—chaos. A big open space with a stage at the far end, lights blazing down, and a metal pole glinting in the center of it all. Men filled the tables, bills clutched in their fists, catcalls echoing off the walls. The air shimmered with lust.

I stopped for a second, drinking it all in. My body buzzed, alive with adrenaline and hunger. This was everything I had ever wanted, everything I deserved.

Jax, center stage, adored, and unstoppable.

* * *

Backstage smelled of sweat, cologne, and cheap beer. Every surface glowed under the glare of the stage lights bleeding through the curtains, and the music from the dance floor below rattled through the walls.

Randy—the hot slab of muscle who’d pulled me upstairs—was pacing the lineup like a drill sergeant.

“You go third, Tim, and you’re after him.

Mitch—don’t trip on the pole this time, for fuck’s sake.

And you,”—his gaze locked on me, hungry and certain—“you’re last. The finale spot. I’m saving the best for last.”

My lips curled into a smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ll make them forget every single one of these clowns.”

The guys around me bristled, but I didn’t care. Let them glare and whisper. They’d see soon enough.

Most of them were already stripped down—cheap cotton boxer briefs, a few in shiny trunks that looked like they’d been stolen from a bargain bin.

One guy had stars painted across his chest in glitter, and another had on underwear that looked like he’d shoplifted from a thrift store.

A sad parade of amateurs hoping a crowd of drunk men would throw them a few bills.

I was about to burn them all alive.

I stripped without shame, peeling off the gauzy shirt, baring my chest, my abs, and the lines of my hips.

Jeans came next, sliding down my legs, leaving only the thong I’d bought earlier—glittery, crimson, and scandalous.

It clung to me indecently, and my cock already looked like it was ready to fight its way out.

The room went silent.

One of the guys—skinny, all sharp bones and bad tattoos—whistled low. “Jesus Christ. That thing’s too big for that little scrap of fabric.”

“Yeah,” another muttered, eyes wide, “your dick’s gonna break the damn thong.”

Their stares crawled all over me, devouring, jealous, and hungry. I lifted my chin and grinned. This was what I was made for—the spotlight, the stares, the way men stopped breathing when they looked at me.

Randy laughed and pinched my nipple. “Knew I picked right. Those fuckers won’t know what hit ‘em. Oh, you need a little of this.” He grabbed a handful of glitter out of a jar and tossed it on me.

The music shifted out front, muffled cheers rising as another contestant stumbled onto the stage.

Through the curtain, I caught a glimpse: a wiry guy in fluorescent briefs gyrating against the pole like he’d never touched another human body in his life.

The crowd clapped politely, but the noise was thin.

Pathetic.

Another one went after him, dancing like he thought flexing his abs counted as choreography. The bills trickled, but the audience’s attention was already fading.

I prowled at the edge of the curtain, peeking out. The crowd was thick, men three deep around the stage, dollar bills held high, voices shouting over the music. The lights bathed everything in fiery red and gold.

And there they were.

Joan and Lorna.

Lorna was having the time of her life. She sat right at the stage, bills fanned in her hand like she was the queen of the strip club. She whooped and hollered every time a dancer flexed near her, stuffing bills down waistbands with a wicked grin.

Joan, though—Joan looked like she’d swallowed glass. Chin tilted, arms crossed tight, like she was above the whole thing. But her eyes kept darting toward the stage, her jaw tight with something that wasn’t just disapproval. Jealousy, maybe. Or a hunger she’d never admit.

I almost laughed. Poor Joan, caught in my orbit, and pretending she wasn’t burning alive.

Then, I saw him.

My gaze snagged on someone different, someone who didn’t belong in this sea of sweaty bodies and flashing lights.

A man in the crowd, set back a little from the stage.

Broad shoulders filling out a button-down shirt, muscles straining the fabric, blond hair catching the lights.

His jaw was square, clean-shaven. And his eyes—Christ, those eyes.

Blue so clear I could see them from behind the curtain.

They cut through the noise, the lights, and straight into me.

My cock stirred with need.

He wasn’t hooting or waving bills like the rest. He just sat there, arms folded, gaze fixed on the stage, like he didn’t want to be here but couldn’t look away. The man obviously didn’t belong here, and yet he was the only one who mattered.

Then Joan moved.

She darted straight to him, her mouth already moving too fast. I couldn’t hear her words over the music, but I saw her body language—leaning in, possessive, and desperate.

And his face fell.

Disappointment. Clear, sharp, like she’d ruined something just by touching him.

The recognition slammed into me like a freight train.

Thorne Carr. The philosophy professor.

The man who’d haunted Felix’s thoughts in the dark, who’d been off-limits, and untouchable. The one he’d never dared approach.

And now he was here, in this place, watching men dance.

My pulse roared in my ears. Heat surged through me, not just lust but hunger, a need so sharp it was almost painful. The thong dug into my hips, my cock straining, my body buzzing with desire.

This was destiny.

I was going to claim Thorne Carr.