Page 15 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Thirteen

Thorne

I didn’t belong here.

That was the thought that kept circling as I sat at a tiny table next to the stage in Badlands, surrounded by pulsing lights, half-naked men, and the roar of music that was more vibration than sound.

Men were everywhere—lean, muscled, sweaty under the colored strobes. Some wore harnesses, some wore leather chaps, some wore nothing but underwear. They laughed too loudly, leaned into each other too close. I was supposed to find this exciting. Liberating. Something.

Instead, I was bored.

I tugged at the collar of my button-down shirt, wishing I’d worn something that didn’t make me look like I’d gotten lost on my way to the golf course. The drink Sean had shoved into my hand had long since gone watery, and even the bourbon hadn’t dulled the awkwardness settling into my bones.

Sean, of course, was in his element. He leaned against the bar a few feet away, already chatting up two shirtless men with smiles that promised they wouldn’t be going home alone. Every time I caught his eye, he gave me the same look: loosen up. Live a little.

But Badlands wasn’t my scene. It was too loud, too bright, too raw. I wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and I’d never been the kind of man who shouted across a bar to make a connection. Even after four years of being single, the thought of a one-night stand left me cold.

And yet—I was here.

When Sean had called and insisted I join him, I hadn’t had an excuse.

Plus, there was always hope that maybe I’d meet someone new, though that never, ever happened.

Joan had cancelled our dinner. Claimed she wasn’t feeling well.

Her message had popped up on my phone, and I’d felt a sharp, guilty relief.

No boring dinner at Stella’s. No pretending through another stiff, exhausting meal. I was free.

Free and bored.

I took another sip of the drink and scanned the crowd, wondering how long I needed to stay before I could slip out without being rude.

That was when I saw her.

At first I thought I was imagining things, because it made no sense. Joan Stanwyk didn’t belong here. She was fine dining and opera tickets, silk scarves and disdain for anything less than “cultured.” Joan didn’t do dive bars, and she sure as hell didn’t do gay bars.

But there she was.

And she looked…different. Her hair was styled the same, her makeup sharp, but she was wearing a black mini-skirt and a top that looked like it belonged to someone half her age. For a second, my brain short-circuited. Joan, in a skirt that short? When had that ever happened?

She saw me at the same time I saw her. Her eyes widened, and then she came striding across the room, weaving between tables and men with the same imperious air she used to command her students and faculty.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” She demanded as soon as she was within earshot.

I blinked at her, stunned not only by the sight of her outfit but by the sheer hypocrisy of the question. “I could ask you the same.”

Her nose wrinkled as if the whole place offended her. “This is a gay bar.”

“Yes, Joan.” My voice was sharper than I had intended, but I didn’t care. “It is. Which is exactly why I’m here.”

She looked at me as if I’d slapped her. “You don’t belong in a place like this.”

My jaw clenched. Years of her needling, her subtle digs, her endless attempts to reshape me into someone else—all of it boiled up at once.

“You cancelled on me tonight,” I said. My voice was calm, but every word landed like a blow.

“Remember? Dinner at Stella’s? You said you weren’t feeling well.

And now here you are, dressed like—” I broke off before I said something cruel, but the words still burned on my tongue.

“So tell me, Joan, what the hell are you doing here?”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

That was it. Something inside me snapped.

“No,” I said, leaning forward, heat rushing into my face. “You don’t. But I’m done explaining myself to you. I’m gay, Joan. I’ve always been gay. And I am not sitting through another minute of your disapproval, your manipulation, or your endless little crusade to make me into something I’m not.”

Her mouth opened, but I cut her off, the anger that had been simmering for years finally spilling over.

“You want to know what I’m doing here? I’m existing. I’m trying to find a piece of myself you’ve spent years trying to stamp out. So why don’t you take your judgment, and your lies, and your delusions, and fuck the hell off.”

Her face went white, then red, then tightened with fury.

“You ungrateful—” she hissed, but the rest was lost as the lights dimmed, the music cut, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

A spotlight snapped onto the stage.

A broad, muscular man stepped into the glow, shirtless, skin gleaming under the lights. His voice boomed over the microphone, confident and commanding. “Gentlemen, are you ready?”

The crowd roared.

“Then give it up,” he continued, his grin wicked, “for the hottest man ever to set foot on this stage. The one, the only—JAX!”

The lights cut out, and the crowd screamed.

Then the spotlight snapped on, and a man strutted into the beam of light like he owned it — sleek, sexy, and wearing a glittery red thong that looked illegal in several states.

The thing didn’t so much conceal him as glorify him, a shimmering scrap of fabric that caught the light every time he moved.

It clung to his package in a way that defied gravity, his thighs gleaming with a fine sheen of oil, his every muscle alive under the lights.

The audience went bonkers.

Money flew. Men howled. Someone beside me actually clutched his chest like he’d seen God.

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.

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.

The crowd erupted — laughter, applause, shouts — but I didn’t hear any of it. His lips were hot, insistent, and when his tongue brushed against mine, the rest of the world fell away. It wasn’t a kiss; it was combustion. Every ounce of self-control I’d ever had went up in smoke.

When he finally broke the kiss, I was breathless, dazed, undone.

He stayed close enough for his words to curl around me like smoke. “Recognize me, Professor Carr?”

I frowned, still trying to catch up. His face. That smile. The way his eyes gleamed like he was always one thought ahead.

And then my brain caught up with my body.

“Dr. Sterling?” I gasped.