Dance for Me

Chapter Four

The second my last class lets out I'm running for my car. Although the sun is still high and it's barely dinnertime, business at Mirage will be going strong as ever. There's always a steady flow of patrons when booze and naked bodies are on the menu.

Opening the trunk of my sun-bleached Toyota Camry, I toss the tote full of books and tonight's homework inside and exchange it for the black mesh bag that holds tonight's costume. A secret smile tugs at my lips as I picture it. For a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder if my mystery man—erm, Professor Scott—will show. If he does, I wonder what he'll think of the black, men's dress shirt and emerald green tie and thong I'll be sporting. I wonder if he'll know that I'm wearing it for him.

As I maneuver through the parking lot, I catch sight of a familiar figure. He's standing in front of his own car, a shiny silver BMW, staring into the open hood with a look of consternation. He's stressed—I can see it in the firm set of his shoulders, and when he ruffles his dark hair and the frown grows deeper, I decide to pull over.

"Do you need some help?" I ask.

Professor Scott turns the full weight of those onyx eyes on me, and I shiver at the same time I flinch. He's not just stressed, he's pissed. In his hand, he grips his cell phone, and he lifts it, using it to point at the car. "The piece of shit won't start. It just keeps clicking," he growls.

When he recognizes me, his eyes narrow, and I hope it's just the glare of the sun that incites that reaction. Although, I know better.

"That's the first time I've ever heard of anyone refer to a BMW as a piece of shit," I quip, choosing to ignore his attitude. "Have you called anyone to come out and take a look at it?" The question is rhetorical. Obviously, if he's holding a phone, he would have already called someone.

"Of course," he snaps, giving me a look that says just how dumb he thinks the question is. "I pay almost two hundred a year and they tell me I have to wait an hour and forty-five minutes for the truck to arrive." He curses and the colorful language makes him somehow less a professor and more a person. More the man I am accustomed to.

This aggressive side reminds me of our last night together. Of the hard door abrading my back and the bruises he left behind on my thighs from where his fingers dug into my flesh—I feel a needy ache blooming between my thighs at the memory.

Staring at the open hood for a minute, I weigh all the options. If I stick around, I'll be late for work. If I go, I'm pretty sure that makes me a dick. Even though he ticked me off earlier when he kicked me out of his room and attempted to humiliate me in front of the entire class, I don't really get the impression he intends to be such a jackass. In fact, I think intense is just part of who he is. But he seems really freaking vulnerable right now. Maybe if I pull the Good Samaritan card, he'll let me lay low for the rest of the year.

With that little spark of hope simmering inside my head, I put the car in park and open the door. Professor Scott eyes me as I step out of the car as if it's the first time he's ever looked at me. That's absurd, since he's been watching me strip bare on a stage for months, and stripping me bare in private for nearly as long.

His is a slow perusal that starts at my face and works its way down to my feet and back up again. When he lingers on my chest longer than necessary, I glimpse that telltale spark that lets me know he likes what he sees.

I can't really fault him for it. I witness that same look in the men at the club every day. It's classic visceral attraction. The man likes what he sees, but he doesn't really know me, so that's where it ends.

Unless one of us decides otherwise.

Perhaps this newness is due to the change of scenery. Outside the walls of the club and the hotel, I'm a real person. Not some fantasy that he can fuck and set aside for later, like some kind of porcelain doll.