“As if nothing happened?” My lip curls at the idea. It’s what I wanted, but hearing those words come from his mouth somehow makes them more real. His willingness to walk away from me makes my stomach lurch.

Those midnight orbs lift, and I swear I see the same pain and confliction in them that I feel inside of me. Could it be that he doesn’t want this any more than I do? That he, too, longs for our time together. “Nothing happened, and that’s the way it needs to stay.”

I hear the growl in his voice and even though I know it’s wrong, my body responds. I feel the flames of desire licking between my legs, making my nipples grow tight. Does he have any idea what he does to me?

I’m not sure how to take his words. Is he just saying that because it’s the right thing, the only way to cover his ass, or is it because he really believes that what we have shared together amounts to nothing?

Both possibilities are difficult to face, because there can be no good outcome either way, but I still want it, even if he doesn’t. “So where does this leave us?” I ask, using my books as a shield against my feelings for him. Ransom is the only man who has ever affected me this way—he can strip me bare with a single look. He can reduce me from a strong, intelligent, educated woman into a puddle of wanton desire with the stroke of a finger.

Pushing his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand before me, I realize, with a mix of horror and intrigue, that this man is the only one that has ever held the power to hurt me.

He holds my gaze as he stares down at me, and I see the muscle in his jaw tick in time with my heartbeat. We’re connected in a way that neither of us fully realizes, and I feel the draw to him growing stronger. “This leaves us right where we stand, with me as your professor and you as my student.”

The deep rasp of his voice triggers something deep inside of me, and I feel myself lean closer. The allure of those full lips is nearly impossible to deny. You can tell so much from a simple kiss. I want his on me—on the most intimate parts of my body—and I want him to know that.

His gaze drops to my mouth, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I need to kiss him. If this is it between us, then I need this last connection, this final goodbye.

“Miss Hart.” My name is a low warning as it whispers past his lips, but I ignore it.

“Please, call me Josephine,” I whisper just before my mouth closes over his. I don’t know who moans first. If Ransom meant for us to go our separate ways, then I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, because the way he is kissing me back definitely isn’t a goodbye.

His mouth is hesitant at first, as if he is unsure what to do. I understand his confliction. This is the worst case scenario, a student falling for her professor. Movies have been made about this sort of thing, but neither of us heeds the warning.

It doesn’t take long for him to throw himself into the deep end, though, and then we’re both drowning, surrendering to the torrent of emotion rushing between us. I’ve never felt a man surrender, much less this man, who is normally so aggressive, but he is definitely giving in to me now.

I am still clutching my books to my breasts, which have grown swollen and heavy, and his hands are still shoved deeply into his pockets. The only part of us that is touching is our mouths, but Ransom’s wet tongue probing the inside of my mouth is like a full body caress. It takes me back to our hotel room, and I start imagining what it would be like to have him bend me over his desk, pull down my pants, and take me right now.

That fantasy is shattered when I hear voices approaching. I break the kiss first. Ransom stares at me with some emotion I can’t name. His breathing is labored, his lids heavy, eyes dilated, and the bulge in his pants is unmistakable. He looks like how I feel—hot, raw, and aching, the need to touch and be touched almost too powerful to ignore.

But I can ignore it, because we’re no longer alone, and I won’t risk him losing his job. I would never do anything to hurt him, just as I instinctively know he would never do anything to hurt me. For as complicated as our relationship may be, we have a mutual respect for each other that runs deep. We give each other pleasure, and in return, we respect and protect each other’s privacy.

“You should go,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp so thick, he has to clear his throat.

I love that I can affect him this way. It gives me a rare sense of power that I typically only experience on-stage. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Scott.” I back away, smiling. The last image I have of him is his dark scowl, but it doesn’t concern me, because as much as Professor Ransom Scott might say we’re done, I know the truth.

We’re just getting started.

***

Work Wednesday night is a bitch. The first thing I hear upon entering Mirage is, “Tamera called in sick. You’re headlining tonight.”

My head whips up in shock, seeing Kota standing there in his open leather vest, showing off a toned physique and a dusting of dark, curly hair. His expression is grim but expectant.

“Headlining?” Thrown by his announcement, my hands pause in the task of latching my bra. That spot is reserved for the most popular dancer. It took Tamera years to work up to that position. “Why not one of the other girls? Someone who’s been here longer?”

“Because no one holds a candle to you, Pussycat,” he says with a smirk. “You’re on in ten.”

I’m left standing alone in the middle of the dressing room in nothing but a bra and thong, my mouth gaping open. As the seconds tick by, a slow smile creeps into place. Headlining is the highest form of praise here. I could make rent with the tips from one dance alone. It is in that moment I like to think my parents are looking down at me from above, giving me that little boost I so desperately needed.

With tears in my eyes, I whisper, “Thank you,” then I suit up for the hottest performance of my life.

NINE

I take a double shot of whiskey as I stand offstage waiting to be announced. As happy as I am to have this opportunity fall into my lap, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a nervous wreck. In the span of ten minutes, I have considered twenty different ways to back out. I can’t shake the thought that this isn’t my show. I’m not supposed to be up there. I haven’t earned this.

To be honest, despite the financial benefits, I’m not sure I want this.

Being a headliner means standing under a different kind of spotlight. Even though most of these men are regulars, I don’t know how keen I am with the idea of being their central focus. And I will be if I go through with this.

This was never Plan A or B. Stripping was a mean to an end. Going up on that stage tonight could change everything, but I’d be stupid to pass this up. I just want to make my money and leave. That’s been my goal since day one, and it’s my goal tonight.

As Felicia’s song ends and she steps offstage, I pull at the hem of my shirt and straighten the tie hanging between my breasts. Tonight, I’m going farther than I ever have before. The idea that Ransom could be out there watching makes every cell in my body ignite. But it’s only Wednesday.

My feet teeter in my heels as I step up the single stair onto the stage and stand just beyond the curtains, out of sight.

The room is plunged into darkness, as per my usual request. It gives me the time I need to walk onto the stage unnoticed, and take my place. Stretching my arm up, I let my head fall back and close my eyes.

Blue lights begin to spin around the room, fog crawls across the stage, and I hear Kota’s growl over the sound system as he announces me. There are no cheers, no clapping hands, just the music as it filters down from the ceiling and expands throughout the building. Then the spotlight hits me, and I begin to move.