Page 52 of Backlash

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” I say in response.

“I’m afraid that answer won’t work on your professor.” Adair grabs her top as if to put it back on.

“Double or nothing?”

Something about the smile she gives reminds me of a large cat playing with its dinner. “Very well.”

I get the next question right, and Adair throws the top behind her without looking. By luck it catches the lever door knob and hangs there, which reminds me of something. I hop off the bed, and Adair, who evidently thinks I am moving in to jump her, rolls her chair away from me. I stoop to retrieve one of her socks. I pop my head out the door, careful to block the view inside, and stuff the sock on the outside door knob. This way, if Cyrus comes back unexpectedly, he will know to fuck off for a bit.

We return to our earlier arrangement, and Adair begins asking harder questions. Suddenly I know things I’m not sure how I know. I’m unclear on the rules of this little game, and my responses are an equal mix of right and wrong. Eventually, after a correct answer, and in my best earnest student voice I ask, “Do I get any say in what you take off?”

“Hmm.” She taps her finger pensively on her chin. “I’ll allow it.”

“Let’s see how hard those pants are to remove. Call it scholarly interest.”

She meets my gaze evenly. “They are so hard to remove it will take three questions, I think. Otherwise, the reward system might get out of whack. So one down.”

“And the bra?”

“Two. One for each little clasp.”

“You’re killing me,” I grouse. “Let’s start with pants.”

“Aren’t we ambitious?” She grins. “It looks like the next few notes are pretty complex.”

“Ask me.”

She rises slowly from her chair, slides a thumb under the waist of her pants and begins to fumble with the button. With her other arm, she holds the notebook and looks for another question. When the button finally gives way, I have to stifle a low moan. A tiny red flower is embroidered on the top of her panties, the only thing visible past the slit of black leather.

She asks a question about game theory as it relates to microeconomics, and I surprise even myself with the correct answer. She pauses a moment, and it occurs to me for the first time that this might be getting uncomfortable for her.

“You don’t have to if—”

“Hush. Close your eyes.”

“I thought the point was that I got to watch.”

“There’s nothing graceful about this, I promise,” she says. “Now, close your eyes.”

“Right.” I acknowledge. “How do I do that? I can’t seem to remember.”

She laughs softly, leans forward, and brushes her hand softly down my face. I close my eyes, which immediately heightens my other senses. Her perfume wafts across me, a faint floral aroma that gives me dark thoughts. I hear her zipper take five long seconds to come undone, hear the faint whish of fabric sliding over fabric. A floorboard creaks. I hear her settling into the chair.

“Open your eyes.”

I do, and well before she finishes her first word.

There’s teasing, and then there’s torture. This is the latter. She sits sidelong in the chair, one leather-clad leg arranged nearest me. One glorious naked leg is folded up in front of her, and her arms reach around either side of it to hold the notebook.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this,” I say with perfect honesty.

“Nearly there. Focus. Utility is used to measure a consumer’s optimal rate of what?”

“Consumption. Easy.” I try not to sound smug.

“Maybe it shouldn’t count, then?”

Fuck. No. No. No.