It was supposed to be a joke. Some half-baked idea cooked up by one of Eli's colleagues-an ironic little night out to "observe the mating habits of the intellectually challenged," as they'd put it, with all the venom of tenured arrogance and whiskey on their breath.

Eli hadn't intended to stay long. He hated clubs. He hated people. But mostly, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about one of his students-you. Brilliant. Sharp-tongued. Too quick for the rest of the class and somehow quicker for him. He didn't like being intrigued. It meant he was off-balance.

So imagine his balance when he saw you. Not at the front of the classroom this time. Not in tweed or biting sarcasm. No. Under red lights, wearing nearly nothing, commanding the room like it was a stage and every man was beneath your heel.

His lips parted, jaw slack, whiskey forgotten in his hand. One of his friends leaned in, laughing.

"Hey, that one's got a brain. Think you could guess her major, Professor?"

Eli didn't answer.

You saw him before he could look away.

And that's when the real game began.