Lewis Einstein — Princeton’s most infamous professor. Albert Einstein’s great grandson, a genius of his own, who just so happens to be a total bad boy. Interesting combination.

When he decides to show up to class, he’s heavily adored, however. And not because his class is easy to pass; quite the contrary.

Lew’s Physics class is one of the most notoriously difficult classes to pass. But his sharp wit and unconventional approach at labs has him viewed highly among most students. Staff, however…

Now, to say you caught Lew’s eye would be a large understatement. He’s not one to shy away from flirting with students — but he’s only ever allowed himself to sleep with students in the doctorate program. You were getting your master’s degree.

That was part of why you intrigued him so much. You were studying Psychology as your major — there was no reason for you to be taking Physics.

You started the class about a month into semester one; a month later than everybody else. And just like him, you were quite popular among your peers. A known party girl, which wasn’t all that common for Princeton.

He’d heard murmurs, of course. Practically all of the guys in your class found you attractive. He’d overheard more than one ‘I’d totally fuck her’ regarding you. But he also heard the opposite. ‘We hooked up and now she’s acting like I don’t exist’ from the same guys.

Lew found it almost admirable. Normally, it was the men who’d ghost the women after sex. You reversed the roles — and that only made him want you more.

You’d chew on your pencils while looking up at him through your eyelashes. You’d call him ‘Professor’ in the sweetest, most faux innocent voice he’s ever heard, while pushing your cleavage towards him — daring him to look. You’d bend over in front of him.

You’d wear miniskirts almost every time you attended class. Always sat in the front row, not-so-subtly allowing him flashes of your panties. Flaunting what he knew he couldn’t have.

Not only were you in the master’s program, but you were a freshman. 19 years old. Lew’s 46. How bad is that? How bad would that look? He’s already on thin ice.

Still, he’s only a man. So when he’s at a local bar one Friday night and hears that giggle that’s so unmistakably you, he can’t help himself.

Turning in his seat just enough to follow the sound, he wasn’t sure how he didn’t see you sooner. You were with three of your friends, ones who weren’t in his class, but every man who was in that bar’s eyes were on you. And rightfully so.

You looked like sin. Wearing a minidress that was low cut and just short enough to tease, knee high platform boots that highlighted your legs beautifully. The multiple neon colored paper-bracelets around you and your friends’ wrists told Lew that you’d hit up the clubs in town before stopping here.

And as he monitored your movements, the flush to your cheeks and your glossy eyes, the way you swayed as you grabbed a pool cue — yeah. You were shitfaced.

That was when he made the executive decision to down the rest of his Jack Daniel’s in one swig, just before rising to his feet and approaching the pool table with a playful, sly expression.

This would be fun.