“The antithesis of the unregulated market is what other model?” she asks.
“The monopoly model?” I say, trying to sound casual.
Adair pauses a moment, clearly enjoying herself. She begins to re-remove her jacket, but pauses at the last second. “Is that your final answer?”
“Yes.” I am absolutely sure I’m right. I lick my lower lip.
“Good boy.” The jacket comes off quickly this time, pulling against the satin fabric of her top and revealing part of her breast.
I can actually feel the amount of blood reaching my brain decrease. I uncross my legs in order to make more room in my jeans. Adair notices the growing bulge and gives her glossy bottom lip a coquettish nip.
“I took psych my last year of prep. I got an A,” she brags.
“This is what they teach in psych?”
“Not exactly. But we did cover techniques for the reinforcement of desirable behaviors. This is just a practical application.”
“And all of the blood leaving my brain for other places?”
“A regrettable side effect, unfortunately. Let’s continue.” She flips over a page of notes and now the impish side is back. “Oh! A tough one. The Nash Equilibrium is considered the ideal solution to what thought problem?”
“The prisoner’s dilemma!” I say, embarrassed by my own enthusiasm.
Adair places the notes on the edge of the bed, crosses her left arm over her right, and slowly pulls up the hem of her top.
I lean forward, slack-jawed, as Adair pretends to struggle with getting it to slide up and over her breasts. Her timing is impeccable.
At last, she puts me out of my misery, her top popping off suddenly and sending her breasts colliding into each other. I scoot forward on the bed, manually readjusting my jeans yet again. I really think it would be better to just to get the fooling around out of the way.
It takes me a moment to realize Adair said something.
“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.
“It’ll definitely be on the test,” I argue.
“Eyes. Closed.”
I oblige with a grin.
I hear the squeak of the plastic office chair, the even, smooth sound of her other leg coming out, followed by total silence. I’m on the verge of insanity when I feel two palms on my shoulders. I inhale deeply, taking in her scent. Then I’m shoved onto my back as she straddles me.
I feel like an attack dog let off its leash. My eyes snap open.
