I used to think that B-school would dull the parts of me that liked chaos -- that it would iron out the curves, straighten the lines, make me more... sensible. But here I am, six months into my first year, still chasing the things I shouldn't want.
My name's Sarah Winslow -- 23, freshly plucked from undergrad where I double-majored in psych and international relations, which basically means I'm good at reading people and pretending to know how the world works. I'm blonde -- real blonde, not bottle blonde -- and tall enough in heels to be noticed, but not too tall to intimidate. Five-seven barefoot. I stay fit without obsessing, and I know the power of a well-cut dress and a second glance.
I've had this quiet obsession since undergrad -- not the kind that keeps you up at night, but the kind that lingers in the corners of your mind like a half-remembered lyric. His name is Henry Brown. Dr. Henry Brown, technically. He guest lectured at one of our econ seminars my junior year, and I swear I didn't hear a word he said because I was too busy watching the way his forearms flexed when he talked with his hands. The man is magnetic -- tall, chiseled, skin like dark caramel and eyes that look like they've seen too much and still want more. 37, maybe 38 now. He's been in and out of academia, mostly consulting, advising, and probably making millions without ever needing to flex about it.
The thing is, he's always been unattainable. Married. Distant. Always surrounded by serious people saying serious things. But something changed. I saw it in the way he lingered near the bar at the Pritchard-Snow wedding -- not quite alone, but definitely not with someone. And when he brushed past me, I noticed the absence of something I'd always thought was permanent: his wedding band. It was gone, leaving behind just a tan line and maybe... something else. An opening.
He was halfway through a pour of what looked like Macallan when I slipped up beside him, heels soft against the marble.
"Professor Brown," I said smoothly -- cool, confident, just a hint of tease.
He turned, brows lifting in polite confusion, his eyes landing on mine first. There was a flicker of recognition, then a pause -- the kind that happened when someone was trying to place a name to a changed face. Or maybe it was the rest of me he was noticing.
"Should I know you?" he asked, voice low, professional -- but not cold.
"Maybe not like this," I said, letting my smile curl a little as I shifted my weight to one hip, angling my body just slightly toward him. I glanced down, drawing his attention with me.
The dress was satin, emerald green, the kind that demanded attention without asking for it. The neckline dipped in a deep, elegant plunge that framed the soft swell of my breasts -- 33C, nothing excessive, but enough to command glances when I moved. I knew eyes had followed me tonight, and not subtly. Strangers pretending not to stare. Men with wives casting quiet looks while trying to make it seem like nothing. But this wasn't for them.
It was for him.
The fabric hugged my waist, flaring just enough at my hips to create shape without exaggeration. The thigh slit was bold -- high, unapologetic -- and with the subtle shift of my stance, I let it fall open just enough to expose a stretch of smooth leg, toned and bare beneath the lights. Nothing overdone. Just a taste. A suggestion. Enough to interrupt his train of thought.
"I wasn't exactly wearing this in undergrad econ seminars," I added, raising my glass for a slow sip.
That did it. His gaze faltered, just for a second. Traveled down. Snapped back up.
"Wait..." he murmured, squinting slightly now with more interest.
"Sarah Winslow," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. "Class of two years ago. I asked about Latin America and Keynesian spillovers. You corrected me. Brutally."
His mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Right. That was you." He nodded. "Smart. A little bold."
"A little?" I teased. "I remember your exact words. 'That's idealism, not economics.' I stewed about it for a week."
"You're still stewing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, amused now.
"I got over it," I said with a shrug, "somewhere around the second glass of champagne."
He laughed, a deep sound that softened him, made him feel momentarily less like the professor and more like the man. His shoulders relaxed, and for the first time, he looked -- really looked -- at me. Not just my dress. Not just my body. Me.
But then his eyes flicked downward again -- not subtle this time -- toward my hand near my hip, then back up, and I caught him registering it.
I followed his glance -- and that's when I noticed the empty space where his wedding ring used to be. A faint tan line lingered like a ghost, like a mark that hadn't quite decided to fade. I didn't comment. But I let the pause speak for me.
He caught it. He rubbed his ring finger absently with his thumb.
"Noticed, huh?"
"Just observant," I replied, lightly.
"Separated," he said, almost to himself. "Not finalized."
I let that settle, just long enough to feel the quiet shift between us -- something opening. A door. A possibility.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
He nodded once. "Don't be. It was overdue."
And just like that, the space between us felt less formal. Less off-limits. I could see it in the way he looked at me now -- less guarded, more curious. Still trying to figure out whether he should want what he already did.
"So," I said, tilting my head, "do Econ professors dance, or just lecture and brood near the bar?"
He cracked a slow smile. "Depends on the partner."
The music shifted -- slow, sultry, with a bassline that moved like syrup. I reached for his hand before he could overthink it, lacing my fingers through his. The hesitation in his grip was almost charming. Like he knew this was already trouble, but couldn't quite bring himself to let go.
We stepped into the dim glow of the dance floor, the crowd thinning to couples pressed just a little too close. I guided us into the rhythm, my heels clicking softly, my hips swaying with unspoken intention.
He held himself stiff at first, hand resting a bit too politely at the edge of my waist, but I wasn't letting him off that easily. I stepped in -- deliberately -- my chest brushing lightly against him as I guided his hand higher, then lower, back to the narrow dip of my spine. He didn't resist, but I felt the restraint in his fingers.
"You always dance like you're grading someone?" I asked, voice playful, pitched low enough for only him to hear.
He smirked, but I saw it -- the way his eyes flicked down, just for a second, like he couldn't help himself. So I gave him something to look at.
I turned slowly, pivoting in the circle of his arms -- letting my back press to his chest, letting the fabric of my dress slide smoothly over the shape of my ass as I leaned in, then rolled my hips gently in time with the music. I knew exactly what I was doing. I felt the tension ripple through him like a current, the way his breath caught.
I had an ass that didn't hide in anything -- high, round, the kind of curve that made dresses cling like they were begging not to be taken off. The satin hugged every inch, smoothing over the swell of my hips and tapering back in just above the hemline. When I moved against him, slow and deliberate, I knew he felt every motion.
I looked at him over my shoulder, hair brushing along his jaw. "Still not dancing?" I asked, arching slightly into him.
