by Logan Chance
I am still human.
I am still a man.
And she is damn hot.
The keycard clicks in the Ilco lock on the door. Stepping aside, I let her in first.
She rolls her small suitcase to the middle of the tan carpeted room and stops, dropping her handbag in the green armchair by the TV stand. “Cozy,” she says, glancing around the small space. It seems even smaller alone in here with her.
“Yeah, sorry about this.” The air in the room is uncomfortable, and she crosses over to the thermostat and adjusts it. I wish I could ease the tension, well, not really. Coddling her isn’t my priority. Instead, I toss my suitcase on the bed closest to the bathroom. “Guess I’ll take this one.”
With her eyes still not meeting mine, she deposits her suitcase on the other bed, unzipping it. Only a foot apart will separate us when we sleep tonight. Which, let’s face it, I never sleep much anyway.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, grabbing a change of clothes from her suitcase. She does it so swiftly, it’s almost comical. Until I get a glimpse of white lacy panties in her hand. I loosen my tie. Why is it so goddam hot in here? Her face heats when she follows my gaze to the thin scrap of material in her hand. She pulls a toiletry bag from her suitcase and rushes into the bathroom.
Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I need a fucking drink.
“I’m going to the bar downstairs,” I call out to the closed bathroom door. The hiss of the shower sounds. Is she naked?
I need out of here.
Five minutes later, I sip my scotch and stare at the liquor bottles behind the bar.
This situation is fucked up. Never have I had to fight an attraction to a student. She’s showering right now. Fuck. My cock stiffens as thoughts of her soapy figure come to mind. She’s shorter than my six foot frame by at least half a foot, breasts full enough to fill my large hands, and her ass is perfection. What I wouldn’t give to bust in through the bathroom door and take her from behind in the shower.
But, I won’t.
I won’t lose control ever again.
I need control. My life is a fucking mess.
And it’s all my fault.
Shame fills me as I think about everything that’s led me to this point in my life.
A failure.
That’s me.
I once lived and loved Chicago; a shining star, one of the top doctors in my field. I devoted my time to work and loved saving lives.
So, why am I now a professor at NYU? Yeah, good question.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when your life heads down the wrong path. One day you wake up and there you are—in a different state, doing a job you don’t really love.
I hate teaching. And my students hate me. I’m aware of the whispers and rumors about me. Some have called me one of the hardest, most difficult professors on campus. I take pride in that. Life is hard, messy even. They’ll have to learn the hard way.
It makes me sick watching the students, day in and day out, enter my classroom, their hopeful hearts mesmerized by the dream of being a doctor. Once, that was me.
Saving lives was my calling, my one true mission. Now? I’m a miserable has been.
Giving myself a cheers in the mirror behind the bar, I down the rest of my scotch and signal the bartender for another. Laughter catches my attention, and I spot a few of my old colleagues sitting at a table not too far from me.
Shit. I try not to be seen, hoping like hell they don’t notice me. No such luck.
“Dr. Dale, over here,” William calls out across the small room. His bulky frame presses along the buttons of his Oxford shirt as he signals his hand as if I can’t see him.
I lift my glasses and rub my eyes momentarily. Smiling, I grab my drink and head over. No avoiding the unavoidable.
The three men, all bald, all older than me, sit at a glossy wooden table. Empty glassware overloads the table, and I laugh for a second before I take a seat. Elton John belts out a sad song about a candle or something from the sound system, and the ambience in the bar lets me know it’ll soon be closing time. Thank God, this torture should be short-lived.
“Hello, long time,” I greet them. My voice is smooth, solid, not giving a hint of the animosity I feel. A long time has passed since I’ve seen these men. I silently wish it could have been longer. I’d rather be anywhere than here. Where I want to be is in the shower with my assistant.
“Dale, how are you?” Gary, a prominent Doctor at Chicago Hope, asks. Here it comes. “My nose has healed, thanks for asking.” And here comes the rest. “I know you had a rough go, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Spoke to your father, I hear you’re teaching Anatomy over at NYU now?”
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out, eyeing him over the crystal tumbler filled with Scotch. Downing it, I let the burn subside before I finally answer, “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. But, that was a long time ago. And yes, you hear correctly.”
Gary and William exchange an expression of pity, and already I want to bail. There’s nothing worse than pity. The need to escape crawls up my spine and nearly lifts me from the chair. I have to get out of here.
“NYU’s a great school,” Charles adds. “How’re you liking it?”
When I worked at Chicago Hope, Charles was an advisor of mine. He’s a good man, always looking for the positive that doesn’t exist. One of the top neurosurgeons in the world, he can do miracles with the human brain. I’m half-tempted to have him work on mine, so I can stop thinking about a certain naked student I have up in my room.
I choose the lesser of two evils and decide I’d rather fight the temptation of my student than sit here another minute.
Standing, I toss some bills on the table and finally give him the truth before leaving, “I fucking hate it.”
Chapter 3
Marley
Mortify-verb-to humiliate or shame, as by injury to one’s pride.
I showered, trying to wash away the embarrassment of the plane incident. When I finally went back to my seat, I couldn’t even look at him. Luckily, he never mentioned it, because I don’t ever want to mention the details of that episode to anyone, ever.
How foolish. This silly infatuation I have with him needs to stop.
Slipping into a comfy pair of black pajama pants and pink tank top, I climb into my designated bed. Still a little drunk from the flight, I’m out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
A sound awakens me, and I peek out from under my covers to see Houston unbuttoning his shirt. I don’t move, not a single muscle, as he removes the shirt from his broad shoulders.
The pale moonlight enters through a crack in the curtain, outlining a solid six pack and defined pecs. What I wouldn’t give to lick them.
His hands move to the button of his black slacks and my mind freezes. Professor Dale is about to drop his pants. I can’t believe I’m witnessing this. People would probably pay money to see the show I’m watching, and I have front row tickets. For free.
He unzips his pants, and it’s a torturous descent. I wish he’d just rip them off already like strippers do. He needs those pants that fly apart at the seams. I almost giggle at the thought of asking stern Professor Dale if I can put some strip tease music on while he bumps and grinds. And then it happens, the moment I’ve been waiting for since this peep show started—he lowers them and lets them pool at his feet. Wow. His sculptured body is magnificent. I scan my eyes up his long legs, to his black boxer briefs. His oblique muscles point right to his cock, showcasing it. It looks mighty impressive bulging beneath the material of his briefs. His hand runs along his dick as he moves closer to his bed. He tosses back the covers and gets into bed. How anticlimactic. The show is over, and I didn’t even get a lap dance. I drift off and dream about his body making me come over and over until a low groan wakes me again.
My eyes open, and Houston thrashes in his bed, mumbling. I don’t know whether to wake him or leave him to face whatever is in his dream.
Seems mean to leave him in a nightmare.
I toss off the covers and stand over his bed. “Professor Dale?”
Nothing.
“Professor Dale? Houston?”
A sheen of sweat covers his bare chest, and his head shakes in denial on the pillow. “No,” he grumbles.
“Houston?” I step closer to his bed. “Are you ok?” The bed dips slightly as I climb in next to him. Sitting up on my knees, I shove his shoulder. “Houston,” I say a little louder.
He bolts upright, his eyes springing open. “What?” It takes a moment for him to focus on me. “What are you doing in my bed, Marley?”
“You were having a bad dream.”
His nightmare must’ve been epic by the way his chest rises and falls. But, it’s his eyes that do something to my gut. They’re wild, fearful, blazing with intensity. I want to hold him, comfort him.
He scrubs a hand across his sweat soaked forehead. “Get out of my bed, now.”
His demeanor is cold, haunted, and I wonder what he was dreaming about. A chill skates up my spine as I leave his bed. “I’m sorry. I was just worried about you,” I say in a soft voice.
“I’m fine. It’s fine,” he says, turning on his side to face away from me. “Now get back to bed, or we’ll be late in the morning.”
And, the next morning we are.
We rush around, and the entire time Houston degrades me, saying it’s my fault for our tardiness.
His harsh attitude never wavers during the convention and doesn’t let up during the flight home. But, at least it ensures there is no repeat of the incident we shall never speak of again. After we retrieve our luggage from baggage claim, he stalks away, and I don’t see him again until Monday, when I wake up…late again.
Shit. How is this happening? I’m never late. In record time, I get ready, grab a protein bar from the pantry and race out the door. As soon as I exit my building the bright sunlight hits me, and I drop my sunglasses down from my head to shield my tired eyes. Swiftly, I walk toward the subway and smack right into someone. “Holy shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I apologize, rubbing my hand down the firm chest I just walked into.
“Miss Murphy, you should pay closer attention to where you’re going.” I look up into the dark eyes of Professor Dale.
I yank my hand away from his chest, completely mortified. My face burns with embarrassment. “Professor Dale, I’m so sorry.” He stands immobile, staring down at me. “The sun was in my eyes, and I was trying to get my sunglasses on, so I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking,” I ramble.
His eyes sweep over my face. “You should be getting more sleep, Miss Murphy. That way you won’t always be rushing around late. Tardiness is unacceptable.” He looks down at his watch, then back at me. “You have twenty minutes until class begins. If that’s not enough time, then maybe you need to rethink being a doctor.” He adjusts his navy tie. “A dying patient won’t appreciate your lack of time management.”
With that verbal slap, he turns and walks briskly away. His long strides have purpose—belittle everyone in his wake. Get out of his way or be bulldozed into a pile of rubble at his designer shoe clad feet. Do I take his message and get to class? No. Instead, I stand frozen, biting my lip, checking out how great his ass looks in his navy pants. He stops and hails a cab, and as soon as he climbs in, I snap out of my sexual thoughts and rush to the curb to do the same. Normally I take the subway, but today I want easy. And maybe just a little bit to prove that I wouldn’t let a dying patient down. I’ll be early.
Screw you, Professor Dale.
The cabbie drives like he’s on a mission to win the world’s slowest driver award. Just my luck, I hailed the one cab in New York whose goal isn’t to scare the shit out of their passenger. Every light we catch. I bite my nails as I watch the cars whizz past us.
“Could you maybe hurry? I’m late,” I say to the man behind the wheel.
He smiles but doesn’t step on the pedal.
After a small traffic jam, he finally pulls up to the college. I fly out of the car, with only a few minutes to spare.
Please don’t let me be late.
My shoes clack loudly down the abandoned hallway. Everyone is already in their classes like the good students they are. Meanwhile, I’m rushing to make mine.
The door is seconds away, and I see Professor Dale through the window.
Shit. He’s going to lock it.
I grab the silver handle, my eyes pleading with his cold ones.
Click.
The sound of the lock echoes through the hallway. It’s deafening, and my mind can’t process his assholishness. I’m right here. My fingertips were on the handle. It was a tie, dammit.
The side of his mouth lifts in a sinful grin, and he shakes his head.
That’s the last thing I see before he slams the shade on the window down, blocking the classroom from my view.
I drop my hand from the door. Well, tomorrow I’ll be early.
Chapter 4
Houston
March 4th
My therapist says writing in this journal will help deal with my “issues.”
It’s not. The nightmares have been nonstop the last few weeks. I fucking hate Marley witnessed it. Marley. Now she is a new issue. But it seems to be helping my “issue” better than this journal. A distraction to help curb my thoughts. Thoughts that keep invading my mind. And I welcome it, encourage it, because it’s the first thing that’s given me a moment of reprieve from my “issue.”
Fucking idiots. Looking out at the eager eyes of my morning Anatomy and Physiology class, I cringe. Eighty sets of eyes stare at me as if I’m speaking Japanese.
We’ve been in this semester for a while now and already the class is doing horrible. Are they even studying? Every single one of them is struggling. The medical industry will soon fold if this is our future doctors and nurses.
“Open your books,” I tell the class, rising from my seat. “Page three-hundred eighty-two. Section seven. Who wants to tell me what the answer is to option 5-A?”
Blank stares, from all of them. The Anatomy and Physiology book is a five-hundred-dollar book, you’d think these kids would glance at it occasionally.
“Muscles?” Brian, a lanky ginger, answers from the front row.
I push my small, black frames further up my nose as I glance at him. “There’s six hundred and forty skeletal muscles in the body.” I glance at the whole class, but only one student captures my attention. Marley. Thanks to the memory of her fucking hand in her pink panties.
I turn on my overhead projector and go through the muscles in the face.
“Miss Murphy, please come down,” I call out. She’s been avoiding any contact with me since we returned last week, so today I’m in the mood to toy with her. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy watching her become flustered around me.
I turn around, slide my hands in my pockets, and watch her long legs descend the stairs. She stops in front of me, her eyes full of hesitation, hands tugging the edge of her green sweater. It matches her eyes perfectly. Which is something I really shouldn’t be noticing. She turns around at my request to face the entire class.
“Smile, Miss Murphy,” I instruct her. My eyes rest on her full, pink lips, waiting. “Is it that hard, Miss Murphy?” I ask, raising my gaze to meet her cautious one. My cock twitches. It gets so hard when she’s this close. Finally, her mouth forms a smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “How many muscles did you use?”
“Five,” she answers, correctly.
I nod, then reach out to trace my finger along her jaw. Marley’s face with her expressive eyes is a work of art. Her porcelain skin is incredibly soft. Softer than I imagined. “What’s this muscle?”
Her long lashes blink. The slight shiver that passes over her doesn’t escape me. “Masseter,” she answers with a slight waver in her voice.
Continuing my exploration of her under the guise of teaching, I trail my fingertip along her nec
k and feel the erratic tempo of her pulse. Touching her causes mine to beat wildly. It feels foreign and gives me a rush of excitement. “Bonus question, name this artery.”
“Carotid,” she whispers and I forget the entire class is even here watching.
I drop my hand, snapping back to the present. “Return to your seat, Miss Murphy.”
With only a few minutes left of class, I switch off the projector. “Ok, there will be a quiz tomorrow on the muscles of the face, so study up.”
The drone of laptops being shut and students packing up fill the room as everyone leaves. Marley sits a few rows up in the auditorium style classroom, and my eyes catch hers. She quickly looks away. As she leans over to retrieve her bag from the floor, her legs part slightly, giving me a view right up her skirt. I try to turn away, but I can’t.
My heartbeat thunders when I see the white panties covering her pussy. What I wouldn’t give to dive right in there.
The classroom empties except for Marley standing by her desk, texting on her phone, as she packs up the rest of her things.
I need another high. I need to feel the rush of adrenaline she caused in me.
“Miss Murphy?” I call out.
Her head snaps up, locking eyes with mine. “Yes?”
“Come here.” When she stands in front of me, I step closer. “I need your help.”
“With?” Her lips purse as she chews on the inside of her mouth.
She’s been my assistant for the entire semester, and, sure, I noticed she’s pretty, but my relationships with my students have always been strictly professional. Many eager young women have tried to slide beneath the surface with me, slide into my bed, but none have succeeded. For some reason, the image of Marley coming and the look of rapture on her face, has done what no other could accomplish.
“Do you always chew on the inside of your mouth?” I ask her. Since the incident on the plane, I’ve begun noticing little details about her.