Study Me: A Student Teacher Romance

  Study Me

  A Sex Me Novella

  Logan Chance

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Marley

  2. Houston

  3. Marley

  4. Houston

  5. Marley

  6. Houston

  7. Marley

  8. Houston

  9. Marley

  10. Houston

  11. Marley

  12. Houston

  13. Marley

  14. Houston

  15. Marley

  16. Houston

  17. Marley

  18. Houston

  19. Marley

  20. Houston

  21. Marley

  22. Houston

  23. Marley

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Logan Chance

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  For K

  To Paula Dawn, you poured your blood, sweat, and tears into this book. Thank you for bringing Marley to life.

  February 27th

  Two years ago, I lost control. I vow to never let it happen again.

  They’ve asked me to speak at a medical conference in Chicago. Me. A doctor who no longer believes in medicine.

  1

  Marley

  Insanity-noun-extreme foolishness or irrationality.

  That’s me. I’ve lost my mind, but I can’t help it. Being so close to Professor Houston Dale does this to me. It’s led me to masturbating in the bathroom on a Boeing seven-forty-seven, thirty thousand feet in the air.

  My fingertips race over my clit as I close my eyes conjuring up his dark irises, strong hands, his deep voice…oh, God, I’m going to come soon. I’m so wet, and the want swimming through my veins is too powerful to stop.

  When we took off from the JFK airport, my nerves were shot from the idea of spending two whole days with my Anatomy professor.

  Houston Dale, wait, I’m sorry, Doctor Houston Dale, was asked to speak at a prestigious medical conference in Chicago. As his assistant, he asked me to come along

  At first, I was thrilled with the prospect of meeting some of the nation’s most brilliant physicians. In my excitement, I spent hours packing and repacking a variety of clothes—casual, business, even a slinky cocktail dress. My suitcase for this weekend trip is filled with enough outfits for an entire week. Then, my nerves took over. A weekend trip. With Professor Dale. Two whole days of being in close quarters with him, no buffer. Let me explain the problem with this scenario—even if my body doesn’t agree, I don’t particularly like Professor Dale most days. But, on the other days, I really do. It’s his brain, his intelligence. He’s so smart, and of course, it’s scary. To say he’s intimidating is an understatement. If you don’t complete an assignment or if you fail a test, the ridicule is severe. Believe me, I’ve experienced it a time or two.

  Miss Murphy, maybe you need to return to high school and learn the fundamentals of education.

  Miss Murphy, will you tell your patients you had no time to complete their chart?

  Miss Murphy, blah blah blah.

  The gorgeous man can be downright terrifying. Keyword, gorgeous. Tall, distinguished, and fucking sexy as hell in his glasses. He’s constantly running his hand through his dark waves, his frustration with his students leaving his hair in a sexy rumpled mess. It’s distracting. So many times, he’s chastised me, not knowing I was focused on the shape of his full lips forming the words. The way they sound coming out in his deep voice. Class is much harder when your Anatomy professor is talking about the human body and you’re checking out his.

  Shit, my legs tremble as I try to steady myself in the small confines of the tiny bathroom. A burst of turbulence propels me forward a bit, and I lose focus momentarily. Until I remember the words Houston said to me five minutes before I beelined to the restroom on this airplane to touch myself.

  We were sitting side by side, his muscular leg brushing up against mine, our forearms mere hairs apart on the armrest. Just a hint of stubble decorated his chiseled jaw, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. I wanted to touch it, see if it was soft. If it would scrape the sensitive skin on my thighs.

  The flight attendant was no help at all. She kept setting those adorable, tiny bottles of vodka on my tray. So, I drank them. One after the other. All while watching him concentrate on the leather-bound note book he wrote in. He has really nice hands. Hands that have held someone’s life in them. Obviously, that led to me wondering how they would feel on my breasts. With alcohol coursing through my veins, my imagination took off, like anytime I’m near Professor Dale. I couldn’t stop it. In my fantasy, he wrote about all the wicked things he wanted to do to me. Then, he leaned over, his warm breath fanning across my cheek, “Don’t get too drunk now. I wouldn’t want to have to take advantage of you.”

  My green eyes slid to his dark brown, and he laughed, slightly.

  I, however, did not.

  My pussy pulsed and I excused myself, rushing to the bathroom, consumed with need.

  Yes, you’re probably thinking I’m either an idiot who hasn’t had sex in forever, or, I’m a naughty little nympho. Which, as you can see, I fantasize about being his. I mean, uh hello, I’m masturbating here. But, sadly, I’m neither.

  All I know is… I’m drunk. Drunk enough to admit to myself, I have a crush on Professor Dale. He may be an asshole, but he’s a brilliant one, and for me that’s a turn on.

  Bracing my hand on the wall, my fingertips circle faster against my clit as I use our boarding the plane for inspiration. The way Houston’s eyes bore into mine, the cramped aisle, his hard body pressed against me. Yesss. His strong hand searing the skin on the small of my back, leading me into the seat.

  Bend over the desk. You need to be disciplined.

  Fuck, I pick up speed, circling faster. It feels so good. Desire runs rampant in my core imagining Professor Dale spanking my bare ass with a ruler. Another jolt of turbulence causes the walls of the bathroom to shake, and my orgasm crashes through me. Wave after wave of ecstasy. I moan his name as another bump of turbulence hits, this one causing the bathroom door to fling open.

  My startled eyes meet his.

  Dark.

  Mysterious.

  Shocked. Wondering what the fuck I’m doing with my skirt up and my hand in my pink panties.

  Oh god. He heard me moan his name. Before I slam the door shut in mortification, the side of his lip lifts into a smirk.

  One sexy ass smirk.

  Fuck me.

  2

  Houston

  February 28th

  Two months until the anniversary. Sixty days. Like clockwork, my mood is on a downward spiral. I don’t want to go on this trip. Schmooze top doctors in the field? Who cares? I sure don’t.

  I just want to sit in my apartment. Alone.

  I definitely don’t want to be sitting next to this beautiful girl.

  She’s cute, chugging vodka like it’s water. Like she needs it to live. Watching her legs bounce next to mine is all I can focus on instead of writing my speech. I should be doing that now.

  Speech:

  Hello, assholes, I don’t give a fuck. Thanks.

  Marley just brushed past me to go to the restroom, and her unsteady hand rested on my shoulder a beat too long as she made her way into the small aisle.

  Fuck, she smells so good. Like happy memories an
d sunshine all rolled into one. I almost want to follow her in there. Claim her body for mine.

  “Wait, what do you mean you lost our reservation? I called three days ago to confirm.” I’m livid, these buffoons cannot expect me to share a room with my student.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We have no record of your reservation,” the front desk clerk of the Hilton in downtown Chicago tells me. Her bright blue eyes are unapologetic as my anger boils.

  “Well, check again,” I snap, pointing at her monitor. “It has to be there. I have the confirmation number. Two rooms.”

  Her fingers tap against the keyboard of the computer she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from. “Oh, yes, here it is. Dr. Dale. One room, two queen beds.”

  I shake my head at her. “No, that’s not correct. I booked two rooms.” I hold up two fingers, hoping she understands me better, because, right now, this chick has no fucking clue.

  This is a nightmare. How can I share a room with Marley after seeing her masturbating? I glance over my shoulder at her standing in the middle of the busy lobby, oblivious to the problems I’m encountering at the front desk. She reminds me of a movie star with her brown hair falling in waves past her shoulders.

  Her thumbs fly over her phone, texting. My mind drifts back to the plane. Pink panties. Her moaning my name. It’s been a long time since a woman screamed my name, and maybe something I need to rectify, because my dick was hard instantly. Part of me wanted to step inside the bathroom and continue what she had started. The other part knew I could never do it.

  “Sir, I’m sorry.” The clerk pulls my attention back to her. “I only have you booked for one room.”

  “Ok, book me for two,” I demand. “I need two rooms. I have my student assistant with me. We can not share a room.” I tap my fingers on the marble counter to calm my frustration.

  Her eyes narrow back on the computer, and then she glances up at me. “Listen, we’re all sold out due to this medical convention. All the hotels are.” She plasters a fake smile on her thin lips. “So, I have one room for you. I’m sorry.”

  She’s not sorry. If she were, she wouldn’t be challenging me with her too thin eyebrows. But, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Fine,” I agree, sliding my glasses up to pinch the bridge of my nose. She enters my information and then hands me the key cards.

  I walk over to Marley. Her striking green eyes don’t meet mine as I tell her about the situation with the rooms. She hasn’t looked at me since she returned from the airplane bathroom.

  Silence fills the elevator as we head up to our room. It’s late, and I need to prepare for my lecture tomorrow.

  The convention is one day of numerous conferences, and I’m set to speak at seven-thirty tomorrow night, during a dinner with some of the top doctors of the country. I just want it to be over already.

  Most men would be nervous. Hell, two years ago, I would have been petrified. But, now…nothing.

  If I thought the elevator was silent, the hallway is deadly eerie. The red and gold carpet is Marley’s focus as we approach our room. Maybe I would try to ease the uncomfortable silence if I wasn’t replaying the actions of her in the bathroom on the airplane. It’s wrong, but the sight of her flushed face mixed with the sound of her moaning my name won’t leave my mind. I may be her Professor, but…

  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.”

  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.