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 and 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.”