Dragging the bat out to the recycling bin, he was muttering, head down, giving himself a right old talking-to. The condensed version: he had the dumbest crush going, on a posh bit of totty. (Male, the male kind. But Oliver Becuell absolutely qualified as totty, just the same. The black eyelashes, the blue eyes, the little bump in his nose that made his face perfectly imperfect, the curve of his lower lip that seemed to whisper, all by itself, 'Kiss me, why don't you, why don't you, I know you want to...'
It was amazing, just amazing, that his mouth could do that. At the same time as Becuell was actually -- rather disdainfully -- detailing the coursework that needed to be completed to an at least adequate standard, for his course on the philosophical implications of scientific discovery in nineteenth century literature and art. The course that he was currently teaching, at the poly, while working on his own post-graduate degree, up at Oxford. The university, that was.
Because the current thinking was that even daffy air-headed artists and musicians -- like Stuart -- needed some kind of basic maths and science grounding. Or else where would society be? It would all go to pot, that was where. They'd all be completely unemployable, semi-educated, out busking and drawing chalk stick-men on street corners. Disgraceful!
And that was how Stuart had spent the last three months of term in a daze, living for the twice-weekly lectures and fortnightly seminars of the course, 'Science, Discovery and Art.'
YOU ARE READING
Erase You
RomanceMichael is a musician, Cambridge-educated but living in London. He's successful, attractive and has plenty to keep him busy and happy. So why can he still not get over his old college boyfriend, Ben? Fortunately his old Great-Aunt Millie, a notor...
