There was something of the refined and disdainful aristocrat in Becuell -- even if his disdain was for the average music student's lack of grasp of iteration, or integration under a curve -- that brought out the staunchly proletarian gamekeeper in Stuart. He felt that he'd die, possibly, if he didn't get to roll Oliver Becuell around in the crisp orangey leaves of autumn, preferably under the spreading branches of a magnificent oak tree. And under cover of its drooping branches, in the rolling, verdant grounds of a magnificent stately home.
Because that was the kind of over-privileged twit that Becuell was. Probably. Since Stuart had barely summoned up the cojones to address one word to the sop, to ask him a question, barring muttered five and seven word queries about calculus and negative square roots.
But, eventually, he'd been a man. He'd stood up. Last class of the semester -- he'd stood up and strode down to the front of the class. Before the little fan-club could swarm in, before he was edged out for good.
You might have thought that Stuart was a shy kind of boy. Shy. Ha.
If talking was hard, then he knew he needed another plan. Fortunately, he had one. Stepping up close -- too close, inappropriate -- not student/teacher appropriate, not at all. (Student/student-teacher. Still not a comfortable distance.)
And Becuell's eyes were wide -- curious -- and his mouth dropped open a little -- and his teeth were sharp and white. And if he'd bit Stuart right then, then Stuart would have liked it.
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...
