Drawing Closer

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Drawing Closer

TOP SHELF

An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers, Inc.

PO Box 2545

Round Rock, TX 78680

Copyright © 2006 by Jane Davitt

Cover illustration by Rose Lenoir

Published with permission

ISBN: 1-934166-06-5, 978-1-934166-06-2

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form

whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO

Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

First Torquere Press Printing: March 2007

Printed in the USA

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Dedicated to Alexa for all her encouragement.

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The final moments of the final lesson. Charles glanced around the room as he wound up his

farewell speech, wondering how much of what he'd said over the last ten weeks had sunk in, how

much they'd retain.

Because they were there voluntarily -- and had paid for the privilege of being taught by him --

they'd certainly tried to come to grips with the life and times of Shakespeare, and, in the last

three weeks of the course, Romeo and Juliet, but eight o'clock on a Friday night wasn't the ideal

time to schedule a community course aimed at people with jobs and families. Three people had

dropped out after the first two weeks, and, although he couldn't blame that on the timetable, the

only one he would truly miss was Anne Sinclair. One of his star students, she'd rushed off to

Iowa after her daughter had broken her leg three months after giving birth.

Charles felt sincere sympathy for the daughter, but an equally sincere regret at losing Anne,

whose intelligent questions could always be counted on to revitalize a stalled discussion.

Those that were left were, for the most part, older than him. At thirty-two, a rising star at

Suffolk County College, he was used to lecturing to the best and the brightest; children turning to

adults as he watched, young enough to be awed or disrespectful, depending on how the freedom

of being away from home for the first time took them. He could deal with both attitudes, and do

it well. His classes were always well-attended and tenure was going to be as close to automatic as

it got.

It was more than he'd expected when he'd left England six years earlier. He'd left in a hurry and

arrived clutching a suitcase and a reference from his former employer, Durham University, that

missed out a lot in order to be helpfully enthusiastic. He couldn't say his heart had been broken

back in England, but it had certainly been hardened.

He'd been lucky. Lucky to get a job when his blank face and snarled admission to his prospective

employers that he was gay should have closed doors, not opened them; lucky to have made

friends, a few at least. Lucky to have found a house that needed work, lots of it, so that he could

fall asleep at night tired in body as well as mind, guaranteeing the deep sleep that had eluded him

for so long.

Fortunate to have rediscovered his gift for writing, so that the packed bookshelves in his house

held four books with his name on the spine.

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And if he hadn't done more than date and -- sometimes -- end up in bed with someone whose

name he could barely recall a week later, because he wasn't
that
discourteous, but whose face was a blur, well, it was enough. It was all he wanted.

After Alan, it was plenty.

Teaching this course was a way of paying back some of his luck; Peter Matthews, the man in

charge of the community college, had been his first friend in a strange country. He'd given Charles

a place to stay, although his children -- three of them, all under the age of six -- had made it less of a refuge than a stopgap, and introduced him to the Dean of the local university. Who had,

amazingly, heard of Dr. Charles Stanway, because he was a Shakespeare-obsessed Anglophile,

and was more than willing to flaunt his liberal credentials by employing someone who was gay --

providing that Charles was discreet and kept well away from the students. And, as an

afterthought, the staff.

Charles had assured him, dryly, that it wouldn't be a problem. The fresh-faced students were

unlikely to be tempting, and he'd had enough experience teaching to be able to deflect the wide-

eyed crushes and the blatant come-ons without thinking, even if they had been. The rest of the

faculty didn't hold anyone he was interested in, either, which he supposed was just as well, as he

loved working there.

Yes, he owed Peter -- and teaching this course had been good for him. In tailoring his theories to

an audience that he had, in some cases, underestimated, he'd found himself discovering new

subtleties in the text. It had been both humbling and educational, and although he wouldn't want

to do this often, he found himself giving serious consideration to doing it again. Maybe.

The classroom cleared quickly -- they were all going out as a group for a celebratory drink; he'd

been invited -- pressed to come, in fact -- but he'd refused, smilingly, pleading work.

It was a lie, but a polite one. The truth was that he wanted to--

"Dr. Stanway? Do you have a moment?"

Oh, God. The last to leave, as usual.

"Well, not really, Gray. As I said, I have--"

"Work to do. Yes." Dark blue eyes widened, mocking him, but not unkindly.

"I really do," he said crisply.

Gray ran a slim, tanned hand back through the thick, dark hair that had never, in ten weeks, ever

been anything but tousled, his eyes appealing now. "It won't take long."

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It hadn't taken long for Gray to become the focus of Charles' attention, either. He'd walked into

the classroom that first warm, late May evening, glanced around a room filled with people --

ordinary, average people, and Gray, who, to Charles' eyes at least, was anything but.

Gray had been in the middle row, in the exact spot that Charles' gaze naturally fell on when he

was addressing a class, his expression one of polite interest, no more, his hands folded on the

desk in front of him.

Hands that Charles had imagined on him so often that just looking at them now made him shiver,

made him feel ghost-touches against his face, his back, his--

"Very well. But if it's about your grade, you know that isn't the way this class works." He smiled to show that he was joking. In any other class, he'd have been wary of Gray's intentions, but not

this one. The students had all walked off exclaiming over a diploma he'd had printed for them,

just for fun, but there was no grade to fix, no chance to fail.

"If it was, would I have gotten an 'A'?" Gray looked interested, cocking his head to one side and running the tip of his tongue across his lower lip.

"Your work was satisfactory," Charles said stiffly, feeling a throb in his cock that left him

nothing to do but retreat into formality.

Gray pouted. Actually pouted, with that well-shaped mouth of his twisting into a delicious new

shape, just meant for kissing. "I suppose it's better than nothing," he murmured, taking a step closer. "I'd hate to think I'd left you unsatisfied."

Charles wished that he had the desk between them, but he didn't. The edge of it was digging into

the back of his legs though, which wasn't exactly comfortable. He straightened and drew himself

up, which meant that he was a good two inches taller than Gray. "If we're going to descend to

clichés, I'll borrow from Juliet," he replied, sounding surprisingly, gratifyingly calm, given that his heart was racing and his hands trembling slightly. "'What satisfaction can'st thou have tonight?'"

Too late, he remembered how Romeo had replied to that, and waited, a flush rising in his face, not

for Gray to cap his quotation, because he was hardly likely to do that given that he'd have to say

'Th'exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine', but to say something cutting; worse yet, laugh.

"I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed this class." Gray spoke with an earnest sincerity, ignoring an opportunity to engage in a verbal duel with Charles for the first time since they'd met.

"Really. It was a pleasure."

There was a lingering emphasis on the final word that told Charles that his reprieve was over.

"Well, that's very kind of you. I found it an interesting experience myself. Thank you for your

contributions to the discussions and the papers you turned in; you've got a very original set of

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ideas and you express them well."

Charles smiled at him, nodded, and turned away to gather up his papers. Note-perfect; friendly

and yet distant. Good job, Charles.

"I wanted to thank you." If Charles hadn't known, because he'd checked, that Gray was twenty-

three, he'd have thought him much younger with that quiver in his voice. Nerves? Gray Collins?

They just didn't go together.

"Well, you have," Charles said softly, not turning back. "And I appreciate it. Is that all?"

There was a frustrated sigh, bitten-off and heartfelt. "No. No, it isn't. Charles--"

That brought his head around. He'd encouraged an informal atmosphere in the classroom but

somehow they'd all continued to call him by his title. Hearing his first name spoken by Gray was

new and unexpected.

"What?" He didn't sound so calm now, did he? Hoarse and desperate as he turned fully to face

the man he'd been dreaming about -- lusting over -- for weeks. Ten of them.

"Oh, fuck it--" Gray stepped forward, took hold of Charles' shirt in a tight grip and kissed him.

It was sudden, but Charles had chance to dodge it, time to avert his face. He didn't. Instead he

took what was offered and let the force of the kiss part his lips, let his tongue stroke deeply

inside Gray's mouth, seeking out the taste of him, because he wanted to know--

"God." Gray broke the kiss but didn't step back, his hands still clinging to the crisp cotton shirt Charles was wearing. "I knew it," he whispered. "Knew you'd kiss me back." There was no triumph in his voice, just relief.

"Let go of me," Charles said evenly, watching the certainty in the blue eyes staring at him waver, just a little. "Right now, please."

Gray's fingers clutched harder for a moment and then slowly released the now-crumpled fabric.

"Don't tell me, let me guess." Heavy sarcasm weighed down his words. Charles was used to

Gray's delicately merciless dissection of his words in class -- had relished the duels they'd waged,

in fact. He'd appreciated that there was no disrespect involved, just a boy -- man -- enjoying the

chance to discuss a subject that interested him, and with enough arrogance to make him unwilling

to admit that his views were sometimes flawed, sometimes limited by ignorance. "It ends here,

you don't know what I was thinking about; let's not embarrass ourselves by admitting the truth.

Is that it? Is that what you were going to say?"

"The truth? What truth? That you're a student in my class? Ten years younger than me? That

truth? I don't mind admitting that at all."

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Gray's face darkened and his hand shot out, stronger than Charles had expected, locking around