Tom Irwin

He'd put a lot of thought into this, not necessarily the logistics but the fact that it was happening at all. They had sex a lot, but it felt different because it was happening on Guy's birthday. They walked home hand in hand and, almost at the threshold, he paused, pressing Guy firmly back against a tree and bent his head to kiss him.

"Happy birthday," he murmured.

The club wasn't exactly Irwin's scene, the thumping music and the mass of sweaty bodies, but he was happy to be there with Guy, specially when he broke the kiss, suddenly very aware of his cock, his hips pressed forward against Guy's. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, coat abandoned at the cloak-room. He pushed his fingers into Guy's hair and pulls; an idea was forming.

"We should go back to the hotel," he said. They'd rented a room earlier, if only for the novelty. He leaned in and kissed Guy again, hungrily. "We should go right now."

Life moved on apace. He was getting to know the island, getting to know the school. Forming habits. Building routines. Like turning up at Guy's office door at a certain time of night, looking for a smoke.

"Not busy, are you?" he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He ignored the slight heat in his belly, the sense memory of still fading bruises. He tilted his head. "I'd hate to be interrupting."