Page 1 of Wanting Cameron

1

LUCIEN

I’ve been watching Cameron Rhodes for three weeks now.

Not like that. At least not at first.

He arrived at St. Silas at the start of term, one of only four Americans in our year, including me, which makes him notable by default. The school doesn’t take many of us. They prefer their own: the sons of Scottish lords and English earls, boys whose families have occupied the same estates since before the Reformation. But my father’s pharmaceutical empire bought my place here, just like Cameron’s father’s hedge fund bought his.

We’re interlopers in a world that tolerates us because our money is old enough to pass inspection. St. Silas is the type of institution that prides itself on heritage and status. I guess the idea is that they’re supposed to shape us into the next generation of men who will continue their traditions. Fuck that.

The library is nearly empty this late in the afternoon. Most of the boys are either at rugby practice or holed up in the common room. To be honest, I prefer the quiet of the library to the chaos of fragile egos fighting on the field and in the house common room. I like the light here when it blurs through the stained-glass windows, turning everything moody. And I like the smell of old leather books and wood, basically the scent of four hundred years of people being smarter than us. And here we are.

Cameron sits three tables away from me, his laptop open, a stack of books beside him. He’s wearing the white shirt of our school uniform. His navy blazer, with the St. Silas crest embroidered on the breast pocket, is draped over the back of his chair. He’s loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms are muscled, suggesting he’s been athletic his whole life and still bronzed from his summer in Connecticut.

I watch the way he reads. His brown hair, sun-streaked with gold, falls slightly across his forehead as he leans over the page. His eyes move across the text with focus, and his expressive brows furrow slightly in concentration. Every few minutes, he pauses, his bottom lip caught between his bright teeth as he considers something before he types into his laptop. His fingers are quick and efficient on the keys, intentional.

Then he stops.

His hand keeps drifting to his hair. He runs his fingers through it, twisting a section near his temple. I mentally file away the gesture.

Nervous habit? Anxiety response?

But why? It’s really none of my business why he’s anxious. I need to get back to my Latin, but for some reason, I can’t look away.

He’s analyzing Macbeth for our English literature class. I can see the cover of the book from here. It’s not a difficult text, and we’ve been studying it for two weeks.

I lean back in my chair, my own work completely abandoned, and study him. Something about him is impossible to ignore.

His face has a boyish quality. He hasn’t quite grown into his bone structure. His warm brown eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, which he does almost too often, like he’s trying to prove something. His lips are rounded into a defined pout, and he has a strong jaw that’s still softened by youth. Give him a few years, and he’ll lose that softness. He’ll harden into something sharper and more masculine.

I wonder what that will look like and if I’ll still be watching him when it happens.

The thought unsettles me, so I push it away.

He shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. I remember the shinty match two days ago. Cameron plays full-forward, physical and fast, always pushing toward the goal. I watched him run across the field, his shorts riding up with every stride, exposing pale thighs, the muscle flexing beneath the skin. His cheeks had flushed with exertion, his hair was damp with sweat, and when he scored, he grinned, so fucking pleased with himself.

His expression was so deeply offensive to me that I’d wanted to demolish it.

I’d wanted to⁠—

My cock stirs, and I shift in my seat, annoyed at myself. This is ridiculous. I don’t even like Cameron. He’s clueless and shallow, the kind of boy who coasts through life on charm and good looks, never having to work for anything because people just hand it to him.

But I can’t stop watching the way he adjusts his body, how his hands twist in his hair, or the thoughtful micro-expressions that play on his face.

The library’s peace is suddenly shattered when a thoughtless yet friendly aggression punctuates the quiet.

Thom and George MacLeod stride in, their red hair bright even in the faint light. They’re twins. Massive, broad-shouldered rugby players who take up too much space wherever they go. Brutes, really, but everyone likes them. Even me, in theory.

But right now, I hate them.

They head straight for Cameron’s table, and he looks up, his face breaking into an easy smile.

“Cam!” Thom says, too loudly for the library. “Thought we’d find ye here.”

“Studying,” Cameron says, gesturing at his books. “Unlike some people.”

“Studying’s for those who need tae study,” George says, hooking his hand firmly on Cameron’s shoulder. The touch is rough, familiar, and I watch Cameron’s body shift slightly under the weight of it.