the anatomy of love [BxB] COMPLETED

11

When he enters the library, Jackson's mind whirls in thought. He just can't get that blue stare out of his mind.

Eliot stands up when he sees Jackson. His glasses lie crooked on his nose and his blonde curly hair neatly frames his face like a Michaelangelo angel. Jackson feels the pang of desire he felt the first time he saw Eliot, but it's like a distant echo of the past, a fading ring of a tower bell.

"Hi Eliot," Jackson says wearily. Eliot, sensing his seriousness, frowns and sits back down. He nervously adjusts his sweater, a nice blue color with a cute design in the upper right corner. Jackson wants to comment but doesn't want to lead him on.

"Are you alright?" Eliot asks tentatively, and bless his heart, Caleb was right. Jackson tries a smile and Eliot visibly relaxes.

"I'm good. Just some things on my mind. I'm sure if we start with some practice problems I'll feel better." Jackson couldn't have made it any clearer.

Eliot nods, catching the hidden message, and opens the Calculus book to the practice problems page they left off last session. "Okay, do numbers one through eight to start. You should remember from last time..." Jackson lets Eliot's soft controlled voice ease him into focus and away from all the distracting shit in his life. It works for the time being.

When the lesson ends, Jackson smiles politely and gets up.

"I'd better go. Soccer practice."

He's not lying, he will have soccer practice, but it's in two hours, and he could stay and chat with no worry about arriving late. Eliot stares innocently and longingly at him as he walks away, and if things with Robin and Caleb and this stupid internship had gone any differently, they would already be in the back of the library making out. But alas, the story unfolded quite differently, so Jackson heads back to his apartment to nap and forget about all his problems in the land of dreams.

☆★☆

He's not allowed to move his hands, but he doesn't care. Usually he would, if his hands couldn't move. Especially when lips grazed his neck, and fingers skated up his back. But no, he likes it this time. He wants it, even. The voice whispers coldly into his ears, you're not allowed to move your hands that's inappropriate, and oh he wants, needs to touch himself but he can't and the pain is delicious and that voice—

Jackson shifts under the sheets, the linen cool against his hot, sensitive skin, and it's almost too much, the dream and the voice and he slides his hand down his stomach and under his briefs and takes his dick in his hand with trembling hands, thinking to himself, you're not allowed to move your hands, and oh, it's almost perfect.

Not the first time he's woken up from a nap like this, hot and horny, but he can't remember feeling so scattered and ragged as his orgasm rides through him.

After, he buries his head into his pillow, wondering how on earth he's gonna play soccer now. He waits a few minutes, then rolls out of bed, deciding to take a cold shower and hoping that brings him back to alertness.

Caleb knocks on his door ten minutes later, and they walk down to the field together. Jackson tries to hide his distress, but Caleb sees through him immediately.

"Hey, bro, what's up? You good?"

"Just my new internship. Everyone's really cold and rude. Except the other intern, Jack, he's cool. And the boss is this really mean guy who ignores me."

"Wow. That sounds like hell. I'm sorry."

"I wish you saw how these people talked. Jack calls it corporate lingo."