Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

by Scarlett Drake

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter with the magnificent arse asks with the sort of look I understand implicitly. I turn my most charming smile on him. “Oh, that really depends.” He smirks, dark eyes glinting in the low light. He’s got the body of a footballer, not a dancer, lean and tight. “On?” “On what time your shift ends. See, it’s my birthday and my father didn’t make it again, so now I sort of want to get roughly fucked by someone who’ll let me call them daddy.”

She might not pay for rent, but I got something money can’t buy: a staunchly loyal, highly trustworthy, disgustingly talented Irish ballerina with a gutter mouth who would defend me to the death.

In fact, there was only one other dancer in the world who, in the safety of my own soul, I would call better than me. And he had gone on hiatus.

I often wonder if he smiles like that in bed. While he lies back and spreads his legs—because he gets fucked, that’s not even up for debate—does he wear that mindless fucking grin of his while getting pounded? It’s not like I imagine him getting fucked that often, and it never starts with me being the one fucking him when I do; it’s really not. (It’s almost always the tattooed, long-haired guy from his Ibiza trip last year.) But when I do, it’s almost impossible to knock the thought from my head once it’s in there. Him grinning, panting, whining, begging.

Most people here know how I feel about Nico Savini. They know I won’t be welcoming my biggest fucking rival into the studio and company with open arms. They are looking forward to this.

Our Chinese dance instructor is a bit like a piranha; tiny, brutal, and deadly. Until eight years ago, she was considered the best prima ballerina in the world. But then she got pregnant with twins, which as far as the dance world was concerned, meant she’d had a double leg amputation. She never got back to where she was before, so now she whips us into shape like we’re the ones who stole her dance career from her and not her two spoiled little fuck trophies.

“Mmmm,” I say, but I’m not sure I buy it. Nico has always been built differently from everyone else. He’s like a soldier. Hardened and tough. Notoriously consistent.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I keep staring at him until he does because I want to look him in the eye and make him look away first. Impatient, I slam closed the door of my locker to get his attention. His head snaps up, and there’s a physical reaction in his body at the sight of me. He stiffens, eyes flaring a little with what looks like extreme interest, before he tries to pretend his reaction didn’t happen.

He’s changed out of the hoodie and sweats he was wearing in the locker room. Now wearing a loose grey tank top that shows the sharp angles of collarbone, a peek of torso, and sliver of pectoral. If he leans forward, I might even be able to see a nipple. His tights are a darker grey and accentuate the shape of his calves and ass. I wait until he’s across the room before I continue.

It’s as infuriating as it always is to watch; how naturally he moves, the soft way he lands, the way the air seems to lift him from the floor and carry him with it. I watch as his cheeks darken from rose pink to red, his chest dapples with sweat, and his muscles tighten and pop. I’m not the only one watching him; the entire class does. Transfixed in the eye of perfect form and easy grace. His face gives away nothing, not effort or exhaustion. It’s a mask of pure focus.

Because in all of the realities where I’m better and I’m healed and I’m allowed to have the life I want, it’s him who’s there next to me. It’s Felix Taylor-Brooke holding my fucking hand and looking into my fucking eyes and telling me how I’m his and he’s mine. He’s not getting cream-pied by twinks he meets in Ibiza. He’s mine. And I fucking hate him for it. I hate that I’ll never get to fucking have it. But mostly, I hate myself—for being infatuated with my biggest fucking rival since I was fifteen years old. For being so embarrassingly and stupidly in love with him all these years.

“I was hoping I’d see you. That routine was amazing! Bluebird is so hard. How long have you been practising it? Like, the height you get on your doubles is totally insane, mate.”

“This must be a walk in the part for you,” he says. I blink, then raise an eyebrow speculatively. He goes on, “Posing, having people tell you how good you look, being stared at.” “A walk in the park,” I say. “It’s a walk in the park not a walk in the part.” I have to fight against some weird urge to find that cute. He looks faintly embarrassed. Which, to my absolute horror, is also sort of cute.

This is, in fact, the truth. I do hate people. I hate Felix, too, it just so happens that I’m in love with him at the same time. Which isn’t something I’d recommend to anyone who likes being sane.

“How many are you on?” I ask, indicating the glass. She gives me a look. “The same rules don’t apply to me.” “Because you made it?” “No, because I’m Irish. We’re just built differently.” She raises a glass and gently taps it against mine. “You’ll see.”

Okay, it’s partly a lie. I’m not sure I still hate Nico. Yesterday, during that interview, I’d seen something, some crack in that cunty, arrogant exterior and it had been soft inside. Warm, too, maybe. It’s what pushed me to invite him last night.

He looks torn, clearly debating something. Then he says, “Would you mind if I watched? I’ll be quiet.” He points to the corner. “I’ll sit there and not say a word unless you ask me to.” I raise an eyebrow. “Why the fuck would you want to watch?” “Because I like watching you dance? Why else?” Fuck. I hate the little surge of something that sends through me. Which, for the record, has absolutely nothing to do with the person who’s saying it and everything to do with my exhibitionist nature. I like being watched. Of course I do, I’m a ballet dancer. I like seeing the look of desire and want on men’s faces when they look at me, the look of admiration and awe on people’s faces when they see me dance. Nico definitely doesn’t want or desire me, but if he likes watching me dance—and a lot of people do—then who am I to stop him?

“You dance on stage for a living, I fail to see why it’s weird.” “I’m not on stage, though.” “Oh? I thought your whole life was a stage, Felix?”

He looks like something out of a biblical tale about original sin. Carnal and debauched. From here, I can smell him, too, and I imagine it must be what he smells like after sex. It makes a deep primal urge rise up in me, violent and intense. Take him. Fuck him. Rough and raw. Make him yours.

Without another thought, I press my mouth hard against his. When he moans, delicious and submissive, I groan.

What do I see now? I see a man who wants me. I see a man who just kissed me like it was his last second on Earth. I see Nico Savini looking like he wants to fuck me long and deep into the fucking night. There’s a terrifying look on his face, adoring and extremely fond, that I won’t even lean in the general direction of, let alone think about. Before I can second guess it, I reach out and clutch a fistful of his shirt and pull him back into me. He’s on me as desperately as he was before, and this time I match that ferocity. The shock is gone now, there’s only want and desire, and more of both than I can ever consciously remember having for anyone before, though I’m certain I must have.

He can hate me all he wants. I’ll fuck him however he wants. Then, when his defences are low and he’s grown complacent, I’ll get him to fall in love with me.

“And why would I do that?” “You know why,” he says, glancing around like he’s afraid someone will see us together. “Because this is a fucking disaster.” “Oh, I wouldn’t call it that.” “No? What would you call it then?” I grin. “Kismet? Fate? You know, people say Achilles and Patroclus were soulmates too.” Some complex look moves over his face. “We’re not fucking soulmates!”

I’ve never been kissed like this. This isn’t kissing with the intent to go somewhere else, though I fucking hope it does, this is kissing for the sole purpose of kissing. It’s intense and purposeful and it’s slowly turning me inside out.

I want you to want me the way I can’t seem to stop myself wanting you. I want you to want something real with me. I want whatever a real relationship looks like with you. I want to go to the ruins of Pompeii and take sickening couple photos with you and post them on Instagram.

“I can’t make practice tonight,” he tells me. “I’ve been summoned to dinner with my dad.” He looks out the window and sighs, loudly. “Commiserations.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not one of your fucking myrmidons, Felix. I’m not here to tell you what you want to hear—I never have been—I’m here to tell you it like it is, so why don’t you listen. I didn’t come to London for the weather or to ruin your life. I came to dance with possibly the greatest dancer there’s ever been. And since I got here, I’ve tried to be whatever the hell he needed me to be: a rival, a punching bag, a quick fuck, a friend, a sounding board. Whatever you needed, I’ve tried to be. You know, on Saturday when you accused me of betraying you like that, when you stood in front of me breaking down because you thought I’d done that, it hurt. It hurt like a motherfucker. You know why? Not because you were accusing me but because you were hurting. Someone had hurt you and I fucking hated it. I never want to see you hurt, ever. You asked me what I want? Honestly, I thought that was crystal clear, princess, but apparently not. I want you. Always have. And I’ll take you in whatever fucking capacity I’m allowed to have you. If only you would just… trust me.”

The confidence and grit with which he does everything never fails to turn me on; he’s a fucking mountain. Unshakable and strong, and it’s with a weak and soft heart that I realise that the shadow I’ve always been resentful of, is one I now want to live under. I want to use it for shelter and warmth. Have it at my back when it rains. Have it warm me when I’m alone and afraid. I want him in my life in all the ways that matter.

He’s the only thing I don’t think I could live without. Fuck. I love him. I love Nico Savini. Fuck.

I drop to my knees in front of him. “I don’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve you, Nicoló Savini, fuck knows I haven’t done much right in this one, but I’m going to make sure that from here on out you know how fucking special you are. How much I need you in my life. How much better you make me as a man, as a dancer, as a fucking human. I’m going to make sure you know how much I love you every fucking day for as long as you’ll let me. Will you? Let me?”