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.”

“He is proud of you, you know. Even if he never says it.” And he’s never said it. Not once. I’d never spoken that into the universe, either. I wish for once he’d say he was proud of me. I’d stopped caring about it a long time ago; understood the madness of wishing for something that was never ever going to happen.

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.

It’s just that I don’t do well with sharing, and that applies to most things—I don’t do threesomes for exactly this reason. I’m the main event, the headline act. And I’m certainly not going to share the fucking spotlight with Nicoló Savini.

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.

And then he’s fucking me in earnest, pounding me hard against his expensive sofa as my dad’s voice comes on the TV behind me. You’d think it would be a turn-off, but it’s not. It’s hot as fuck knowing his government’s foreign secretary, someone he sees every single day, is fucking me into next week while he pulls my hair and I call him daddy. So I’m a little fucked up.

“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.

He looks like something out of a biblical tale about original sin. Carnal and debauched.

Take him. Fuck him. Rough and raw. Make him yours.

He was the reason I hated ballet. Loathed it, in fact. My great secret. I do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do.

“I’m fucking warning you, Savini. Mess her around or hurt her and I will end you.” Oh, you already do, sweetheart. You already do.

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

His hand tightens around my neck, holding my head there while he ravages my mouth in deep slow kisses that, God help me, make my knees tremble.

This thing between us, this raw, sharp-edged thing, has been transformed by a single fucking kiss. Pure fire and lust, and if I don’t get to have him now, I’m going to combust.

Then we’re running. He’s holding my hand and we’re running like two fucking idiots in the rain to God knows where.

It’s torture. Exquisite, blissful, torture. I never want him to stop. Except when he begins to peel them down, and then I think I’ll kill him if he doesn’t tear them off me this fucking instant.

“You want me to go down on you?” I ask, as my fingers creep toward his dick—cut, well-proportioned, and still very hard. “Actually,” he says very seriously, “I’d really like you to get onto all fours and let me eat you out.”

Years I’d dreamt about this, about having him like this—I’d dreamt about many other things, too, which I’m sure would make him run for the hills—but this, this had taken up a lot of my time. Felix’s mouth. Felix’s cock. Felix’s ass. I plan to thoroughly enjoy all of these before letting him leave here.

He likes being kissed. Felix Taylor-Brooke likes being kissed roughly and intensely, and I want to make it my mission to ensure I’m the one whose kiss he thinks of. When he’s in Charlie’s or Rufus’s or Christian’s arms, he’s thinking of me. Well, a guy can dream.

“Fuck me,” he says against my lips. “Please put your dick in me before I lose my fucking mind.”

“Do you like my boy pussy, Savini?”

I slide out of his body slowly, grip his throat just a little beneath his jaw, and squeeze as I thrust back in. His eyes roll back and his expression dissolves into one of pure bliss. I fuck and choke and thrust and fuck, and soon, it’s all too much. He’s insanely beautiful like this. Whimpering and fucked out, loose and obliging.

He’s smiling, and it’s up there with the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly. I almost choke on his cock because it sounds sincere. Too sincere.

“I really like seeing my cock in your mouth.” “Mmm, well I really like having it in there.”

“Make me come with that perfect pussy,” he says. “Go on. You can do it.”

can hold my breath for three minutes.” “Okayyyy. Like underwater or…” “Depends,” he says. “Incentive is important; if I’m choking on cock, I could probably go until I pass out.” I laugh, even whilst imagining moving across the sofa and forcing my dick down his throat to test it out.

I drop to my knees and force him around. His ass, that perfect full ass complete with tattoo, is wet and dripping, and as I lower my mouth, I decide that I’d be quite happy to fucking drown here.

I deliberately don’t think about Nico Savini’s cock, or how it felt in me, or how hard he made me come. (Like a fucking steam train, since you asked).

I need to go outside and touch some grass because what I’m not going to do is spend the day questioning my own worth, or thinking about Nico Savini’s bed prowess for that matter.

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.

“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!”

And when this is over and the world finally sees him for what he is—the best—I can do what I’ve always been too fucking scared to do. Stop. Stop and breathe and fill my life with things that make me happy instead. Fuck, if I can pull this off, one of those things will be him. But first, I need to get him to fall in love with me, both onstage and off.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll call him and cancel. I saw him yesterday, for Christ’s sake. He can’t have my tight boy pussy every bloody night.” She smiles but then realises what I’ve said and screws her face up. “Do not ever say those three words again in my presence.” “For Christ’s sake?”

He looks… bewitching. Undeniably queer and distractingly gorgeous.

I’m down really fucking bad here.

I don’t remember ever wanting anyone as much as this. I feel ensorcelled. Bewitched. Fucking spellbound.

I’m standing here, pressed against the dirty wall of a club bathroom, holding my ass open like a slut, and I’ve never felt more prized.

“That person isn’t Nico Savini,” I say miserably. “It can’t be.” “Why not?” I don’t have a good reason to give him right then. There would have been lots in my Notes app, right amongst all the reasons I shouldn’t even be fucking him, but I deleted that.

I’ve no fucking idea how I’m going to get through fourteen-hour days without pinning him down and fucking him raw on the rehearsal room floor.

The last thing I want is for Nico to know how scared I am or how vulnerable this thing between us makes me feel. Besides, I don’t ask people for help; they ask me.

I smirk at that, meeting his eye in the mirror. “Look at you, begging for my cock like the slut you are.”

“Tell me how much you want it?” I ask against his ear, loosening the pressure on his throat. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“Look at your face when I come inside you, look how much you love being filled up.” I kiss his neck as I thrust, watching his eyes watch me and then himself. “So fucking beautiful…” I tell him. “Look at you…”

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.

“These aren’t new developments, princess,” I say with a small smile. “You’ve always been a massive fucking nightmare. I just happen to be very, very into that.”

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.”

them behind my knees to hold them in place. “Ah, there it is,” he says. “The promised land.”

“That’s it, baby. I love feeling you come when I’m this deep inside you…”