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“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.”
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.
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.
“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.
Without another thought, I press my mouth hard against his. When he moans, delicious and submissive, I groan.
“Fuck me,” he says against my lips. “Please put your dick in me before I lose my fucking mind.”
“You spat in my mouth earlier and had me warm your cock, that was pretty spicy, Savini.”
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, Savini, you’re all kinds of an asshole, I assure you.” I grin, wolfishly. “Speaking of… I haven’t stopped thinking about yours. When will you let me inside it again?”
“Look at you, begging for my cock like the slut you are.”
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.
He’s the only thing I don’t think I could live without. Fuck. I love him. I love Nico Savini. Fuck.
