Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

Eleven

Eleven

Felix

A fter Christian fucks his cum into me, he slides off. I haven’t come yet, so I straddle him and use my hand, stuffing his quickly-softening cock back in so I can fuck myself on it. It feels divine, even soft.

“That’s it, beautiful,” he says, eyes black with lust, mouth swollen and red. He looks great like this. Fucked out and sweating. I have some kind of weird fetish for a guy dripping with sweat, which, given my chosen vocation, has made my life more difficult than it needs to be.

“Let me see you come,” Christian says, stroking my thighs. “So beautiful, so, so beautiful. Yes.”

Fuck, it really does it for me when he calls me beautiful. He knows it too. I wonder what Nico would look like under me like this, how it would sound to hear him call me beautiful?

Excuse me, what?

Before I have time to process whatever the fuck that was, I come in hot ropey lengths over his chest, groaning and fucking down onto him as hard as I can, riding it out.

After, I collapse next to him on the bed and throw a hand over my eyes. Did I just think about Nico while being fucked by Christian? Where in the ever-loving fuck did that come from?

Well, that’s concerning. A new low.

No, fuck that. He was a guy; one I’d watched pull out possibly the greatest performance of The Bluebird I’d ever seen just this afternoon. And it was in practice . We’ve already established that I think talent is hot, and as much as it pains me to admit it, so is Nico Savini.

I can’t control this kind of thing. Trust me, if I could, I would not be thinking about that prick while having sex with the best I’ve ever had.

Beside me, Christian lets out a low rumble of satisfaction.

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

I look sideways at him and smirk. “I do. You’re pretty incredible yourself, Mr Foreign Secretary.” I reach across to stroke a hand over his abdomen and down to his softening cock.

He smiles and leans in to kiss me tenderly. “Shower and food,” he says, slapping me softly on the thigh.

“If I get in there with you, I’ll only drop to my knees and suck you off again, and at your age, we really should be more careful with the old ticker.”

At the door to his en suite, he stops and glares at me over his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about my bloody ticker, you brat. Get in here.”



I do go down on him in the shower, before he comes all over my face, and then we get out and eat the lamb casserole his housemaid-come-cleaner had made. We eat it with crusted bread and a bottle of Bordeaux at the dining table.

“Yeah, but I am worried,” I say as I take a sip of wine. “He did that better than I’ve ever seen it done before, and I’ve seen Kimin Kim do it.”

“And you’ll still be better,” Christian says.

“But it’s Bluebird. Everyone knows it’s one of the most difficult variations. I should have chosen something else.” You should have chosen Paquito.

“Yes, but your tenure will count for something,” Christian argues. “Benedict won’t pass you over for someone only a few weeks in the door.”

“Nico Savini isn’t just someone though . ” I set my fork down. I’ve had four mouthfuls already. Four left. Better make them last. Sex always makes me so fucking hungry. It’s the reason I always make sure we fuck first and eat after. “Ben has wanted Nico at LBC for years, and now he has him. He’s not going to not give him lead. Not to mention he’s the greatest fucking dancer on the planet.”

“Well, no, that’s not true. You are.”

I look at him. To his credit, he looks sincere.

“You’ve never seen Nico dance.”

“No, but I have seen you dance.”

“Yes, well, he’s on another level.” I’d never admit this to anyone else, but Christian is like my priest, or my doctor, and I trust him implicitly. Admitting I think Nico is better than me is something I’d die before saying out loud to anyone at LBC. “Or at least, he was today. It’s like he’s always just one fucking step up, every time, no matter what I do or how hard I work, he’s always just there. Right on my fucking back. And now, what, he and Ava are a couple? No fucking way, I’m not having it. He doesn’t even like her, I’m sure he’s doing it just to piss me off. Just one more way to fuck me over; stealing my role and now my best friend? He’s a total fuckboy and if he thinks he’s going to mess Ava around like he does all those other ballerinas, he can think again. I’ll stab him in the fucking dick first.” I make a stabby motion with my fork for emphasis.

Christian is looking at me funny.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” I wipe at my mouth with the napkin.

“No, you don’t.”

“What then?”

He chuckles and scoops up some more lamb stew. Before putting it into his mouth, he says, “Nothing.”

“No, not nothing. You’re thinking something but saying nothing. You know I hate that.”

“More than you hate Nico Savini?” He lifts his wine, smirking as he does.

“What? No, I hate him more, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Christian,” I warn.

“Okay, but you won’t like it.”

“You say lots of things I don’t like. Your entire career is just you saying things I don’t like. I’ll live.”

“Ouch.”

“Say what you’re thinking, or I’ll stab you with this fork and that really will be an ouch.”

He chuckles at this and picks up his napkin. After he’s wiped his mouth, he sets it down again and fixes me with a very Christian-like look. It’s the sort of fatherly one. Not the ‘sexy-fatherly’ one but the ‘fatherly-fatherly’ one.

“I think you like him.”

“Excuse the fuck out of you. What?”

“Nico. I think you like him.”

“Maybe I’ll just stab you with this fork anyway.” I glare. “No I fucking don’t. I hate him. I always have.”

“I don’t think you hate anyone, sweetheart. You’re not capable of it, you’re far too kind-hearted. You don’t even hate your father, though you fucking should. He’d deserve it. But you certainly don’t hate Nico Savini; I think you respect him a lot, and the fact you can’t wrap him around your little finger has you in knots.”

I say nothing for a long time. The entire thing is so ridiculous that I should probably just laugh, but for some alarming reason, I feel very exposed. Like there’s a spotlight shining on me and I’ve forgotten my steps.

“I’m not kind-hearted,” is what I say after an interminable amount of time. “I’m horrible. I only care about myself and my career and I will destroy anyone who thinks they can fuck with me or it. And that includes him.”

Christian’s expression doesn’t change. He says, “Your friends. You care about them.”

I shrug.

“And me, you care too much about me. More than I deserve.”

“Shut up.”

He sighs and reaches across the table to link his fingers with mine. “I don’t know what I’d have done these last couple of years without you, you know that don’t you? After Stella went, I thought…” He swallows, looking like he might fucking cry. “Well. You breathed life back into me. You shared your light with me, and you gave me something I never thought I’d be able to have.”

“I said shut up.” But there’s no heat in my words. There is a lump in my throat, though, one the size of a golf ball. I stare at our hands. He still wears his wedding ring. It’s never been an issue for me because I know he loved his dead wife. I know he still does. That’s never what this thing between us has been about. At least, I didn’t think it had been. Where on earth has this come from? “I don’t know what any of this has to do with Nico fucking Savini.”

Gently, he slips his hand out of mine and sits back in the dining chair, observing me.

“Nothing. It’s just that seeing you this… affected by someone, when usually you flit so effortlessly through life. Never letting anything really affect you. It makes me curious is all. It makes me wonder if maybe that’s because you like him.”

“I’ve told you I don’t though,” I say.

“Alright,” he says softly. “Alright.”

But it isn’t. It doesn’t feel alright; nothing about anything he’s just said feels alright.

I look at him, suspiciously. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Breaking up?” He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, I’m not.”

“Are you dying?”

He laughs harder. “No, I’m not dying.”

“Right, well can we leave all that deep stuff until you’re either breaking up with me or dying, because it’s a bit heavy for a Wednesday night.”

“Okay,” Christian says, smiling.

I stand and lift his plate to carry them both to the kitchen.

He goes to sit on the sofa. “Do you want to watch the next episode of House of The Dragon ?”

“Nah, not in the mood. Why don’t you watch one of your documentaries while I doom scroll instead?”

“Deal.”



When I get home on Thursday morning, Nico Savini is in my fucking kitchen making himself fucking coffee. Like he lives here. I drop my bag—loudly—by the kitchen door, which makes him startle and turn around. I glare at him.

“Have I just walked into my own nightmare or are you in fact in my kitchen right now?”

He gives me a sheepish look. “Um, hi. Good morning.”

I move across the kitchen. “Is it?”

“I slept on the couch,” he says, before moving out of my way to let me into the fridge. I grab a low-fat yoghurt drink and slam it closed. “We were watching a movie, and it got late, and I fell asleep there. It’s a really comfortable couch.”

“Why are you telling me about my couch?”

He’s about to talk again when the sound of the doorbell sing-songs around the kitchen. It’s not even 8am. I don’t have the first clue who’d be at my door at this ungodly fucking hour, but it goes again.

When I pull it open, my heart sinks, even as everything in me draws up tight and sharp, a low simmer of fear and dread bubbles in my belly. Could this day possibly get any worse? Maybe I could rupture my ACT in rehearsal later just for fun.

“Morning, Dad,” I say.

He scowls. “Do you just not answer your phone these days?” he says, pushing past me into the house. A shiny black Range Rover with a British government-appointed license plate and driver, idles across the street. Well, at least it would be a quick visit.

“Do come in,” I mutter as I close the door behind him.

“I mean, you’ve got your phone permanently attached to your bloody hand, so it seems strange to me that you never answer it.”

“I’m Gen Z. I prefer to text.”

“You’re bloody useless is what you are.”

I follow him into the kitchen and wonder how I’d managed to forget about the tall male dancer standing in there in the last 18 seconds.

My dad stops still and takes in Savini, then turns to look at me.

“You’re new,” he says to Savini.

I smile. Oh, this should be good. Technically my dad should recognise the new lead principal dancer of LBC, of which he is a board member. But that would require an interest in something outside the walls of Westminster. Which he doesn’t have.

“Excuse me?” Nico says.

“Have I met this one before?” Dad says to me. “I can’t keep up.”

“You don’t have to, I keep up just fine, Dad.” Without looking at Nico, I say, emphasising his name, “ Nico, this is my dad. You may recognise him from TV. Blames poor people and immigrants a lot.”

Dad gives me his infamous glower and whips out an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and thrusts it at me. “It’s a donation; for the gala. Have them send the tickets to my office at the commons.”

I take it. “You know you could have had your secretary put this in the mail. I’m not the postman.”

“No, God forbid you’d have chosen a useful vocation.”

This doesn’t hit the way he wants it to. Not anymore. “Good to see you, Dad. Was gutted you never made it to my birthday dinner.”

“Yes, well, there was an important amendment being pushed through. I was needed in the chamber. I assume Miranda explained?”

“She did.”

“And she gave you the cheque, yes?” The cheque I hadn’t put in the bank yet. It was still in an envelope on my dresser upstairs.

“She did,” I say again.

“Not even a thank you?”

“Thank you,” I say woodenly.

“Well, Miranda is making Sunday lunch.” Over his shoulder, he looks at Nico, who looks stunned. “She’d like you there. Bring your boyfriend if you must.”

Nico looks fit to implode.

“I’ve made plans on Sunday,” I tell him.

He looks unmoved. “Well unmake them. It’s one Sunday lunch. You know how she feels about this kind of family thing.”

“Family thing.” I half snort. In fairness, she’d been more of a family to me than he’d ever been.

“Yes,” says Dad. “Alright, I have to go. I’ll see you on Sunday. Noon, sharp.” He breezes past me back out of the door without so much as a goodbye. I look down at the envelope—thick cream paper embossed with the House of Commons motif—and then at Nico. He looks half-stupefied still.

Finally, he says, “So that’s your dad, huh? Bit of an asshole isn’t he.”

This makes me smile. “Yeah, well, now you know where I get it.”

I leave him standing there as I head upstairs to change. At the top of the stairs, Ava comes out of the bathroom. She gives me a caught-out look, the explanation forming on her tongue, but I don’t have the fortitude to do it right now. I never do after seeing my father, so I move past her without saying anything and go straight into my room and close the door behind me.