delicate - charles leclerc

fabrik vip lounge

d e l i c a t e

˜"*°•.˜"*°•.•°*"˜.•°*"˜

your eyes whispered, "have we met?"
across the room your silhouette starts to
make its way to me.

.҉ .҉ .҉

"CAN I SIT?" He asks, a polite smile on his face.

I nod, and he sits across from me in the booth, a bottle of a drink I don't recognise is in one of his hands, his pointer and baby finger both have thick metal rings and his wrist has a few beaded bracelets. His other hand rests on his thigh, he has no rings on that one, I notice, but he's wearing a watch instead of any bracelets.

"I'm June," I say, pulling my eyes away from his hands.

"I know," he smiles, crossing one leg over the other. He's wearing black pants and a simple white shirt, his sleeves are rolled up past his elbows. "You're a model, and Christian Horner's daughter."

I nod solemnly. "You got me, Charles Leclerc."

"And you know me?" He asks, leaning back into the chair. There's a smug look on his face.

"All about you," I answer, I can feel a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The song picks up and his voice is lost in the music. "What?" I yell across the booth.
"Quoi?" I hear him yell. He waves his hand, and though I can't hear him, he's laughing as he stands up and walks over.

"Est-ce que je peux?" He asks, gesturing to the spot beside me.
I shift over to give him more room. "Oui."

Our legs touch off one another, his leg is warm against mine, his whole body is radiating heat.
"So, where are you from?" He asks, leaning into my ear.
"All over," I answer. "But my heart belongs to Paris, I was born there."
"Where is all over?" He asks, taking a sip of his drink.

"We were always moving," I answer, "I saw all of Europe before my eighth birthday. My mother was a model and my step-father was a talent manager or something."

"Where are you living now?" Charles asks, crossing one leg over the other, resting his free hand on his thigh.

"Paris," I say, sheepishly feeling my eyes wander. His drink had swapped hands, to the one without the rings, and the hand with the rings was resting on his upper thigh, his open palm near the bone of his hip, his fingers hovering just above his inner thigh.

"Have you been living there long?" He asks, his voice is in my ear before I register it. It's low, in volume and pitch, and I hear his little Monégasque accent much clearer than before. I can feel his breath on my neck and part of me is embarassed by how such an innocuous action has made my palms clammy and my face all hot.

"Five—maybe six—years now," I answer, crossing one leg over the other. A little part of me now remembers why I haven't spoken to Charles Leclerc in so long, but the majority of me is blaming it on the drinks and not my barren sex life.

I have to look anywhere but at him. I've seen countless numbers of photos, videos, and interviews—not to mention the edits—of Charles over the years, but he was completely different up close. He's polite, gentle, and incredibly sweet. I barely notice the passing time, the twenty minutes we spend together in the booth feels like an upsettingly short two when Nora interrupts.

"Juni! Come do shots with—" she slurs, leaning against the couch across from us. "Charles! Hello!" She smiles, stumbling over to meet him.

Every year when they release the driver line up, Nora will rate all of them, on a scale of one to ten, how likely she is to have sex with them. Charles has been a consistent nine, just under Lando Norris and Daniel Ricciardo with their nine-and-a-half and ten.

"I'm Nora, June's friend," she grins, extending her hand for him to shake. There's a smug look on his face as he does so.
"It's nice to meet you," he says, smiling sweetly at her, his cheeks pulled inwards by two perfect dimples.
"You too," Nora replies before turning to me. "Come dance with me, babes. Or do shots. Either will do."

I let out a quiet giggle as she interlocks her fingers with mine and pulls me off the seat. Nora drunkenly trudges onwards, doing her best to drag me along behind. When I turn around, Charles has stood up and is watching her drag me, a little smile playing on his lips. He gives me a little wave before he disappears as I'm pulled out to the dance floor.

A Rihanna song begins playing and immediately, Nora is in her element. She's gorgeous and she knows it. Her long black hair was curled perfectly that night, her minidress hugs her in all the right places and hangs loose in certain places just enough to leave you curious. She sways her hips from side to side, running her hands all over her body as I awkwardly side-step, unsure of myself.

After a few songs, Nora clumsily leads us to the bar to do a few rounds of shots. Then the song changes to a faster, more upbeat one and people start jumping up and down. Nora wraps her arm around my waist to keep herself from falling over, and I have to hold onto her too to stand straight.

The more I drank, the braver I found myself getting, and the hotter I started to find the club. My Ferrari jacket ended up on the floor of our booth as I finally showed off the dress I had on all night. I felt pretty. No, I felt hot. It was a black, slip mini dress, intricate and delicate lacing by the cups and within the slit on my upper thighs. I hadn't worn anything close to this daring in years, without realising it, I was flourishing in the end of Jack and I.

Part of me is questioning why I keep going back all these years, but another stranger, sadder part of me is questioning why I haven't gone back yet.

'No,' I think, remembering my promise to Nora. Remembering all of the nice things Nora has said tonight alone that Jack never said at all. It might be the vodka talking but I am fit.

I'm not ashamed to be sexy as fuck.

˜"*°•.˜"*°•.•°*"˜.•°*"˜

we're gonna get silly next chapter...uuh wink ;)
not that silly tho we're only on the like third one

also prepare for jack to suck so much balls he is the worst!!

<m3