Chapter 35 Jack
We’ve been filming for two weeks, and things have settled into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm.
There’s a buzz about what we’re doing, what we’re making here.
Everyone can tell they’re part of something special.
But today is different. Today is… potentially a problem.
One Cynthie and I have avoided talking about.
Steeling myself, I knock on the door of her trailer.
When she opens it, she looks nervous, but she shuts that down quickly enough, her face smoothing out into a mild expression of interest. She doesn’t realize that’s her tell—that there’s nothing mild about the real Cynthie Taylor.
Now I’m more convinced than ever that she’s feeling as twitchy as I am.
“Hey,” she says. “I thought I’d be the only one here this early.”
“Big day today.”
She opens the door, gesturing me inside, and closes it behind me. “Yeah.” She laughs but doesn’t quite hit the breezy note she’s aiming for. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve filmed a sex scene.”
“It’s the first time we’ve filmed one together.”
We face one another, and the trailer feels so small all of a sudden, like the walls are closing in around us.
There’s no space, no room to breathe. I should have done this somewhere else, somewhere wide and open where we could stand ten feet apart, and I’d be less distracted by her, although, who am I kidding?
All Cynthie Taylor has to do to distract me is exist.
“There’s nothing personal about this kind of scene,” she says now. “It’s going to be very professional.”
“I know that.” Somehow I manage to keep my tone even. “But don’t you think we need to talk about things, first?”
“Sure.” Cynthie shrugs, back in control of herself. “Communication is important.”
“Right,” I agree. “Right,” I say again as she looks at me expectantly. Now that I’m here, I have no idea how to actually have this conversation with her.
“Are you uncomfortable about filming the scene?” Cynthie asks, a crease appearing between her eyes, and her voice softens. “Because Nisha, the intimacy coordinator, is going to be there, but if there’s anything you want to discuss…”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with the scene,” I say, trying to sort through how I’m feeling. “I think it’s that I’m concerned about what this means for us.”
“For us?”
“There are a lot of… layers at work. We’re playing Edward and Emilia, but we’re also playing the two of us who are supposed to be in a relationship.
Brooke’s going to be there. I can’t work out if filming the scene would be easier or more difficult if we actually were together. Everything feels… messy.”
I half expect her to shut me down.
“I know what you mean,” she says softly.
I’m insanely relieved to hear her say it. “So filming an intimate scene in front of people who think we’re a couple might bring up some issues that we should discuss ahead of time,” I point out.
“Okay,” Cynthie agrees. “Let’s tackle it like we would any other part. What’s our motivation? If we were a couple, how would you feel about today?”
I clear my throat. “I like to think I’d be able to keep it professional,” I say, “to separate us from our characters, but I don’t know. If we were familiar with each other’s bodies… there would be more intimacy, wouldn’t there? Between people who really were lovers. An… ease.”
“Hmmm.” Cynthie tilts her head, thinking this over. Unfortunately, when she thinks things over, she tends to bite down on her bottom lip, and then my brain fills with white noise.
“But it’s not like we haven’t actually had sex before,” she points out, and that cuts through the white noise nicely. “We did, you know.”
“Yes. I was there,” I reply, dry as the desert, because she says it like it’s a detail I could have forgotten, rather than something that’s branded into my brain.
If your life really does flash before your eyes before you die like a highlight reel, let’s just say that particular scene is going to get some serious airtime.
“Right.” She swallows. “So, it’s not as if we’re not… what did you say?… familiar with each other’s bodies .”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, a little hoarse.
“But we were lovers,” Cynthie carries on relentlessly, and her own voice is low. “Once.”
“I know,” I grind out, shifting on my feet.
“So”—she nibbles on her lip again, and my blood spits and crackles in my veins—“we should be able to act the part. After all, it’s not like we’ve never seen each other naked…”
She steps toward me. Without even meaning to, I step toward her. We’re drifting closer to each other, that damned magnetic pull at work, and I’m struggling to remember what we’re even talking about.
“It’s not like we haven’t touched each other,” she continues, taking another step.
She’s so close now that I watch, fascinated, as a pretty spill of pink stains her cheeks.
“Or kissed each other,” she breathes, and the words themselves coast over my own lips.
“I’m not sure I remember,” I murmur.
“We could… remind ourselves,” she whispers. “For the film.”
“Yes,” I agree. “For the film.”
And then I lower my mouth to hers.
She sighs against my lips, her arms coming up around my neck, her whole body softening against mine, every delicious curve pressed to me, and I deepen the kiss, dragging that maddening bottom lip into my mouth, tasting her the way I’ve wanted to for weeks, for months, for years.
There’s no hesitation as we fall into the moment together.
Our bodies know each other, her hand coasting over my chest, her tongue brushing against mine.
It’s tender, something delicate and sweet, until it’s not.
Then there’s a spark that leaps and catches, and suddenly she’s shoving me back against the sofa, straddling my lap.
My arm bands around her waist, pulling her more firmly against me, driving my hips up as she grinds against me, right where I want her. We never break the kiss, hungrily demanding more and more of each other.
I hear myself growl, barely recognize the animalistic noise as coming from me, and she whimpers against my lips, a needy sound that has me growing even harder underneath her.
She pushes my shirt up, running her fingers over my stomach, and the muscles there jump at her touch.
I want those busy hands everywhere. I want her all over me.
My own fingers slip under the hem of her top, tracing the delicate skin on her back, petal-soft.
My hands skim over her, and it dawns on me that she’s not wearing a bra.
My entire body hums with approval, but there’s a dim, distant voice in my head that insists things are happening too fast. I had things to say to her.
Only now everything is hazy, as the blood pounds in my ears, and her tight little body writhes over me, and I can’t remember my own name, let alone why I wanted to talk.
Why would I want to do anything but this?
Why would I think about anything but how right she tastes, how perfect she feels?
Her fingers are on the buttons of my shirt, clumsy with haste as she undoes them, pushing it from my shoulders.
“Oh yes,” she whispers, amusement and lust mingled in her voice, a cocktail I want to get drunk on. “I’m starting to remember now.”
“I think I still need a refresher,” I huff, tugging at the hem of her shirt.
When I pull it over her head and she’s laid bare, we’re finally skin to skin.
The relief is incredible, and I brush my thumb over her nipple.
She arches into me with a gasp. I catch her mouth with mine again, and we kiss, slow and filthy.
God, I want to fuck her. I want to take her right now in this trailer.
As she squirms in my lap, starts kissing her way down my neck, I can’t think of a single reason not to. I reach for the buttons on her jeans and she gasps her agreement.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Cynthie?” Brooke’s voice calls. “Are you in there?”
Cynthie jerks back from me, her eyes wide with shock. Her hair is a tangled mess, her mouth pink and swollen.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
“Er, just a minute!” Cynthie calls as I try and fail to bundle her back into her T-shirt. “For fuck’s sake, Jack.” Her voice holds a hysterical edge of laughter. “Put your own clothes back on!”
“Right,” I mutter, unable to work out which way my shirt goes, as Cynthie pulls her top on and pushes her fingers hopelessly through her hair, trying to smooth it down.
“Okay?” she asks, after I’ve finished buttoning myself up.
“Yep,” I say, trying to look casual on the sofa.
Cynthie opens the door with a bright smile, and Brooke’s eyes widen in surprise. Unfortunately, the ever-present Declan hovers over her shoulder with his camera.
“Oh, sorry,” Brooke says, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“We were just rehearsing!” Cyn says brightly and then winces, clearly remembering what scene we’re shooting today. “I mean…” she trails off looking desperately to me for help.
Which gives me the opportunity to observe that her T-shirt is on inside out.
“We were going over the argument scene,” I say, gamely stepping in. “We’re shooting it later in the week. Big emotional moment. Lots of prep.”
Maybe this will go some way to explaining why our faces are so flushed.
I’m actually feeling pretty pleased with myself until I see Cynthie frantically gesturing to my shirt behind Brooke’s back.
I look down and realize I’ve buttoned it wrong.
It seems unlikely Brooke, or the camera, will miss it.
The more I get to know Brooke, the more I get the feeling she misses very little. Cynthie’s eyes close in silent defeat.
“Of course,” Brooke says, her face giving absolutely nothing away.
There is only the usual sunshine smile, no hint of twinkle, no knowing glimmer.
“And I really am sorry to interrupt, only, Cynthie, you said you’d sit in for the interview with Nisha, so we could talk about the role of the intimacy coordinator together?
” She sounds apologetic. “But obviously if it’s not a good time—”
“No, no!” Cynthie says brightly. “It’s a great time. Perfect.”
She shoots me a tortured look.
“Perhaps you could give us a minute alone to debrief,” I say, aiming for professional and realizing the second Cynthie starts choking to cover up a laugh that I’ve just made the world’s worst innuendo.
“Of course.” Brooke nods, serene. “We’ll wait outside.”
Cynthie closes the door behind her and slumps against it.
“Fuck,” she says, her voice low. “Do you think they know?”
“Your T-shirt is inside out,” I say.
“Fantastic.” Her eyes close again.
“Hey.” I shrug. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re in a relationship, so them catching us in a clinch is hardly newsworthy.”
I realize it’s the wrong thing to say the second it’s out of my mouth. Cynthie’s eyes shutter.
“Oh, yes,” she says distantly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Cynthie,” I start, “I didn’t mean… We really need to talk about what just happened.”
“Yeah, I know.” Cynthie rubs her forehead with her fingers. “Just not now. Can you go out and buy me a couple of minutes to deal with this?” She gestures to herself in a way that encompasses her hair, face, and disarrayed clothing.
“Sure,” I agree. “But I’m serious. We should discuss this.”
“I can’t wait,” she murmurs, and then her fingers start undoing the buttons on my shirt, but before I can get too excited, she starts doing them back up correctly.
“Go,” she says. “I’ll see you on set.”