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The Feature

Chapter 7: VII

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You could feel your pulse in every corner of your body, so strong you were certain that if you looked down, you would see your heart beating through your chest. Your cheeks were flushed hot, your mouth turning dry, lips parted in silence as you stared at him, like your voice had been stolen and he was the thief who took it.

An effect, he’d said. You, Quinn Armitage, had an effect on people? Had an effect on him? You wanted to ask exactly what he meant, but you were too stubborn, too scared to make a fool of yourself any more than you already had. So instead you cleared your throat, feigning confidence as you began to speak.

“Actually, I’m more than aware of the effect I have on people.”

“Oh you are…?” he replied, his voice deep and curious.

“Mhm. It usually involves them wanting to throttle me.”

He smirked. “I can relate to that urge.”

You raised an eyebrow and he let out a breathy laugh.

“Behave,” he said.

“I’m trying.”

You fell into another silence; eyes locked on each other like you were in a staring contest, waiting to see who would break first. But to your own surprise, it was you who looked away, glancing down bashfully to your lap and fanning your thumb through your notes.

“So I just, er-” You cleared your throat. “I just have a few more questions and then I’ll be out of your way.”

“No problem,” he replied politely, as if he sensed your fluster and had decided to show you mercy.

“So y-your… your new film, er- So your new film comes…” you trailed off, pressing your lips together and closing your eyes. “Sorry. Let me try that again. So your new film comes out… erm, it c-comes-” You stopped again, this time with a huff. “I’m sorry. I just, I have to ask, what effect were you talking about?”

“Hm?”

“You insinuated that I’m here right now because I’ve had some sort of effect on you. But you never actually told me what that effect is.”

He paused in thought, gently sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he looked at you, head cocked slightly to one side. But as his gaze trailed down to your phone on the table, the voice recording still running, you noticed his demeanour shift; the way he straightened his back, took a breath as he chose his words carefully.

“I think you’re very… endearing,” he said.

Your lip curled with malcontent. “Endearing…?”

“Yes. You’re good to talk to, which is obviously a positive thing when you’re an interviewer.”

“Right…” you said skeptically. “So after everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, you’re saying you gave me another chance because I’m… good to talk to?”

He glanced at the phone again, then back to you. “Mhm.”

You glared at him, eyes narrowed, assessing him as the voice in your head began to chime, like an angel on your shoulder telling you to let it go, Quinn. But of course you didn’t listen to it. You rarely ever did. You might as well have swatted it away as you leant forward, pressing the stop button on the recording.

“Okay,” you said. “So now that I’ve switched that off, are you going to tell me the real reason?”

He waited a moment before responding, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. It was as if he knew exactly what he wanted to say, but wouldn’t allow the words to surface.

“Quinn,” he sighed. “You’ve been trying so hard to stay professional, let’s not spoil it now.”

A gentle chill rippled through you, but you didn’t let it show, instead you sat back slightly, mirroring the way he was sitting by crossing one leg over the other, allowing your skirt to ride up, the heel of your boot to point towards him.

“Why would we be spoiling it?” you asked, mimicking a naivety that neither of you believed.

“I think you know why,” he replied, eyes falling on your sheerly covered thigh.

“No, I don’t, that’s why I’m asking.” You paused. “What about if I asked in the context of our interview? Could you tell me then?”

He rolled his eyes in what seemed to be a mixture of frustration and amusement; like he wished you would let it go, yet was also secretly glad you hadn’t.

“Mr Cumberbatch,” you said, putting on your best interviewer voice. “Hypothetically, say you invited a woman into your home, but then that woman did something very bad which led to a very heated confrontation… For what reason could you imagine ever affording that woman a second chance?”

He paused, trying hard to suppress a smirk. “Well, it depends,” he said, rubbing his fingertips over his beard. “Is this woman sorry for what she did?”

"Oh she’s very, very sorry,” you replied.

He made a deep hum in the back of his throat, pretending to deliberate. “And is she the type to, I don’t know, get down on her knees and beg for forgiveness? If I told her to?”

Another chill overcame you, but this time it was more than just a ripple. This time it flooded you completely, surging from your core and spilling into every last inch of you.

“If you told her to, I’m sure she’d oblige,” you said.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers gripped the arm of his chair.

“Well then I see no reason why I shouldn’t give her another chance,” he said.

“Because you want to see her on her knees?”

He looked straight at you, stilling his hands and lowering his voice. “Because I’ve already been picturing it…”

Your breath caught in your throat, the chill turning to pure fire as his words set you alight, burning an image into your mind of you on your knees at his feet, begging him, not just for forgiveness, but for everything.

But a sudden noise startled you back to reality; the sound of a familiar ringtone, the buzz of your phone against the wooden table. You let out a quiet gasp and reached for it immediately, looking at the screen and letting out a frustrated sigh.

“Every time,” Ben whispered.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I should answer this.”

“Go ahead.” He stood up, running a hand through his hair and picking up his glass. “Another drink?”

You nodded as you brought the phone to your ear, waiting until he left the room to speak.

“Nick,” you hissed.

“Hey,” he replied. “So I had another thought on my divine timing piece…”

“You know, for someone writing an article about timing, yours is shit.”

“Why?”

“I’m in the middle of the interview,” you whispered through gritted teeth, glancing over your shoulder to the door every few seconds.

“Oh fuck, sorry, I swear I forgot. How’s it going?”

“Things we’re getting very… interesting,” you said, fanning yourself with the papers from your lap. “Until you interrupted.”

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I! Just… text me later. I need to run this by you.”

“Fine, yes, okay. Bye.”

“Bye-”

You hung up the phone and placed it back on the table, screen up, voice recording still paused, like a stark reminder of what you were actually here for, of the promise you’d made to yourself to do this right. You let out a sigh and rose to your feet, straightening out your skirt and taking a deep breath before walking out of the room.

Ben was in the kitchen, crouched down at the open freezer, taking fistfuls of ice and dropping them into two fresh glasses. You stepped into the room and leaned your elbows against the island, watching him quietly as he straightened up, kicking the freezer door closed with his foot.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Yeah it was just a friend from work. I apologise for the interruption.”

“No need to apologise. I’m more than familiar with a poorly timed work call.”

You laughed softly, your eyes following him as he moved around the kitchen, the way his clothes clung to his body; broad frame beneath soft fabric.

“I only have a few more questions anyway,” you said, trying desperately to keep your interview on track.

He turned to look at you from the other side of the kitchen, blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Okay… What questions?”

“Mostly about your new film, and how you were still ‘married’ when you filmed it.”

“Again, Quinn, you don’t have to air quote my marriage.”

“Sorry,” you laughed.

“What about me still being married?” he asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, we know that you have a few… steamy moments in this film. So I wanted to ask if it’s hard to perform those kinds of scenes when you’re in a relationship. Do you ever feel guilty or uncomfortable?”

“No,” he replied casually.

“Never?”

He shook his head. “In the moment when you’re on set and in that character, the person you’re in the scene with is the only person who matters. You separate your real life from what’s happening on set.”

“Has it always been that way? Or is that something you had to learn over time?”

“I’ve never had a problem separating my real relationships from the work I’m doing; I’m an actor, it’s what we do. The romantic scenes in general though? They can be uncomfortable. But over the years I think I’ve learned to hide my awkwardness.” He laughed to himself. “When I first started out, even a screen kiss was the most terrifying concept. Now I practically have them down to an art.”

“An art?” You raise an eyebrow. “Someone thinks highly of themselves.”

“I just mean I have a way of approaching them, and it seems to work.”

“Care to elaborate? Advice to any budding actors who may read the piece?”

He dropped his head and chuckled softly. “Sure.”

You remained quiet, watching his every move as he uncrossed his arms and began to walk across the kitchen towards you.

“The first thing is proximity,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, joining you on the other side of the island. “As you deliver your dialogue, you allow yourself to drift closer and closer…”

You were close enough to see the speckles in his irises, the curve of his Cupid’s bow beneath the dark hair above his lip, close enough to be enveloped by the same strong, masculine scent that had drawn you in the first time you ever met.

“Then it’s pacing,” he continued. “You don’t want to finish your lines and jump straight in. You want to let the moment breathe, allow the tension to build.”

He moved closer and you could feel your heart thudding, your breath shallowing.

“Look into their eyes,” he said, narrating his every move. “Then their lips, then back to the eyes. Maybe a touch; fingers under the chin, a gentle motion.”

You felt his finger softly tilt your chin up, his gaze flitting between your eyes and your lips, just as he’d said.

“Inhale as you lean in, like you’re anticipating it,” he said, slowly closing the space between your faces. “Then when the lips finally touch, you let it out like a sigh.”

His lips connected to yours in a gentle yet firm kiss, so unexpected yet completely inevitable, somehow all at once. He parted his lips to exhale slowly, melting into you, the warmth of his breath turning you to liquid too. Then he pulled away, letting the tips of your noses rub together before resting his forehead against yours.

“Break away, just for a moment,” he whispered. “And when you kiss again… You give it everything.”

It was as if you were following his instructions, desperate to feel his mouth on yours again as you leaned in to kiss him hungrily, gripping his shoulders and pulling him down to you. He responded by taking your face in his hands, using his tongue to part your lips and deepen the kiss with a satisfied groan.

You felt a deep fluttering in your core, a hot pressure building between your legs as his body pressed against yours. You caught his bottom lip between your teeth and nipped it, making him gasp into your mouth before letting out a growl, digging his fingers into your hips and pushing you back against the hard marble.

You let him lift you, sitting you on the edge of the island and pushing himself between your parted thighs. His decadently long fingers slipped under the hem of your jumper, his nails grazing lightly over the bare skin of your back. You arched into him, moaning softly as you began to feel his erection against your aching centre, a cruel barrier of clothing between you.

You couldn’t quite believe this was happening; how you’d somehow gone from interviewing Benedict Cumberbatch to kissing him in what felt like a split second. How you wanted so badly to be professional, to do this right, to prove to yourself that you could do this, to prove that what Dan said about you was wrong.

Tell me what you’ve ever done in your life to deserve something besides opening your fucking legs for it.

You faltered, breaking the kiss and pulling away as Dan’s voice echoed in the back of your mind.

“What’s wrong?” Ben whispered.

You paused, catching your breath as your eyes darted across his face. He was so beautiful, you still couldn’t quite believe he was real.

“Nothing, sorry, I just… got a bit in my head for a second.” You shook your head dismissively and leaned in to kiss him again.

But before your lips could touch, he pulled his head back to look at you. “What about?”

“Oh I was just… Well Dan, my boss, he said I fuck my way into opportunities, didn’t he. And I worried for a minute that I was proving him right.“

His eyes widened in horror. “No-”

“No, I know.” You placed your hands on his shoulders. “I know this isn’t the same as what happened with him. I know that. I just needed a second to get out of my head.”

You kissed him again, trailing your fingers up the back of his neck and taking fistfuls of his hair. He groaned as you tugged on them, like it was taking all of his strength to resist you.

“Quinn,” he growled, breaking the kiss again. “We don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to, I do. I just… I don’t think I’m as over what happened yesterday as I said I was. But I’m fine, really, I-”

“I don’t think you are,” he interrupted. “And I don’t want to do this if there’s even a speck of doubt in your mind…”

You fell silent, staring at him as he stood between your parted legs, his hands planted firmly on the island either side of you. Why, just why did he have to be so nice? So decent, so considerate? Nice one, Quinn, you thought. Once again, your mouth manages to spoil everything.

You sighed. “So you’re really not going to…”

“No,” he replied with a subtle smile. “And I think you’ll thank me for it in the long run.”