Chapter 1: I
Chapter Text
“Good morning, all!” shouted Dan, clapping his hands together with a large white smile.
“Morning,” everyone replied unenthusiastically, their voices muddled and out-of-sync with one another as they shuffled to sit down at the table.
You didn’t say anything, opting instead for a sip of coffee and wincing as it burned the roof of your mouth.
“Oh come on.” He laughed, waving his arms like he was hyping up an audience. “We can do better than that. Good morning, all!”
The same lacklustre response rippled around the room, no one making any effort to lighten their tone, except for your friend Nick who was sitting beside you.
“Good morning, Mr Daniel, sir!” he shouted, giving a sarcastic salute, like a soldier addressing his captain.
You chuckled to yourself, elbowing him gently in his side.
You always loathed Dan’s monthly meetings; the laborious discussions around the long table that probably cost more than your yearly salary, the favouritism, the backhanded compliments, the asking for suggestions but never taking any of them on board. It was the perfect example of something that could have just been an email, the only positive being the surprisingly good coffee they brought up from the canteen.
Dan cleared his throat. “Right, well… Let’s get straight into it, shall we?” He pressed a button, bringing up his presentation on the screen behind him. “So the March issue! Very exciting, lots of great things in store for the mag. The whole concept is going to be about welcoming in Spring; so think fresh starts, new opportunities, positivity and wellness, all that shite.”
“All that shite,” Nick muttered under his breath.
You smirked.
“We’ve got some pretty big celeb interviews which I’ll be assigning today hopefully. Also some exciting features, some opportunities for you guys to think outside the box on what you want to write about.”
A woman across the table from you raised her hand. “Dan, sorry, I was just wondering how we’re going to factor in the coverage of London Fashion Week?”
He stared down at her blankly.
“Well, you see we’re currently in November and fashion week’s not until Feb, so it will fall into the March issue. I was just wondering if you had any plans to assign us to…”
She kept talking, but you found yourself zoning out, your eyes fixed on the mock-up magazine cover on the screen. You tilted your head as you stared at the name in its soft grey lettering and distinctive calligraphy: Draft - one of the biggest magazines in the world, the magazine you’d dreamed of writing for since the moment you picked up your first copy as a teenager.
You would sit in your journalism lectures at university and daydream about the groundbreaking articles you could write, the intimate interviews and hard-hitting stories. You would fantasise about awards you could win, the money you could make. But in the year you’d actually been on the writing staff, it had become clear that the only things Dan wanted to assign you to were fluff pieces and filler stories.
You were bored, frustrated, wondering what lengths you would have to go to for him to take you seriously, to trust you with something big.
“Okay so that’s that on the March issue for now,” he said, his voice snapping you back to reality. “We’ll circle back on it in a moment, but I just have to quickly touch on the upcoming issue.” He pressed his clicker again, bringing up a picture of the December cover. “Good news, our Editor Ms Ford has approved everything; all your pieces and articles and interviews are done, formatted and ready to print. However, we’ve had a sudden change of plan for our feature story. So Nick, your interview with whats-her-face is being moved to January.”
“Whats-her-face…” Nick replied. “Did you just call Kiera fucking Knightly ‘whats-her-face’?”
“Yeah, sorry. Head’s all over the place.”
“What news story could possibly be important enough to push the biggest interview of my career off the cover?”
“Well… don’t ask me how she’s done it, but Ellen- Ms Ford- she’s managed to secure an exclusive with your man Cumber fella about his split from that other whats-her-face.”
“How the fuck is he Editorial Assistant?” Nick whispered to you, leaning back in his chair, arms folded in a sulk.
“Are you talking about Benedict Cumberbatch and Faye Dennehy?” asked one of the other writers.
“That’s the one.” Dan snapped his fingers. “Yeah apparently they announced their divorce last week, refused to comment beyond their official joint-statement. But now he’s agreed to talk to Draft in a one-off interview. Total exclusive, only one he’s willing to do.”
The room filled with soft gasps and open mouths, people turning to each other and whispering excitedly. Your back straightened, your throat turning dry with a thirst that couldn’t be quenched by the coffee in your hands.
“Who gets to do it?” you asked, sending the room plummeting into silence.
“Hm? Sorry, what was that, Quinn?”
“Who gets to do the interview?” you asked again, maintaining a fierce eye contact you could have sworn made him blush.
“Well, I er, I haven’t decided yet. But I’ll be thinking it over and should have an answer by the end of the day. Anyway! Back to the March issue…”
You could barely concentrate for the rest of the meeting, your mind whirring with plans and ideas of how to get that interview. You knew you were the least likely candidate; probably not even an option in Dan’s mind. But if there was ever an assignment that would put your journalism career on the map, it was this one. You needed it, and you were going to do whatever it took to get it.
~*~
You curled your fist and tapped it against the door, waiting a moment before opening it and peering inside.
“Quinn, hi,” said Dan with a smile. He always seemed excited to see you, you could tell in the way his face changed, how he sat up straighter behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”
You stepped into the office and closed the door behind you. “Do you have a few minutes?”
He nodded, gesturing for you to sit in the armchair near the window.
You obliged and made your way across the room, sitting down and crossing one leg over the other. He joined you, taking a seat in the other armchair at your side.
You cleared your throat. “I was just wondering if you’d given any thought to the Cumberbatch feature?”
He leaned back slightly and let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You know, I think I’m going to go with Anna.”
“Anna?” Your lip curled with a disdainful grimace.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s a sensitive one, and she’s a veteran interviewer. It’s the safest choice.”
“Safest, maybe. But smartest? Most innovative?”
He laughed. “I don’t think this is the time for innovation.”
You rolled your eyes, turning your body slightly away from him.
He leaned forward, placing a hand on your thigh. “Quinn, your time will come. You’ve barely been with us a year.”
Your eyes flitted down to his hand. He noticed and pulled away quickly, shifting awkwardly in his seat. It was then that the cogs began to turn in your head, the sharp, rusted cogs you wished didn’t exist, because nothing good ever came when they sprung to life.
“Do you not like me, Dan? Is that it? Have I done something to upset you?”
“Don’t be silly, of course not.”
“Really? Because Nick only started here two months before I did, and he just got to do the December feature- well, I suppose it’s the January feature now.” You turned back towards him, switching your crossed legs, your heel grazing his shin.
“He only got that interview because he filled in for Charlie at the last minute,” he said.
“So let me fill in for Anna at the last minute…”
“Anna’s not busy,” he laughed. “I haven’t even asked her yet.”
You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So what’s it going to take then? To get you to… not ask her?”
His eyes fell to your foot as it lightly stroked his leg. “You really want this, don’t you.”
“Desperately,” you whispered.
God, you hated yourself. You hated how easy it seemed to be for you to ignore your moral compass; to stoop far below south even when it firmly pointed you north. It was as if your conscience had made friends with your Id, so instead of guiding it towards virtue, it simply turned a blind eye to all of its bad decisions.
“You know,” said Dan, lowering his voice. “It would be a serious breach of my power as Editorial Assistant, to… pull strings like that.”
“So how about I pull the strings?” you replied, making a conscious effort to glance down to his lips as you spoke. “You can just sit back, relax and be rewarded for giving me what I want.”
He didn’t answer, running his fingers over his smoothly shaven chin as he contemplated your offer.
“Come on, you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?” You leaned back, gripping the armrests with a smile. “Be honest, how many times have you fantasised about bending me over that desk?”
His eyes flitted to the desk and he shifted in his seat. You looked down to see what was making him so uncomfortable, immediately noticing the obvious erection beneath his ridiculously tight trousers.
“I can’t lie,” you said. “I’ve thought about it too.”
No you hadn’t.
Though he was handsome enough, relatively well-intentioned, and quite obviously well-endowed judging by the size of the bulge in his trousers, Dan just wasn’t your type. He was groomed to within an inch of his life; not a hair out of place, not a crease in his suit. He wore obnoxiously pointed shoes and tie clips and pocket squares, he would listen to motivational speeches as he did push-ups in his office at lunch, and he hardly ever got people’s names right.
“What was it you told me when I first started working here?” you said. “The only way to make it in this industry is if you’re ambitious and hungry for it.” You paused, leaning forward and brazenly placing a hand on his crotch. “I’m starving, Dan.”
You were making yourself cringe, so much so that you couldn’t believe he was actually buying into it. He tipped his head back and inhaled sharply before glancing over at the door, turning to look at you with a smile.
“Come here then and show me,” he said.
You laughed, taking your hand away and shaking your head. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’m not fucking you until my end of this bargain is set in stone.”
“Well surely you understand why I’d need some sort of advance on my end? A gesture of intent, a… promise to fulfil the agreement.”
You stifled a snarl. Had he seriously just asked you for a deposit on the sex you offered him?
“I reckon a blowjob should seal the deal nicely,” he finished.
“Go fuck yourself,” you whispered with a smile, before standing up and straightening out your shirt. “The offer’s on the table, Dan.”
He remained seated as you made your way to the door, watching as you opened it before glancing back over your shoulder.
“Just know that I’d do a really, really good job,” you said.
“With the feature or the…?” He gestured to his crotch.
You rolled your eyes. “The feature.”
You stepped out into the corridor and shut the door behind you, exhaling a shaking breath, a shudder rolling down your spine.
“You, Quinn, are an awful person,” you muttered to yourself.
~*~
Plumes of steam rose from the hot bath water, the scent of your favourite bubblebath enveloping you in a comforting, familiar hug. You lay back, pulling the heavy wooden tray closer to you, slowly and carefully, trying very hard not to send your laptop for a swim in the water.
It was dark outside, the wind howling in the cold November evening as you soaked in the warmth, trying to write, research, anything to take your mind off the events of the day you’d had; the regret seeping in every time you thought about the conversation in Dan’s office.
But you couldn’t help wondering about the man you’d suddenly become so desperate to meet, and soon found yourself searching him on Google:
Benedict Cumberbatch and
Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman
Benedict Cumberbatch and Claire Foy movie
Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hardy
Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston
Benedict Cumberbatch and wife
Benedict Cumberbatch and Faye Dennehy
“Wow,” you muttered. “Poor Faye, autocomplete did you dirty putting you sixth.”
You clicked on their names and began to scroll; looking at pictures of them on red carpets, how they smiled and waved as they walked hand-in-hand, how they shared small glances and kisses on cheeks as they posed for the cameras. You moved to a string of paparazzi shots of the couple talking intimately in an LA café, your eyes narrowing when you looked at the date on the photos.
“Hm,” you murmured.
You somehow ended up on an interview from October, pressing your lips together as your eyes trailed the text.
'And of course my lovely wife,’ Benedict begins to gush. 'She’s just a really special person and I always feel safe and at home when I’m with her. Our relationship is an immensely special and sacred thing, it’s what keeps me grounded.’
“How the hell do you go from 'special and sacred’ to divorced in the space of weeks?” you said.
You brought up an article on their split, sitting up and bringing your knees to your chest as you began to read:
BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH & FAYE DENNEHY DIVORCE AFTER TWO YEARS OF MARRIAGE.
“We have not taken this decision lightly, but it is ultimately the right one to make,” the pair wrote in a joint statement released on Tuesday evening.
After tying the knot just two years ago, actor Benedict Cumberbatch and fashion designer Faye Dennehy have called it quits on their marriage. The couple announced their decision in a joint statement via their separate PR teams on Tuesday. “We are eternally grateful to have had the privilege of loving, supporting and sharing our lives with one another over the past two years, and so it is with heavy hearts we announce our decision to part ways. We have not taken this decision lightly, but it is ultimately the right one to make, for us as individuals and as lifelong friends, which we are certain we will be. We ask for privacy during this time as we navigate this separation, but please be assured we are ending this marriage without malice or hostility, only joy, fond memories, and the upmost respect for one another.”
"Mhm,” you said sceptically. “Sure you are.”
You zoomed in on a picture of him; on his piercing blue eyes and strong bone structure hidden behind a scruff of dark facial hair. How had you never noticed how attractive he was before? You bit your lip as you plummeted further down the rabbit hole; the photoshoots, the press junkets, the red carpet appearances. It was only when your phone buzzed against the tiled floor that you realised you’d been practically salivating over him.
You leaned over the edge of the bath for your phone, sighing when you saw the text waiting for you.
Dan: Quinn, are you free on Saturday?
You: Depends…
Dan: Well Sat is the only day he can do so I need to know.
You sat up, the light of the phone screen reflecting in your wide, excited eyes.
You: Are you being serious? I have the feature?
Dan: Depends…
You rolled your eyes.
You: Very funny.
Dan: Thanks. You can expect an email with his PR briefing, off limits questions etc. & they want you to sign an NDA for his home address. Obviously.
You: Wait, it’s happening at his house??
Dan: Yep. Problem?
You: No.
Dan: Great. I expect the full feature written and on the Editor’s desk by Monday morning.
Dan: and I expect you on my desk by Monday afternoon.
You grimaced as you read over his final message several times, before putting your phone back on the bathroom floor and holding your breath as everything suddenly hit you; the euphoria, the complete and utter dread, somehow all at once.
You finally did it, your 'big break’, the chance to write something important, something interesting, something no other journalist in the world would ever get the chance to write. But how you got it, that’s where the dread came in; the sick, sludgy pit in the bottom of your stomach that made you feel dirty, guilty. Because, if you were truly honest with yourself, this wasn’t the first time you’d done something like this.
As you thought about the deal you made with Dan, memories of university came pouring back; the sight of the 'fail’ on your final essay, the measly amount of credits stopping you from passing an entire module. You remembered how you stormed into your tutor’s office and demanded he change your grade, how your fighting turned into flirting, which turned into sex, which resulted in you walking out with the grade you wanted but never truly earned.
You sank down beneath the water with a groan, disgusted with yourself, with the realisation that almost every success you’d ever had was earned through sex and manipulation. But perhaps you weren’t the one that should be disgusted - the world was built on sexualising women, you thought, were you really the villain for using that to your advantage? For playing men at a game they created?
Your laptop made a noise, pulling you back from the depths of your own guilty mind. You wiped the water out of your face and slid closer, clicking on the new email in your inbox, the terms of Mr Cumberbatch’s interview as detailed by his publicist.
Oh my god, you thought. This is real, this is actually happening.
Chapter 2: II
Chapter Text
Surely it wasn’t as easy as this, you thought. It couldn’t be.
You were standing, eyes narrowed, looking up at the house that your Maps app had brought you to, the address you’d taken straight from your emails. The street was dark and quiet; soft, warm lights glowing through the windows of the house, a car parked on the driveway, porch light on. No, this couldn’t be the right place. He was a celebrity, a huge, filthy rich, world-famous celebrity. There was no way he wouldn’t at least have a gate, a guard of some kind, cctv- oh.
You looked up to see a small camera blinking above the door. Great. By now there was probably a security team somewhere debating whether to call the police on the strange woman loitering around Benedict Cumberbatch’s house. God, you were going to end up in the papers.
The front door opened, interrupting your internal fretting. You glanced up to see a head peering around at you, a set of pale blue eyes staring at you in confusion.
“Can I help you?” he called out.
Shit.
“H-hi, Benedict?” you shouted back, making your way up the path. “I’m Quinn Armitage with Draft Magazine, I’ve come to interview you.”
He regarded you for a moment, his gaze trailing up and down the length of you a few times. “Right, okay. Do you have any credentials?”
“Er, yeah, sure.” You dug around in your bag and pulled out your work pass, along with a business card. You dusted them off and handed them both to him. “Do you want to see my driving license too?”
Oh god. Why did you say that? You hadn’t even made it through the door and you were already terrified you’d offended him.
“I’d prefer a passport,” he replied, his mouth twitching with a smile.
You laughed; half with relief, half because it was actually quite funny.
He stepped aside and invited you in. “I apologise for the interrogation, I just had to be sure you were… well, you. I usually get to speak with the person beforehand and I wasn’t expecting you to be so…”
“Unbelievably beautiful and gorgeous?” you joked, walking past him into the hallway.
He chuckled and closed the door.
“Yeah,” you continued more seriously. “Sorry about not getting in touch beforehand. It’s all just been very last minute. I assure you I’m not a crazed fan posing as a journalist.”
“Somewhat of a fan at least, I hope?” he laughed, reaching out his hand. “Can I take your…”
“Oh, sure, thanks.” You slipped off your coat and handed it to him. “And of course I am. A fan, I mean. Is there a person out there who isn’t?”
“Actually there’s many.” He laughed again.
“Ah, well I know the feeling. I got a death threat once over an article I wrote.”
“What was it about?”
“Aromatherapy.”
He scoffed. “People get pissed off about the weirdest things.”
You nodded absentmindedly, too busy gazing around the beautifully decorated hallway, the tall ceilings and glossy wooden staircase.
“This is a nice house,” you said.
“Thank you,” he replied, ushering you down the hall.
“I was honestly quite surprised when you opened the door,” you said as you walked with him. “I was half-expecting some kind of airport-level security procedure before I actually got to you.”
“What, like bodyguards on the doorstep? A metal detector in the hall?”
“Something like that.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s just me here. And I’m certainly not going to be patting you down.”
“Aw what a shame.” You paused. “That was a joke.”
He allowed a slight smile as he tucked your coat away in a cupboard under the stairs. “My publicist did look you up earlier today though. She likes to vet the journalists before the interviews.”
“You researched me?” your face fell.
“My publicist did.”
“What did she find?”
“You seem concerned.” He raised an eyebrow. “Got things you don’t want people to find out?”
“Haven’t we all?”
He breathed out a laugh before looking down at you. “She just noticed you’ve never done a feature of this… magnitude before.”
“What are you talking about? I think my piece on the country’s favourite Christmas dinner was quite groundbreaking,” you said sarcastically.
He laughed again. You liked his laugh. It was rich and throaty, made his face warmer, his eyes crease at the corners.
“Would you like a drink before we start?” he asked.
“Sure.”
You followed him into the kitchen, blowing out a puff of air as you looked around the large, clean space.
“This is… wow.”
“Thank you. Though I can’t take all the credit. I literally just pointed at the kitchen I wanted in a catalogue.” He turned to you. “Alcohol drinker?”
“Yep,” you replied.
“Any preferences?”
“Whatever you want me to have.”
He nodded at you with a smile. “So, it’s Quinn, right?”
“It is.”
You stood watching him make your drinks, and couldn’t help but begin putting pen to paper in your mind for the feature:
He offers me a drink. I accept, expecting him to pull a few bottles from the cupboard, offer me a glass of something-or-other with soda. But when he takes a fresh orange from the fruit bowl and slices it - carefully saving the peel - muddles sugar and bitters together in the bottom of a whiskey glass, I realise he’s making me an Old Fashioned. It’s rather fitting, I think, that the man the world has dubbed the ‘classic English gentleman’, the 'internet’s boyfriend’, would take the time to perfectly prepare a cocktail for a woman who had come to pry into his personal life.
He stands at the counter in a plain white sweatshirt, a pair of pinstripe trousers cuffed at the ankle. His hair is short, brunette, his face sun kissed and adorned with a smattering of dark facial hair, reminiscent of his latest blockbuster. He smiles at me as he hands me my drink, sucks fresh orange juice off his thumb as he watches me take my first sip. And in that moment I realise, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would fuck this man senseless if he let me.
Oh no.
Take it back, you thought, scratch it, scribble it away.
“Is it okay?” he asked, noticing the look on your face.
“Oh.” You shook your head. “Yes, yes it’s great, thank you. Sorry, I’m just a bit nervous. It’s weird, I feel more nervous for this than I do on first dates.”
“It does feel sort of like a blind date, doesn’t it,” he chuckled before raising his own drink. “Here, liquid courage.”
You clinked your glass against his with a smile.
“I thought we could chat in the study,” he said. “Would that be okay?”
“Absolutely.”
You followed him back into the hall and through a door nearby, once again blown away as you laid eyes on the tall ceiling and large window looking out over the private back garden. There were bookshelves, a desk piled high with scripts and notebooks, a button back couch and matching armchair in the centre of the room.
You sat down on the couch, placing your drink on the table beside it. “This is a really nice house.”
“You already said that,” he replied with a smirk, taking a seat opposite you in the armchair.
“Yeah sorry, I have this thing where I tend to say every thought that comes into my head out loud.”
He laughed. “We have that in common.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I had to promise my publicist I’d be on my best behaviour tonight, otherwise she would’ve insisted on being here with us.”
“To make sure you don’t say something you shouldn’t?”
“Exactly.”
You laughed. “Can I ask then… What made you decide to do this at all?”
“Off the record?”
You held up your hands. “Haven’t even started the interview yet.”
He nodded. “Well, I owed Ellen Ford a favour.”
“Our Editor?”
“Mhm.”
You paused, waiting for him to continue, and began to laugh when you realise he wasn’t going to elaborate. “Why did you owe her one?”
“Now, Quinn, we just met.” He said with a smile; joking of course, but firm. The most charming 'I’m not telling you anything’ you’d ever heard.
“Fair enough.” You began rummaging through your bag for your notebook and pen, stopping when he continued to speak.
“And honestly…” He sucked the air in through his teeth. “The statement Faye and I put out maybe isn’t going down as well as we hoped. The rumours have started, gossip, you know. So I think I just need to lay it all out. Once. Set the record straight and be done with it.”
“And I’m sure the pay helps.”
He didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry. I-”
“I’m not being paid for this,” he said bluntly.
“It’s none of my business either way.”
Great, you thought. Foot in mouth already.
“Really, I’m so sorry,” you persisted. “It’s that saying my thoughts aloud thing again. Gets me in a lot of trouble.”
He cleared his throat and took a sip of his drink. “What did you think of the statement? Y'know, since you clearly don’t hold back.”
You pondered for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I thought it was very… idealistic.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Idealistic…”
“Well, yeah. I mean, we all like to make people think our breakups are amicable and mature and 'nothing but best wishes’,” you airquoted sarcastically. “But if it was all so perfect, we wouldn’t be breaking up in the first place, would we?”
He stared at you for a moment before the corner of his mouth began to lift in amusement. “Can people not simply realise they work better apart?”
“'Work better apart’ is just a polite way of saying 'my life would be better if you weren’t in it.’”
He threw his head back and let out a laugh.
“Sorry,” you muttered.
“No, no…” He leaned back casually, crossing one leg over the other and rubbing his lips with his fingers. “This is going to be fun.”
You took out your notebook and pen, a copy of the emails from his PR team and set your phone on the table to voice record. The entire time, you felt his eyes on you, observing your behaviour, no doubt comparing it to the thousands of other interviewers he’d sat with.
There was a slight smile on his face; an almost-smirk, like he sensed your inexperience, or perhaps he could tell there was a side to you that wasn’t going to pander to him; wasn’t going to stroke his ego or accept his bullshit answers. Either way, the sight of him watching you was enough to make the pen shake in your hand as you quickly scribed on the blank page.
Benedict Cumberbatch interview notes.
• nice house
• good cocktail
• smells good
• voice. Jesus Christ. His voice.
• would let him absolutely destroy me-
No, Quinn, unprofessional. You crossed a line through the last point, before looking at the whole list and scribbling through them all.
“What are you writing?” he asked.
“Hm?” your eyes shot up to meet his. “Oh, just… getting myself in order.”
He nodded and took another sip of his drink.
“So…” you crossed one leg over the other, mirroring him. “What’s your on the record answer to my earlier question?”
“About why I wanted to do this?”
“Mhm.”
He thought for a moment. “I think the memory of Faye and I’s relationship deserves it. We shared two years of our lives together and we loved each other very much - still do, just not in the way we once did. And if any 'details’ about why we chose to get divorced are going to be out there, I think it’s only fair they come from my mouth, no one else’s.”
“What about her mouth?”
“She’s aware I’m talking to the magazine,” he replied simply.
You nodded. “I suppose the big question, then, is why. Why did you choose to split?”
He breathed out a laugh. “What happened to easing in to the big questions?”
“I’m not the type to ease in to things. I prefer to go straight for the throat.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
You dropped your head, almost blushing.
“It was coming for a while,” he said. “We grew apart, and in the end we couldn’t avoid it anymore.”
You didn’t realise you’d made a face until you saw his brow furrow.
“What?” he asked.
“Sorry it’s just… I was doing some research and… as recently as a couple of weeks ago you were gushing about how perfect your relationship was.”
He took a long, significant pause as he looked at you. “Being in the public eye sometimes requires you to bend the truth to save face.”
“What about the paparazzi shots of you together in LA just last week? Looked like you didn’t even know you were being photographed…”
He paused again, shifting in his seat. “I thought this was an interview, not an interrogation.”
You laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. Well-”
“Let me ask you a question,” he interrupted, cocking his head, the foot of his crossed leg bouncing slowly.
Your back straightened.
“Have you ever been married?” he asked.
“No.”
“Ever been close?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I get bored easily.”
He dropped his gaze, suppressing a smirk. “Clearly you haven’t met the right person yet.”
You steadied your breath. “Speaking of getting bored easily… Do you have anything you’d like to say in regards to the rumours of infidelity in your marriage?”
“Only that there wasn’t. I had no reason to cheat.”
“Did she?”
He glared at you, lowering his voice. “She was perfectly satisfied.”
You felt a shiver ripple down your back, a flutter in your stomach.
“But back to you…” he continued. “Why do you think you get bored easily?”
“Do you always turn your interviews around on the journalist?”
“Not really. I’m just curious.”
You took a deep inhale, pressing your lips together as you tried to form a response. “There’s a PG answer… or the truth.”
“I’ll take the truth.”
“Now, Benedict, we just met.” You gave him a sarcastic smile as you repeated his own quip back to him. “So, an Old Fashioned. Would you say that’s your favourite cocktail?”
He almost snorted out a laugh. “You’re asking me about cocktails? After what you just said?”
“I need something I can actually publish.”
“Alright,” he said, running his fingers over his jaw, nails scratching against his beard. “Tell me your answer - the truthful one - and I’ll humour your god awful cocktail question.”
You laughed. “That’s not how interviews work.”
“This isn’t really shaping up to be a regular interview, is it.”
It wasn’t? Oh god, what did he mean by that? Were you really that terrible that you’d already blown this?
You cleared your throat. “Okay… I’m well aware that I can be abrasive, selfish, disinterested. And because of that, men tend to assume I’m hard to please, they get whiny, needy, agreeable.” You sighed, tilting your head as you looked over at him. “I find thatboring. I don’t want someone agreeable. I want someone who isn’t scared to tell me to stop being a fucking bitch and put me in my place.”
He regarded you quietly for a moment, your words hanging in the air between you. “Sounds like you should be careful what you wish for…”
“Oh no, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want someone who’s going to treat me bad-”
“No. You just want someone who knows when to treat you bad.”
Your breath hitched, but you tried to hide it, returning to your notebook and picking up your pen again.
Flirting with me?
“It’s very satisfying,” he said.
You choked slightly, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I-it… is?”
“The drink,” he said, holding up his almost-empty glass. “That’s why it’s one of my favourites. A lot of effort goes into making it right, but when you do, the reward is…” he pressed his finger and thumb together.
“You seem like you take that approach to many things; drinks, press statements, acting…”
“Relationships?” he finished with a laugh.
You giggled awkwardly. “I realised after I started saying it that it probably wasn’t the most appropriate analogy, considering your current situation.”
“It’s actually the perfect analogy,” he replied. “Faye and I, we… had all the right ingredients, put lots of time into making it, but in the end, it just didn’t taste right.”
You paused. “That’s going to sound so fucking good in my article.”
He let out a hearty laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.
You cocked your head, taking a moment to look at him. Even his hands were exquisite; large yet delicate, long fingers and perfectly groomed nails.
“Can I ask…” you began. “Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?”
He held his hand out in front of him, looking down at it for a moment. “Don’t really know,” he said, sliding the gold band off his finger and placing it on the table beside him.
There was no emotion in his action; no sadness or remorse, no bemoaning the woman he’d promised to love forever when she placed it on his finger two years ago. Watching him remove it was like watching a prisoner free themselves of their shackles; like he was relieved to take it off, like his hand weighed less in its absence.
Split wasn’t as amicable as he says it was. You wrote in your notebook.
“Benedict…” you began cautiously.
“Quinn?” he replied, mocking the seriousness of your tone.
“Have you started seeing someone else since your separation?”
His posture shifted, hands moving to the arms of his chair. “That was on my 'don’t ask’ list…”
“Oops…” you said bluntly, fully aware you’d been told sternly by his publicist not to go there.
He sat forward, taking a deep breath, his eyes burning through you. “Why do I feel like that question wasn’t for your article?”
“What else would it be for?”
“You.”
“Well, I do have a vested interest, since I’m the one bringing this to the public…”
He leaned back, shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “In the whole time we’ve been talking, you’ve only gained about three minutes of useable recording,” he said. “Don’t act like this conversation’s been purely for the magazine.”
“Wait, I’m sorry, so you really think me, Quinn Armitage, journalist from Draft who met you two seconds ago, was asking you, the great almighty Benedict Cumberbatch if he’s available? Like I think I’d even have a chance?” you scoffed. “I’m doing my job, sir, asking the questions everyone else is too scared to.”
His face changed the moment you called him ‘sir’. You couldn’t tell if it was the word itself, or the sarcastic tone with which you said it. Either way, you began to regret it when he sat forward in his chair, reaching over and pausing the recording.
“So,” he said, his voice dark and gravelly. “If I asked you to come over here right now, told you to ‘stop being a fucking bitch’ and ‘put you in your place’, you’re saying you wouldn’t want that?”
You felt a rush of warmth to your core, a deep, heavy throbbing that made you want to squirm in your seat.
“I don’t think I’m being a bitch,” you replied in a stern whisper, purposely missing his point. “And I deeply apologise if my question offended you.”
He glared at you for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. But before he could utter a word, his phone began to ring. You watched as he pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen and sighed.
“I have to take this,” he said, standing up and walking towards the door. “I’ll be one moment.”
He grabbed a grey, woollen coat from the desk on his way out, shrugging it on as he answered the phone.
You sat perfectly still as you listened to his voice fade down the hall, the sound of a door opening and closing, his silhouette appearing in the back garden through the window as he paced back and forth.
You covered your mouth and gasped, like you’d been drowning and finally came up for air. How had you managed to get here? It was like you couldn’t help yourself; the questions you knew you shouldn’t have asked, the glances and the flirting you knew you should have held back.
You slumped against the back of the couch, scrawling in your notebook as Benedict’s muffled voice sounded through the window.
• You slept with your lecturer for a grade
• You offered to sleep with Dan for a job
• Now you want to sleep with Benedict when you’re supposed to be interviewing him. And he knows it!
• What the fuck is wrong with you?
You slammed the notebook closed and shut your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took long, deep breaths, trying to calm yourself, to ignore the ache still lingering between your thighs.
He was still talking on the phone. You leaned forward, glancing at him through the window and moving back before he saw you. Then you stood up, grabbing your phone off the table, your legs moving independently from your brain as they carried you out of the room and back into the hallway.
You wandered around the house, stopping to look at pictures on the walls, awards on shelves you didn’t dare touch. No pictures of his ex-wife, you thought, strange. You made your way upstairs, walking aimlessly along the landing and peering into rooms, knowing you shouldn’t, but too curious to stop.
You reached his bedroom, able to tell it was his from the slept-in sheets and yesterdays clothes draped over a chair. On the bed was a laptop; lid up, screen dark.
“Don’t, Quinn,” you whispered to yourself. “Walk away.”
But of course, you didn’t listen. Instead you stepped into the room and hurried over to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling the laptop towards you. You tapped a key and watched as it came to life, a string of emails between Benedict’s publicist and his ex wife’s sitting open on the screen.
“Oh, fuck me,” you said as your eyes trailed over it.
Mr Cumberbatch will be giving one interview to Draft Magazine regarding the divorce. As per the agreement, he will not disclose the nature of his marriage to Ms Dennehy nor any details of the contract or subsequent termination of said contract. He will remain in full support of the previously released statement and will not falsify any wrongdoing by either party.
We hope Ms Dennehy can support this decision, as both Mr Cumberbatch and I feel it is necessary to the authenticity of the story.
“Contract?” you muttered, clicking on another email from Faye herself dated a month earlier.
Hi Ben,
Hope you’re well. I’m just getting in touch to see if you’ve thought more about the story you want to use for our ‘divorce’? I’m happy to just go with the whole ‘we grew apart’ thing, but want to hear from you first. In the meantime, my publicist said it would be good for us to meet up when you’re in LA next month - walk around, let ourselves be spotted together. She thinks it’ll buy us some time while the lawyers write up a termination of the contract. Let me know!
Best wishes,
Faye.
“It was a fucking showmance?”
You pulled your phone out and opened the camera with shaking hands, unsure why exactly you were doing it, and hating yourself more and more with every photo you took of the screen.
“What are you doing?” his voice startled you.
You snapped your head around quickly to see him standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed in a blend of anger and fear.
“I…”
Chapter 3: III
Chapter Text
You finally understood what people meant when they said ‘my soul left my body’. Because for a moment, you were sure you’d felt it. Your skin grew cold and your lungs deflated, your bones turning hollow as his voice echoed through them.
It was as if you were witnessing the interaction play out from the other side of the room, like a ghostly spectator, watching yourself rise from the bed with a startled gasp, Benedict standing in the doorway.
“I… I- I was… erm-”
You saw the moment his eyes fell to the laptop on the bed, the realisation washing over him as you clutched your phone in your hand, turning his complexion almost as pallid as your own.
“Were you taking pictures?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, lines forming between his brows.
He walked across the room and moved you aside gently to get a glimpse of the laptop screen, the emails reflecting in his stunned blue eyes. He turned to look down at you, his gaze flitting between your horrified face and the phone in your hand, neither of you saying anything; both scared, but for entirely different reasons.
You noticed his fingers twitch at his side, his chest rising and falling quickly, and you knew immediately what he was about to do. You took a step back as he made a swipe for the phone, pulling your arm out of his reach just in time. He stared down at you, stunned by your audacity, and truthfully, so were you.
“Give it to me,” he said.
“Can we just talk about-”
He made another attempt to snatch it, instead catching you by the wrist as you tried to dodge him again. You tightened your grip on the phone as he pulled you towards him, battling with you to prise it from your fingers.
“No,” you gasped as you felt your hold loosening, until you finally let go completely.
He took the phone from you and held it above his head where you couldn’t reach, like a playground bully teasing a child much smaller than himself. You gave up and let your arms drop to your sides, watching as he turned his body away from you and began trying to unlock it.
You shook your head. “I’m not giving you the pass-”
He turned back and held the screen up to you, unlocking it immediately with Face ID.
You huffed.
“Wow,” he gave a disappointed sigh as he scrolled through the phone. “So taking photos of people’s private emails, is that common practice or?” he asked sarcastically.
“I’m really sorry…” you said quietly, sternly, like you were trying to convince yourself just as much as him. “Just delete them.”
He looked down at you. “Thank you, I hadn’t thought of that.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Did you send them to anyone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Mm. Forgive me for not trusting you.”
You glanced down to see him scrolling through your emails; your outbox, sent box, drafts, trash.
“I told you,” you said. “I swear I didn’t send-”
“What about texts…”
Your eyes widened, your heart rattling in your chest. “Don’t-”
You reached out to snatch the phone from him, but he turned quickly, stepping back and watching as you stumbled onto the bed. You tried to stand but he held his index finger up at you, like he was instructing you to stay, to be quiet, to behave, before returning his attention to the phone.
You sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at him with shaking breaths as he quietly sifted through your texts and messages, your stomach dropping when you saw his eyebrow raise curiously.
“I expect the full feature written and on the editor’s desk by Monday morning,” he began to read aloud. “And I expect you on mydesk by Monday afternoon…”
You stayed quiet, frozen in place.
“Well,” he said casually. “I think we better go back downstairs.”
“I’d rather just leave-”
“Downstairs,” he ordered as he began to walk towards the door. “Or I can call the police if you’d rather?”
You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before standing up and following him out of the room.
There was silence as you made your way back down to the study. He opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for you to walk in first. You obliged, returning to your spot on the couch and sitting tentatively, like a suspect entering an interrogation.
Your eyes followed him as he closed the door and walked across the room, your phone still in his hand. He hadn’t even removed his coat, and it made you picture the moment he returned from the garden to find you gone, how he must have rushed around the house in search of you, terrified of what you might stumble across.
He sat opposite you in the armchair, legs parted, glaring at you. It was a glare that made your stomach coil, because he looked like he wanted to devour you and destroy you, somehow at the same time.
After a long bout of silence, you were the first to break.
“Look, I am so sorry-”
“You fucked your boss for a job?” he interrupted, almost sneering at you.
You were caught off guard, your ears pricking, face warming with indignation. “I didn’t fuck him. I made him think I wanted to fuck him. There’s a difference,” you replied flippantly.
“Either way, you sold yourself out just to get this interview with me…”
“To get this interview, full stop. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not flattered, I’m disgusted.”
“Then why won’t you just let me go?”
“Because you’re not going anywhere until this interview is done.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his parted thighs. “We’re going to sit here and we’re going to finish it… Then you’re going to delete it all.”
“That seems like a waste of time.”
“Exactly. You waste my time, I waste yours.”
You watched as he brought up the voice recorder on your phone and set it down on the table beside him. He was actually serious, he was going to make you finish this.
You clenched your jaw. “I said I’m sorry. It was… it was invasive and unprofessional, okay, I admit that-”
“You think that’s unprofessional?” He laughed. “Exactly how many dicks have you sucked to get where you are?”
The warmth in your cheeks turned to pure fire, your back straightening in offence. You couldn’t believe the charming, endearing gentleman who’d mixed you a drink and tried to make you feel comfortable had just said those words. It made you realise just how mad you’d made him. But in true Quinn fashion, you just couldn’t back down.
“And just how many people have sucked yours while you’ve been convincing the world you’re the perfect husband?”
He scoffed. “Are you even a real journalist?”
“Of course I am.”
“Sure. Just one with no integrity.”
You laughed. “I’m the one with no integrity? That’s interesting, coming from the man who’s spent the last two years in a sham marriage.”
His face sharpened with tension as he leaned back, fingers digging into the arms of his chair.
“Why?” You shook your head. “Why would you ever need to do that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh come on, you might as well be honest with me now.” You breathed out a laugh. “You think I’d print any of this knowing you could out me as a boss-fucking slut to the entire world?”
He groaned with frustration. “I did it on the advice of my team, alright? It was good for public image at the time, award campaigning, that sort of thing. I get married and the media labels me a loving, dedicated husband; I get to avoid scandals, unwanted attention, meanwhile the public see me as relatable, loyal-”
“So you’re not those things?”
He paused, before speaking in a low, gritty voice. “I believe I am.”
“What was in it for her?”
“Exposure.” He shrugged. “What’s better for a fashion designer than getting to walk red carpets? She got to wear her designs in front of the entire world, attend events where she could network and promote herself. Within a year of being my wife, her label made millions in revenue.”
“So it was a business agreement…”
“You saw the emails.”
“Was it purely transactional?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you fucking?” you asked bluntly.
He fell silent for a moment, debating with himself over whether to entertain your question. “We slept together once, a couple of months into the arrangement,” he finally said. “But there were no feelings there, and we quickly realised it worked better when we stuck to the rules.”
“So why end it? If it was working out so well?”
"Because we both want children.” He paused. “Obviously not with each other.”
You narrowed your eyes, thinking his words over, the things he’d said to you earlier.
“Right.” You pressed your lips together. “So technically, you lied before when you said there was no cheating….”
“There wasn’t,” he insisted. “We didn’t have under-the-table relationships. There aren’t secret partners out there waiting to start families with us. We just knew we couldn’t go on any longer if that’s what we wanted.”
“Really?” you asked skeptically.
“Really.” He almost snarled. “Do you think with my level of fame I’d be stupid enough to get caught shagging another woman when I’m supposed to be married?”
You shrugged, sinking back slightly in your seat as you began to mumble. “Two years just seems like a long time to go without sex.”
“I’m aware…” he growled.
“Is that why you’re so angry?” You just couldn’t help yourself. “All that pent up sexual frustration-”
“I’m angry because I welcomed you into my home and you violated my privacy.”
You actually felt bad, your gaze dropping to your lap.
“What were you looking for?” he asked, lip curling in disdain. “What exactly were you expecting to find?”
“I don’t know. Just… everything you do is so polished, so clean cut. I was looking for the dirt.”
“The dirt…”
“We all have it. Though I must admit I was expecting something more along the lines of handcuffs on the headboard, not a full blown showmance.”
“That’s what you think of me? 'Polished, clean cut’?”
“That’s what you want people to think, right? That’s the whole reason you got married in the first place.”
He seemed offended, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
You narrowed your eyes. “Does it bother you? That I viewed you that way?”
He stayed quiet for what felt like an eternity, glancing over at your phone before finally letting out a long breath. “No.”
“If you’re deleting all of this then why bother lying?”
“I’m not lying.”
“I’m struggling to believe you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because right before you went out to take that phone call, you were practically seconds away from asking me to come over there and fuck you.”
He gave a cynical laugh deep in his throat. “I was actually trying to get you to admit that you asked a question for personal curiosity.”
“Well, I am a curious person… clearly.”
“Clearly.”
You fixed your eyes on him; the strong posture and stern expression, the way he commanded every last inch of the space his body occupied.
“You really only slept with her once?” you asked.
“Yes?”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“Just… if I was the one playing house with you, I’m not sure I’d have managed to abstain.”
He scoffed. “Are you flirting with me right now?”
“Not particularly. I just have a tendency to say every thought that comes into my head, remember?”
He smirked, rubbing his jaw with his fingers as he leaned forward. “Sorry to disappoint you, Quinn, but you don’t get to fuck your way out of this one.”
You were offended, perhaps even hurt, but you refused to let it show. Instead you crossed one leg over the other and gave a wry smile.
“In spite of what you may think, Benedict, sex isn’t a currency for me. I’m not going to come over there and offer to sit on your dick in exchange for silence.”
“Such a way with words.”
“Maybe that’s why I write for a living…”
You noticed another smirk, this time more genuine, like even after everything you’d said to one another, he was still amused by you.
“I think the silence is pretty much already guaranteed, don’t you?” he said.
“Then what can’t I fuck my way out of?”
“The rest of this interview.”
“Interview.” You chuckled. “Let’s be honest, this stopped being an interview way before I found that laptop.”
“How so?”
“Well you said it yourself; we’d been talking for ages and I only had about three minutes of useable material.”
“Maybe that’s because you weren’t asking the right questions.”
“Oh you mean the questions about the 'love of your life’ Faye Dennehy? Or why you wanted to do this interview in the first place? Or was it me asking what your favourite fucking cocktail was?”
He rolled his eyes.
“I may have done something really shitty, Benedict, but don’t act like I’m the only one who’s been unprofessional tonight. You were the one purposely derailing this entire thing from the second we sat down.”
“Unprofessional.” A laugh escaped through his nose. “This is what my life consists of, Quinn. Sitting down with journalists, letting them interrogate me as if the world is entitled to my privacy. Forgive me for actually finding you interesting enough to go off fucking topic for once.”
You suddenly had a moment of clarity, like you’d somehow forgotten who the man sitting across from you was until that very second. You were arguing with Benedict Cumberbatch; got him so riled up that he was swearing at you, brutal honesty pouring from the same throat that had rumbled with warm laughter when you first arrived.
Was this the effect you had on people? Were you really so poisonous, so toxic, that your presence alone could turn gentlemen into monsters over the course of a single evening?
“But now,” he continued. “I find out that the whole time we were talking, you were actually just thinking of ways to invade my privacy, to make this deal with your boss more worth your while.”
No, he wasn’t a monster, you thought. He was frustrated. Because you’d betrayed him.
“That’s not what I was doing,” you replied.
“Then what were you doing, Quinn?”
“Trying to hide my inexperience. Trying to think about anything but the deal I made with my boss.” You leaned forward, looking straight into his eyes. “I didn’t plan to go looking around your house tonight. I did it because I panicked.”
“You panicked…” he said cynically.
“Well I was losing control of the interview, wasn’t I. You were backing me into a corner where I either had to admit I was out of my depth, or admit that you were right.”
“And by 'right’,” he began slowly, a smugness in his tone. “I just want to clarify you mean that you did in fact ask an off-limits question because you wanted to know if I was single…”
“Seems silly now, doesn’t it; since we both know you’ve technically never not been single. Y'know, because your marriage was a massive sham…” You gave a sarcastic smile.
His jaw clenched. Even beneath the dark hair on his face, you could still see it.
“So you can keep going on and on about my wrongdoings, Benedict. But in terms of morality… I don’t think you’ve got much of a leg to stand on either.”
He stayed quiet, watching you intensely as you picked up the glass from the table next to you, swirling the almost-melted ice around before downing the last of your drink.
“I think it’s pretty obvious your secret’s safe with me,” you said. “So why don’t we erase this mess and start over.”
A smile crept across his face.
“What?” you asked.
“I told you you’re not walking out of here with an interview…”
Your heart sank, a dark pit of dread forming in your stomach. But you didn’t dare let him see it. Instead you straightened your back, placing your hands neatly in your lap.
“Y-you’re just… not going to do it?”
“Nope.”
He leaned over and picked up your phone, messing around with it for a moment before standing up and walking over to you. He handed it back and pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, turning towards the door.
“Let me show you out,” he said politely.
You closed your eyes and let out a sigh. Could this potentially be the fuck up of all fuck ups? Would there be a ceremony to commemorate this almighty disaster? You could picture it clearly: And the award for biggest fuck up goes to Quinn Armitage, for not knowing when to just apologise and shut her mouth.
You began to gather your notebook and papers, but he turned around quickly.
“You can just leave those there,” he said.
You let out a defeated exhale and put them back on the couch, standing up and sliding your bag onto your shoulder. He glanced down at it and you let out a huff.
“Do you want to go through it?” you asked sarcastically. “There’s nothing in here besides my car keys, business cards and a stick of fucking lip balm.”
He rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, leading you into the hall where he took your coat from the cupboard and handed it to you.
You draped it over your arm and followed him to the front door, watching as he leaned past you to curl his fingers around the handle. He pulled it open a sliver before stopping, turning his head to look down at you.
His frame was even more imposing from this distance; tall and broad as he towered over you, close enough for you to reach out and touch him, but you didn’t dare. Instead you stood there, looking up at him, waiting.
“If there’s one thing you do for me, Quinn, one decent thing,” he said quietly, his voice dark and serious. “Don’t sleep with him.”
Your breath wavered. “Why?”
“Just don’t.”
You felt the urge to make a sarcastic remark, a sharp rebuttal forcing its way up your throat. But you suppressed it, reaching out for the door and pulling it open further, enough for you to slip out into the pitch black night.
You didn’t look back, walking as quickly as your legs could carry you down the quiet street back to your car. It wasn’t until you got inside and put the key in the ignition with shaking fingers that you finally let the tears begin to fall.
Chapter 4: IV
Notes:
Content Warning: This chapter contains brief, non-graphic mention/description of attempted SA.
Chapter Text
“Stupid fucking thing,” you hissed, resisting the urge to throw your phone across the room.
You’d tried everything; iCloud backup, memory restoration, you’d even downloaded recovery software online, but nothing had worked. It was all gone. Deleted, vanished, just like your career was going to be.
You knew, deep down, that even if you could recover the pictures and voice recordings, that you weren’t going use any of it. You wouldn’t. But panic had made you desperate, left you sitting at your desk at home, pressing random buttons and scrolling through articles online about how to restore deleted files.
There was a part of you that didn’t even care about the feature anymore. You just wanted to hear his voice; the way he said your name, how he laughed, the growl that spilled out of him in anger.
Sorry to disappoint you, Quinn. But you don’t get to fuck your way out of this one.
It had hurt; the things he’d said to you, the assumptions he’d made. But what hurt more was the fact that you understood why he’d made them. And as you looked down at your phone, you wished you could erase last night from your mind, as easily as he’d erased the evidence of it.
It was Sunday, almost 3pm, and Dan’s instructions were looming over you like a heavy raincloud. Not only were you supposed to be halfway through writing the feature by now, but you were also supposed to be preparing to have his hands on you, his cold desk on your bare skin.
You wondered if that was the real reason why Benedict refused to finish the interview; if he thought deleting it all and leaving you with nothing to write about somehow nullified the deal you made with Dan. After all, he’d asked you not to sleep with him before you left. But why? Why did he care?
You groaned, picking up your phone and wandering around the living room as you plucked up the courage to click on Dan’s number, finally giving in and pressing it to your ear with a deep, shaking breath.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Dan, hi it’s Quinn. I was wondering if we could meet today?”
“It’s Sunday…”
“I know.”
“Can you not just email me?”
“I’d rather speak in person.”
“Someone’s eager…”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s about the Benedict Cumberbatch feature.”
“And you can’t talk about it over the phone, why?”
“I just…” you closed your eyes, holding back your frustration. “Can I stop by wherever you are? I swear it’ll be quick.”
“Okay, if you insist. I’m at home.”
“Thanks. Send me the address, I’ll be there asap.”
You left your flat quickly, getting into your car before his text even came through. You typed the location into your maps app and drove in silence, too anxious to even turn on the radio.
You pulled up to a swanky apartment building, tall and sleek with mirrored cladding and glass balconies on every floor. Very fitting, you thought. Just as flashy as him.
He let you in through the intercom and you barely took a breath as you rode up to his floor in the lift, playing out what you were going to say in your head, nothing sounding right, even with practice.
“I’ve seen more of you over this past week than I have in the entire year you’ve worked for me,” he said as he opened the door.
You gave a distracted laugh and walked past him into the flat, glancing around at the muted colours and clean lines, like a showroom - no character.
He walked you into the living room and you turned around to look at him. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair fluffy like it had been freshly washed, instead of his usual precise style.
“So…” he said awkwardly.
You took a deep breath, licking your lips and pressing them together before finally saying the words you’d been dreading.
“I lost the feature.”
“What do you mean you lost the feature?”
“I mean I went to do the interview and… things didn’t go to plan.”
He stood there in the middle of the room, staring at you.
You walked to the couch and sat down. “I… I messed up and he asked me to leave.”
“Please tell me you’re pulling my leg…”
“No. I’m sorry, Dan, I really am-”
“Do you realise what a massive deal this was for the magazine?”
“I do-”
“How Ellen trusted me to get this done? To put the right person on this?”
“I know, and-”
“What did you do?” he asked, growing more and more irate. “What could you possibly have done to make him kick you out?”
You remained quiet for a moment, almost contemplating telling him the truth. But you couldn’t do that to Benedict. So you decide to take the fall.
“I asked an inappropriate question. He got upset and I… didn’t handle it as well as I should have.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You got arsey with the celebrity you were there to write about?”
“Pretty much.”
“Jesus, Quinn!” He began to pace the floor. “This was a world exclusive. I mean, the strings that were pulled to make this happen!”
“I understand-”
“I knew.” He shook his head. “I fucking knew you’d mess this up!”
“Oh, nice.” You rolled your eyes. “Thanks very much.”
“Was I wrong!?”
“Well if you knew, then you shouldn’t have given it to me!”
“Quinn, you were practically on your knees begging for it!”
“Yeah, and maybe if you weren’t thinking with your dick-”
“Oh my god.” He laughed in disbelief, stopping suddenly and taking a step towards you, pointing his finger as he shouted. “You are one manipulative bitch, do you know that? You’re actually turning this around on me!? Is your ego that fucking inflated that you’ll defend yourself even when you know you’re wrong!?”
“I’m not defending myself, I’m just saying I’m not the only one in the wrong here, am I?” you shifted in your seat. “How do you think Ellen Ford would feel if she found out her Editorial Assistant accepted sexual favours in exchange for work?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Whoa, no.” You felt your heart sink, panic flooding your veins. “No, I’m not-”
“Because it sounds like you’re threatening me.”
“No. I… look, I understand what that must have sounded like, but I swear I wasn’t.” You held your hands up. “I was just making a point-”
“You don’t want to go up against me, Quinn,” he snarled. “You… You are a staff writer. A little fucking nobody in a huge sea of nobodies who all think they deserve success in this industry.” He edged closer, leaning down towards you as he spoke through gritted teeth. “But tell me why you deserve it. Tell me what you’ve ever done in your life to deserve something besides opening your fucking legs for it.”
You were stunned, deeply hurt, but above all, you were beginning to feel unsafe.
“Look,” you said, trying to stop your voice quivering. “I know you’re angry and I get it. I fucked up-”
“Is that why you came here?” he continued. “Thought you could come and spread them for me, make this all go away?”
“Dan…”
“Well come on then, let’s see how far it gets you.”
“No, I’m not… that’s not why I came,” you said, ignoring his comment. “I just thought you had a right to know in advance so you had time to-”
“No, no, no, don’t give me any of that bullshit.” He was standing right in front of you now, towering over you as you sat on the couch. “You came to apologise. So apologise…”
“Dan,” you shook your head. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“What? I got you the feature, didn’t I? Technically, I held up my end of the bargain. Now I think the least you can do is hold up yours.”
“Okay, clearly you’re not thinking straight so I’m just going to go.”
You stood up and manoeuvred yourself around him, making a beeline for the door when you suddenly felt his hand on your arm, fingers squeezing hard as he stopped you from leaving.
“Let go of me,” you said in a low, serious voice.
“Not until I get what I’m owed.”
“I don’t owe you shit.” You pulled yourself out of his grasp, your arm throbbing where he’d been holding onto you.
You made it to the narrow hallway when he grabbed you again, taking you by both arms and slamming your back into the wall. You gasped, the force leaving you winded, shocked, the back of your head aching from the blow.
“You owe me a feature. And since I’m not getting that…”
“Dan-” you whispered feebly, your breath hitching in fright as you felt his hand slip under the hem of your top. “Stop,” you said, more forcefully, as you pushed his arm away.
He pinned your arms to your sides and leaned forward in an attempt to kiss you. You turned your head, feeling his lips brush against your neck, making your skin crawl, a shiver run down your spine. You shifted your legs and brought one of them up, kneeing him hard in the crotch. He let go of you immediately, keeling over with a groan as you hurried down the hall and out the front door.
You refused to wait for the lift, instead running down what felt like a million flights of stairs and bursting out of the building into the freezing cold. The air pricked against your hot, flustered cheeks as you rushed to your car, never looking back, too scared he might be following you.
You got in the car and locked the doors, finally allowing yourself to glance back towards the building. He wasn’t there. The place so still and quiet, it was as if none of it had even happened.
A cry caught in your throat before you even felt it coming, tears spilling onto your cheeks as you gasped desperately for breath. But it was as if there was no space in your lungs; your insides already filled to the brim with panic, fear, anger, disgust. Your chest hurt, your vision blurring, nothing felt real, the air turning thick and wavy like you could have drowned in it.
You gripped the steering wheel with both hands, sobbing, gasping until eventually there was nothing left. You were like a battery, slowly draining to empty until you finally fell silent, the only sound coming from your occasional sniffing and uneven breaths.
You deserved a lot of things. But that, you did not deserve that.
You didn’t know what to do. Going home felt wrong, driving around felt dangerous. You cleared your throat and wiped your face with your sleeve, picking up your phone and doing the only thing you knew how to do; pretend everything was fine.
~*~
You could always rely on your friend Nick to be up for a drink. In the time it took you to text him, choose a pub and drive there, he was already sitting at a table inside, his girlfriend Lacy walking back from the bar with a tray of drinks.
You forced a smile as you sat down, your eyes itchy and swollen, chest still aching.
“It was a buy one get one free deal, so I went a bit mental,” said Lacy as she placed the tray on the table.
There were three pints of lager, three whiskey and cokes and three shot glasses filled with something so green it was almost luminescent.
Before you even said hello, you picked up a shot and knocked it back, wincing as the sour, sugary liquid burned the back of your throat.
“S'alright,” Nick said to Lacy. “Looks like she needed it.”
“You have no idea,” you replied, taking a pint and a whiskey glass off the tray and placing them in front of you.
You could feel them looking at you, then looking at each other as you began guzzling them down. They had a way of communicating without words; their own language of subtle glances and raised eyebrows.
“Is everything okay, Quinn?” asked Nick.
“Mhm, fine.”
“You look like you’ve been crying…”
“Yeah well, Sundays init,” you said sarcastically.
They both went quiet, sipping their drinks and awkwardly looking around the pub before Nick finally cleared his throat and began to smile.
“Hey, so how did it go?”
You looked at him.
“Last night, the interview,” he pressed.
You sighed, struggling to find the right words.
“Oh, I almost died when he told me about it,” said Lacy. “I am so obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch. I swear, I don’t even like sci-fi, but I’ve watched that Star Trek film about six thousand times.”
You laughed into your whiskey.
“Is it true he’s even fitter in person?”
“I think he’s pretty fit on camera too…?” said Nick.
“Yeah but people always say, don’t they. My friend worked an event he was at last summer and she said he’s unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” you said. “He’s er, he’s very attractive.”
That was an understatement. The man had somehow managed to captivate you while slicing a goddamn orange. Even as he was sneering at you, confronting you about everything, you still found your stomach fluttering.
“So how was it?” asked Nick.
“It was…” you downed the last of your drink. “Yeah, it er, it doesn’t look like it’s going ahead.”
“Wait, you didn’t go?”
“No, I went. He was… very welcoming, charming, easy to talk to.”
“So why isn’t it going ahead?”
You shot him a look before moving onto your lager, taking a deep gulp and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“Oh, Quinn,” he said with a sympathetic sigh. “What happened?”
Once again, the desire to tell them everything began to rise up your throat; the need to vent, to explain, to watch the looks on their faces when you told them about the fake marriage, the contract, the PR stunt. But instead you just shook your head.
“Got a bit too comfortable, asked a question he didn’t like, handled it poorly, ended up getting kicked out.”
“Fuck me,” said Lacy with wide eyes.
“So yeah, I went to tell Dan which… did not go well. And I’m probably going to lose my job,” you said flippantly, rising to your feet. “Another round?”
“We’re still on this one…”
You went to the bar and ordered yourself more drinks; a pint, a gin and tonic, and another shot, only remembering the ‘buy one get one free’ when the barmaid gave you two of everything.
“First bit of luck I’ve had all weekend,” you said as you returned to the table, putting the tray down in front of you.
“What exactly did Dan say when you told him?” asked Nick.
You grimaced, already feeling the buzz of alcohol on your tongue. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But-”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
He saw the tears brimming in your eyes and immediately backed down.
“There must be something you can do?” said Lacy.
“Like what?”
“Grovel, Quinn,” said Nick, “Go back with your tail between your legs and beg for another chance.”
“I’m not going anywhere near that fucker ever again.”
“Not Dan! Benedict! You have to do something… I don’t know, elbow your way past his PR team, offer to massage his fucking feet, sit on his front lawn and refuse to move until he agrees to speak to you.”
“It sounds like you want me to get arrested.”
“I want you to fight for your job, Quinn. I don’t know what the hell Dan said to you today, but he’s not the fucking keeper of keys. If you go over his head and fix this, he can’t touch you.”
Touch you. The words made you shudder. You knocked back the two shots on your tray one after the other.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” you asked.
“Would I be friends with you if you were? Would Lacy let me be your friend?”
She hit him on the arm and you laughed softly.
“I just… I make bad decisions sometimes,” you said. “And even the voice inside my head is like 'why are you doing that? Stop!’ But I don’t stop.”
“You’re impulsive,” he replied with a shrug. “Maybe sometimes a little bit selfish.”
“You can be a bit abrasive at times too,” added Lacy.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “And you get defensive really easily-”
“Jesus guys,” you held your hands up in surrender. “Can we maybe stop roasting Quinn now?”
“Sorry.” They both laughed.
“My point is,” said Nick, tipping the last of his drink into his mouth. “You’re flawed, like most people. But you’re not bad.”
“Exactly,” said Lacy. “You know the first day you started at Draft, Nick came home and he was so happy because you were the first coworker to actually give him the time of day. Or what about when he brought me to that office party… I felt so out of place and you made a point of sitting with me all night so I had someone to talk to.”
“And remember when you brought us that box of treats when Schmoops was sick?”
“Still think that’s a fucking stupid name for a cat,” you said.
“See, abrasive,” said Lacy.
You chuckled, almost holding back tears.
Nick eyed you for a moment, softening his voice and reaching across the table to you.
“What happened, Quinn?”
“I told you, I… messed up. I asked a question that-”
“No. What happened with Dan?”
You looked up at him glassy-eyed. It was almost like he knew without you having to say anything. So you didn’t say anything. Instead you shook your head and downed another drink.
~*~
They wouldn’t let you drive. The fact that you’d even suggested it in the first place was ridiculous. You were stumbling, seeing double, your words turning to mush in your mouth whenever you tried to speak.
The three of you walked out of the pub into the cold, black night, Lacy linking your arm as Nick called you a cab. You rested your head on her shoulder, taking comfort in the sweet, flowery scent of her clothes.
“What do you powder?” you mumbled.
“What?” she replied.
“Powder, what washing powder?”
“I don’t actually know. Nick’s the one who buys all that stuff,” she laughed. “I’ll take a photo of the box and send it to you.”
“Many thanks.”
The taxi pulled up and you watched Nick open the door, speaking to the driver before waving you over.
“This one’s yours, Quinn,” he said.
You went to climb in, stopping when you felt Lacy tugging gently on your sleeve.
“Please don’t give up on this stuff with the magazine,” she said quietly. “He tells me all the time what a good writer you are, and I think he’d be heartbroken if you left.”
You nodded, swallowing past the lump forming in your throat and stumbled into the back of the car. They closed it for you, waving at you through the window as your driver rolled slowly out of the car park.
“Where to, my love?” he asked as he joined the traffic, glancing at you in his rear view mirror.
You wiped a stray tear off your cheek, running a hand up and down the arm that still hurt from where Dan had grabbed you. Perhaps you were not thinking straight because you were drunk, or maybe it was because Nick and Lacy’s words were still fresh on your mind. Whatever the reason, you found yourself slurring out an address that was not your own, before laying the side of your head on the cold window as he drove you through the dark London night.
When you arrived, you fumbled your way out of the cab and took off on foot down the quiet residential street, the headlights of the car still beaming behind you. The driver was waiting, watching you to make sure you got back safe. You knew because for the entire journey, he’d been asking if you were okay; a genuine concern in his voice.
You turned and pointed at a house, giving an over enthusiastic thumbs up and smiling until he finally turned the car around and drove away. Then you stood there, smile wiped clean from your face, unsteady on your feet as you hovered between the street and the garden path.
After an eternity of deliberation, you finally made your way to the front door, hammering on it clumsily and taking a step back, almost losing your footing on the step.
The door opened, a familiar set of pale blue eyes peering at you from around the small crack, brows furrowing.
“Quinn?” said Benedict quietly, opening the door fully as he looked down at you in confusion.
“Come in,” you said, shouldering past him into the house.
You’d sobered up slightly on the taxi ride, but clearly not enough, your mouth still working separately from your brain.
He closed the door and turned to face you, but you’d already wandered off, strolling through to the living room and throwing yourself down on his couch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I know,” you groaned dramatically.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you drunk?”
“Liquid courage,” you said, repeating his own phrase back to him. “Lots of liquid gave me lots of courage.”
He shook his head in disbelief, placing his hands on his hips as he stood in the middle of the room. You wondered how many people got to see him like this; grey T-shirt and a pair of dark blue checkered pyjama bottoms, bare feet and messy hair, like he’d spent the night lounging around, no fans to impress, no façade to keep up.
“Quinn,” he huffed. “What do you want?”
You patted the empty space next to you on the couch. He rolled his eyes, waiting a moment before finally giving in and sitting down beside you.
“I want you to consider redoing the interview,” you said, concentrating hard to make every word perfect. “Properly-”
“No,” he replied quickly.
“My career’s on the line…”
“My career could have been too, if I hadn’t caught you taking those photos.”
“I think I apologised quite thoroughly for that.” You reached out, placing a hand on his thigh. “And I’m willing to apologise…. More.”
He looked down at you, lines forming between his brows as he gently removed your hand. “Why would I do that?” he asked. “Why would you do that?”
You laughed, feeling your eyes begin to water. “Because that’s just how it works, isn’t it. Let’s face it, the only way I’ll ever get anywhere in this career is if I fuck my way there.”
“Quinn…” he sighed.
“What? That’s what my boss said. And he’s right, isn’t he.”
“He said that to you?”
“Mhm.” You sniffed sharply, your voice quivering, a tear escaping onto your cheek. “He said it right after I told him I messed up our interview… which was right before I refused to give him the sex he wanted so he tried to take it from me instead.”
His face hardened, eyes turning a dark, stormy grey. “What…?” he asked, his voice so low it was almost a growl.
“It’s my own fault. I made a promise I had no intentions of keeping-”
“No. Y- No,” he said sternly. “That’s not how it works. He’s the one that shouldn’t have made that deal with you. He’s your superior. He took advantage of-”
“Of my desperation?” You began to laugh, but that laugh slowly morphed into a cry.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your thighs and covering your face with your hands.
He sat beside you in silence, like he was thinking, choosing his words carefully. “What did he do to you?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer.
“Quinn, did he touch you?”
You lifted your head to look at him, almost taken aback by the genuine concern on his face.
“He tried to,” you said, slipping off your jacket to reveal a set of deep, fingerprint bruises on your arm.
You looked down at them and laughed. The sober part of your mind knew it wasn’t funny. But you were so drunk and upset, it was as if the wires in your brain had gotten crossed.
His eyes fell on the bruises. The sight of them making his jaw clench, fingers curl into fists in his lap.
“I always thought he was a bit of a sap,” you said. “But turns out he’s pretty scary when he’s got you pinned to a wall.”
He seemed to grow even angrier, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. You lifted your head to look at him, opening your mouth to speak again, but instead your stomach began to turn.
“God, I think I’m going to be sick,” you groaned.
He let out a sigh, standing up and taking you gently by the shoulders to help you lie down. You rested your head on the arm of the couch, curling onto your side and closing your eyes.
You didn’t remember him leaving, but he must have, because after a moment, he was crouched in front of you with a glass of water. He brought it to your lips, helping you drink before placing it on the table beside you and standing up.
You reached out for his hand, taking it in yours to stop him walking away.
“I’m truly sorry for what I did to you,” you said.
He stayed quiet, looking down at you as you continued to speak.
“And for all the things I said… I was out of line. I’m so, so sorry.”
He didn’t let go of your hand. You squeezed it slightly.
“And I really mean it when I say your secret’s safe with me,” you said. “I’m a piece of shit but I keep my promises… well, mostly.”
He dropped his head and laughed. “You’re not a piece of shit.”
“Ah, well you’re only saying that because you don’t know me.”
He smiled. “I have a feeling I know you pretty well. I think yesterday was somewhat of a… crash course in Quinn Armitage.”
You giggled. “Now that’s a course that should come with complimentary therapy.”
He laughed again.
You let go of his hand and began trying to sit up. “I should get out of your way.”
He shook his head. “No. Stay, please. Sober up. I have some calls to make anyway.”
“Calls? At this time?”
“They’re quite urgent.”
You didn’t argue. Instead you lay back down and closed your eyes again, finding it odd how safe you felt as you drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 5: V
Chapter Text
The dusty blue light of early morning melted through the window, making your already blurred vision even more unclear. You blinked a few times before sitting up; your head feeling like a boulder, almost too heavy for your neck to hold, and the side of your face was hot, the crosshatched fabric of the couch leaving an imprint on your cheek.
A soft, wool blanket had been draped over you, making you remember where you were, who had covered you with it. You glanced over to see Benedict sleeping on the other couch, head back, arms folded across his chest like he’d drifted off while sitting up. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d stayed there to watch over you, to make sure you were okay, or if he simply didn’t trust you to be left alone in his house. Maybe it was both.
You thought about waking him, but the embarrassment of last night was almost too much to bear; the way you’d sauntered into his house, the hand you’d placed on his thigh, how you’d sobbed in front of him before having to be laid down to sleep like a helpless infant. It was mortifying. In some ways, even more mortifying than the night you’d tried to interview him.
A feeling of disappointment washed over you as you rose quietly to your feet, realising this was probably the last time you’d ever see him. Of course you would see him again, all you had to do was open a magazine or turn on a television. But you would never occupy the same space; you would see him, but he wouldn’t be looking back.
You folded the blanket and left it neatly on the arm of the couch, picking up your jacket and slipping it on quietly, avoiding making even the slightest bit of noise and wincing as you pulled the sleeve over your bruised arm.
You glanced over at him again with a sigh. There really was something beautiful about him; something that could never fully translate through a screen or in a photograph. Every angle and curve of his face, every bone and shadow seemed so deliberate, so perfectly placed it were as if he’d been sculpted by Alexandros of Antioch himself. Even with the tan, the facial hair and smile lines, there was still a romance behind the roughness; like marble and leather, glass and stone.
You couldn’t leave without knowing there was at least a chance you might see him again. Not for the interview, not to save your job, but because you felt a need to. You looked down at the bracelet on your wrist; a thin gold chain with a small nameplate, ‘Quinn’ engraved in delicate scripture. You undid the clasp and placed it on the floor next to the couch, making it look as though it had fallen off in your sleep. It seemed stupid, the idea that he would take the time to return it to you after everything you’d done. But there was a kindness to him that you’d witnessed firsthand, perhaps even a soft spot that gave you a small speck of hope.
You crept out of the house and pulled your jacket tight around you, shielding yourself from the frosty November morning as you began to walk down the street. The bitter cold hit you like a hard slap, kicking your hangover into gear and making you want to curl up on the side of the road and die. You needed your bed, greasy food and a suitcase-worth of painkillers. But instead you had your phone, a car sitting outside a pub ten miles away, and a couple of hours before you had to be at work.
Curling up and dying on the side of the road was starting to seem more and more appealing by the minute.
~*~
You collected your car from the pub and drove home, slowly and carefully, fully aware you probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel yet. Your head was pounding, stomach turning like you could be sick at any moment. Throwing up on yourself in your car, you pondered, still wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to you in the last week.
You got home and made your way straight to the bathroom, undressing as you went, leaving your clothes in a trail behind you through the flat. With shaking legs you climbed into the shower, closing your eyes and letting the hot water fall over you, trying to wash everything away; the embarrassment, the anger, the disgust. But when you got out, it was all still there, along with your headache and a pain in your shoulders from spending the night on Benedict’s couch.
Getting to work was a blur. it was as if your body went into autopilot, dressing you in a loose shirt tucked into a pair of trousers and driving you there before your hair had even fully dried. You had no memory of the journey, could barely feel your legs as you walked into the building. It wasn’t until you sat down at your desk and saw the steaming hot coffee waiting for you that you finally came back down to earth.
“Thought you’d be needing it,” said Nick, gesturing to the Starbucks cup and leaning his arm on the back of your chair.
“Does it come with paracetamol?” you replied, rubbing your tired, sore eyes.
He reached into his back pocket and chucked a small box of tablets on the desk in front of you. You laughed, opening it and popping out two pills.
“So did you give any more thought to what we talked about?” he asked. “How you’re going to try and sort this?”
You fell silent as flashbacks to the night before began to echo through your mind:
I want you to reconsider doing the interview, properly-
No.
“What’s done is done,” you said, leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “Just got to wait to face the music now.”
“Well do you think you can wait to face the music in conference room B?”
You glanced over your shoulder at him.
“I need help with a piece for the March issue,” he finished.
You looked across the bullpen to Dan’s office and your stomach turned. The door was closed, meaning he was in there, that he could step out at any minute and you’d be brought face to face with him. You nodded, grabbing your coffee and your bag and following him into the conference room.
“Did you hear the Editor’s in the building today?” said Nick as he sat at the large table in the middle of the room.
Your face began to flush, anxiety fizzling through your body. “Ellen Ford?”
“Do you know of another Editor?” he replied sarcastically.
Oh shit, you thought. Ellen Ford was like a myth; an omniscient presence over the entire magazine that people rarely ever actually saw. If she really was there, then it had to be for something important, and the fact that you had just lost one of the biggest features in Draft’s history seemed like too much of a coincidence for it to be about anything else.
You swallowed down your fear, sitting beside him and pulling your laptop from your bag. It was out of your control, so out of your control that the only thing you could do was ignore it. You would work until they told you stop, pretend everything was fine, like you always did.
“So I’m writing this piece about divine timing,” said Nick.
“Divine timing?”
“Yeah, so I got the idea from Lacy. You know she’s very much into all that 'trusting the universe’ crap. It’s like… a force that makes things in your life fall into place at the right time, even if you don’t realise it in the moment. Like the universe controls your destiny, there are no coincidences, blah blah blah. I thought it would be interesting to write something about it, like how to trust it, use it, all that shit.”
“What if the universe decides to use this 'divine timing’ to fuck you over?” you asked cynically.
He laughed. “Then the universe hates you.”
“Nice, thanks.”
He laughed again. “I want to make it personal. My first piece about me and my thoughts and experiences, as opposed to writing about celebrities and other people.”
“You could make it like a love letter to Lacy. A thank you to the universe for aligning your paths.”
He clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Yes. Thank you. See, this is exactly why I asked for your help.”
You sat side by side at the table, music playing softly from Nick’s laptop as you worked together on his piece. You finished your coffee, your stomach beginning to rumble with hunger, so loud it made him turn to you with wide eyes.
“This hangover’s kicking my arse,” you said.
“Yeah, I can hear that.”
You began to stand up when something caught your eye through the glass wall of the conference room. Ellen Ford, walking casually across the bullpen in her tall stilettos, grey hair perfectly styled in a sleek bun at the base of her neck. You sank back down in your seat at the sight of her; so strong and imposing, dressed impeccably in the latest designer clothes, sunglasses despite it being mid-November. You watched as she made her way into a room and closed the door behind her, your heart sinking when you saw Dan emerge from his office moments later.
It was like you could feel his hands on you, his lips brushing your neck, the fear bubbling in your chest. This man was dangerous, you knew that now, and yet he strolled across the floor so casually, smiling and talking to everyone on his way like he hadn’t tried to assault you less than 24 hours ago. He knocked on the door of the room Ellen had just entered, opening it after a second and disappearing inside.
“What do you think that’s about?” asked Nick.
“I’ll give you one guess,” you replied.
Your attention was stolen by a woman walking out of a lift onto the floor. She was short, blonde, talking on the phone and hugging a large notepad to her chest. She took a few steps before turning around, waiting as another person exited the lift and began following her through the bullpen. Your heart stopped when you laid eyes on him; tall, dark hair, serious expression. Benedict.
“Oh my god,” Nick hissed. “Is that-”
“Ssshhh!” You waved your hand, sinking down further into your chair.
Benedict’s presence was commanding, strong, sexy, almost every head turning to stare at him as he strode past them. He was wearing a pair of well-fitting trousers, a shirt and the same long grey coat he’d worn the night of the interview. You watched him stop outside the room where Dan and Ellen resided, talking to the woman he came in with before entering alone, leaving her waiting outside, still on the phone.
You felt sick, but not from the hangover. Your mind reeling as it began piecing together all the things they were probably saying about you, the complaints Benedict was making, how Dan and Ellen were no doubt apologising for your conduct, promising to have you fired immediately. You took a deep breath, cracking your knuckles and returning to the work.
“Jesus, you’re typing like a machine,” said Nick after a few minutes.
“Just on a roll, trying not to think about my impending doom.”
“What did you ask him? Like, not to pile on you or anything but it must have been bad for it to have ended in all this.”
You continued to type, your eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s not so much what I asked, but how I asked it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I got a bit too friendly with Mr Cumberbatch.”
“You came onto him!?”
You rolled your eyes and looked at him. “Do you want me to keep churning out this article for you or not?”
He smirked at you, shaking his head as he returned to his own laptop, like he couldn’t believe it, but could absolutely believe it all at once.
Just over an hour had passed, but it felt like forever, your eyes flitting through the glass every so often in anticipation. The lift opened and you watched as two security guards from downstairs came walking onto the floor. Great, you thought, they couldn’t just ask you to leave quietly?
But they didn’t come for you. Instead they made their way over to the room, speaking with the short blonde woman before knocking on the door. You didn’t blink, your entire body frozen, fingers hovering over the keys of your laptop as Dan stepped out. He looked pale and sickly, jaw clenched as he rolled his neck and straightened his blazer, like he was clinging to whatever dignity he had left. He glanced in your direction as the two guards began to escort him out.
“What the actual fuck,” said Nick.
You couldn’t speak. Your mouth open, eyes wide as you watched Ellen and Benedict walk out of the room together. They talked for a moment and she placed a hand on his arm, nodding and smiling before walking off, disappearing into the lift like she’d never even been there.
He turned to the woman at his side, saying something to her which she wrote down quickly in her notebook. He scratched his beard with his fingers, putting his hands in his pockets and beginning to walk out.
“God the things I’d do to that man,” said Nick.
“You’re in a relationship…” you replied.
“I’m still human.”
You laughed. But you stopped suddenly when you saw Benedict change direction, making his way towards you.
He tapped on the door and opened it, peering into the room. “Quinn, do you have a moment?”
You stayed silent, only managing an awkward nod before turning to Nick.
Nick looked at you like he wanted to stay, desperate to listen in. But you glared back, making him hold his hands up in surrender and walk out, taking a seat at a desk outside and spinning around in the chair to watch you through the glass. Like he had a front row seat to a silent movie.
Benedict closed the door and cleared his throat. “Your boss isn’t going to be a problem for you anymore.”
“What did you do?” you replied quietly.
“I made Ellen aware of his misconduct.”
You let out a breath you didn’t even realise you’d been holding, stunned, relieved, all at once.
“Told her I wanted him out,” he finished.
“Do you have that kind of power?” You raised an eyebrow.
“Ellen and I work in favours, remember? I said I couldn’t support a magazine that wasn’t a safe place for its female employees.”
“So you just… conveniently left out the part where I… instigated the whole thing?”
“Oops.”
You laughed softly.
“So you don’t have to worry anymore, Quinn, okay?”
“But why would you do that?”
“I’m a feminist.” His mouth twitched, threatening a smirk.
You laughed again, louder this time.
“So I was wondering if you were free tonight?” he asked casually.
Your face stilled with a blend of surprise and confusion. “If I- w-”
“Well Ellen’s extended the deadline for your feature until Friday. But I have work commitments for the rest of the week so tonight’s really the only time I can do…”
“My feature?”
“You still need to interview me, yes?”
You furrowed your brow, looking around the empty room. “This is some kind of joke…”
“No joke,” he replied simply. “Come by tonight and we’ll get this done. Properly, this time. No snooping.”
“No snooping,” you repeated in a whisper.
He nodded, allowing a gentle smile before reaching for the door handle, stopping before he opened it and turning back to you.
“Oh, you dropped a bracelet in my living room last night by the way. Hope you don’t mind I’ve kept hold of it. Safe keeping.”
He walked out, leaving you standing there completely bewildered. You watched him until he reached the lift, moving aside to let the woman he was with step in first. You turned to see Nick still sitting in the chair outside the room, exaggeratedly fanning himself, mouthing the word 'hot’ at you through the glass.
~*~
Why had he done that?
The question had dominated your every thought for the rest of the day. Was it pity? Professionalism? Kindness? Had he chosen to give you a second chance for himself, or had Ellen begged him, offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse? Whatever the reason, you had no choice but to go. You wanted to go; the sickly feeling in your stomach slowly morphing into butterflies as the hours passed.
You spent the rest of the day preparing. You researched him more thoroughly, wrote a new list of questions, even printed off another copy of the information from his publicist, sitting at your desk and combing through it with a highlighter, making notes in the margins and leaving yourself reminders of what not to say. This time, you knew the truth about his marriage, but you were desperate to prove you could be trusted. You meant it when you said his secret was safe with you.
When you got home, you scoured your wardrobe for an outfit, telling yourself you just wanted everything to be perfect, even your appearance, to give him nothing he could raise an eyebrow at or judge you for. But there was a part of you that knew the real reason you wanted to look nice, and it had nothing to do with being 'presentable’.
You settled on a jumper tucked into a short skirt, sheer tights and a pair of heeled boots. All black. You looked in the mirror at yourself and laughed; all that was missing was a beret and a cigarette and you’d fit right in at a dark, moody poetry reading, people snapping their fingers to applaud you as you stood in front of a microphone. But it would do, you thought, slipping on your long trench coat and arming yourself with your diligent notes.
Then you left, walking out of your flat into the cold, dark evening. Ready for your redemption.
Chapter 6: VI
Chapter Text
“Well, this feels familiar,” you muttered to yourself as you climbed out of your car, making your way down the street towards Benedict’s house. “Well… This feels familiar,” you said again, changing your tone, trying to find the funniest way to say it.
You stopped outside the house, taking a deep breath before walking up the path. “Well, doesn’t this seem familiar,” you whispered as you knocked on the door.
It opened and you immediately felt the warm air of the house drift towards you, soothing your cold cheeks and wrapping around you like a welcoming embrace. You looked up to see him standing there, smiling politely and gesturing for you to come in.
This was actually real.
“Well, this feels awfully familiar,” he said as he closed the door behind you.
You stared up at him before breaking into a laugh. “I was just about to say that to you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah, I was practicing it the whole way here.”
He chuckled, reaching his hand out to take your coat. “Well I apologise for stealing your thunder.”
You slid it off and handed it to him. “That’s okay. It sounded better when you said it anyway.”
He observed you quietly as you looked around. You’d been there twice already, and yet you still found yourself in awe. It wasn’t the biggest house in the world, wasn’t overly grand or particularly ornate. But it was beautiful to look at; spacious and inviting, full of character and warmth. It was definitely one of the nicest houses you’d ever been in. But perhaps that wasn’t saying much.
You glanced up as he continued to look at you, rolling your eyes at him with a smile. “You already know I think this is a nice house…”
He laughed. “Would you like a tour?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re actually willing to let me walk around your home?”
“Well, you’d be supervised this time.”
You breathed out a laugh, looking down at the floor as a slight wave of embarrassment washed over you.
He walked you through the house; describing each room, showing you his favourite features, pointing to pictures and trinkets and explaining the stories behind them. As you followed him upstairs, you tried to hide your discomfort as the memories of sneaking around came flooding back; the voice in your head telling you to stop as you crept further and further towards his room.
He opened the first door. “This is a bedroom, doesn’t get used.” Then he walked to the second door. “This is a bedroom, also doesn’t get used.” He pointed to a third. “This one is also a bedroom and… you guessed it, doesn’t get used.”
You giggled, following him to end of the landing where he opened another door and walked inside.
“And you’re already well-acquainted with my bedroom.” He paused. “Though not for the right reasons.”
The right reasons? you thought. What would have been the ‘right reason’? Was there ever a right reason for him to have you in his room?
You shook the questions away quickly; you were probably overthinking it. Most definitely overthinking it.
“It’s tidier than I remember,” you joked.
“Yeah I actually made the bed this morning.”
“Well done.”
He led you back out and you walked with him to the stairs, stopping suddenly and looking back at all the doors.
“So you have all these spare beds and I had to sleep on the couch?”
He laughed. “Count your blessings, Quinn, I could’ve put you out in the garden.”
You rolled your eyes and continued to follow him downstairs.
You knew he was joking, but the statement itself was true - he could have kicked you out last night. Could have shut the door and left you stumbling around in the cold, could have called the police and had you dragged out. But he didn’t. Instead he lay you down, brought a glass of water to your lips and covered you with a blanket when you fell asleep.
There was a part of you that liked to think it was because he had a soft spot for you. But the truth was, he probably would have done that for anyone. God, you thought, the world was right; he really was a gentleman. The realisation was annoying yet heartwarming, somehow all at once.
He walked into the kitchen and took two glasses from the cupboard, placing them on the counter and opening the fridge, whistling to himself as he went. You stood beside the island in the middle of the room as he took out a large glass jug and filled both glasses, turning around and handing one to you.
You took it from him, the night before still an echo as you eyed it suspiciously.
“It’s just orange juice,” he said, like he’d read your mind. “Good for hangovers.”
“Oh, thank you.” You breathed out a relieved laugh. “I was worried you’d whipped up another cocktail.”
He smiled to himself, leaning back against the counter and watching you drink. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”
“That’s an understatement,” you muttered into your glass.
He regarded you quietly for a moment. “How are you?” he asked, a sudden seriousness in his deep, rich voice. “After what happened…”
“Mm, I’m fine,” you said, trying to convince yourself as well as him. “I’m over it.”
He furrowed his brow. “You’re ‘over it’? It only happened yesterday.”
“Yeah, well I’m just focusing on the positives; I gave him a hard knee in the balls, then you destroyed his career. So now he’s infertile and unemployed. Karma.”
He laughed. “Do you always cope with things by pretending they’re not a big deal?”
You smiled, looking up at him through your lashes. “Mr Cumberbatch, might I remind you I’m here to interview you?”
"Ah, I’m sorry.”
You continued to look at him, your eyes trailing over the planes of his face; the softened lines and gentle smile. “You’re being really nice to me and I don’t know why.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied. “I chose to give this another chance. I’d be a dick head to invite you here just to spend the night making you feel bad.”
“Well you’re a bigger person than I am.”
“Why? You don’t think the same?”
“No. If it was the other way around I’m almost certain I’d be making your life hell right now.”
He chuckled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Well I suppose I’ve been feeling guilty too. Some of the things I said to you that night, they were…” He shook his head. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour.”
You took a sip of your drink, nodding slowly. “So…” you pondered. “What’s tonight about then? Is this… damage control? Guilt?”
“Redemption. For both of us.” He paused, lowering his voice. “If you can behave yourself, that is.”
You felt a flutter in your stomach, a spark of excitement at the sound of him almost telling you off; warning you to do as you’re told.
“I will if you will,” you replied, taking pleasure in watching his mouth curl with a smirk.
You walked with him into the study - the room that had haunted you for the past two days - and pressed your lips together, dropping your gaze like you couldn’t even bring yourself to look around. The last time you’d sat in this room, the air had felt so thick you could barely breathe. You remembered everything, from the leathery squeak of the couch as you shifted in your seat, to the feeling of his eyes on you, the bittersweet burn of whiskey and orange in the back of your throat.
You sat down on the couch, blowing out a shaking breath as you pulled your notes from your bag, sifting through everything before finally looking up. He was watching you from the armchair, exactly like he had done the first time; legs parted, head cocked with a half-smile, like he could sense your nerves, and it was amusing him greatly.
“So, I was thinking of a few different ways we could approach this,” you began before clearing your throat. “One way would be for us to pretend I don’t know anything. Sort of like a… role play?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Or there’s a… collaborative process,” you continued. “We discuss everything, I tell you the questions and we come up with answers together.”
He smiled. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you.”
“Well I want to get it right. For you, as well as myself.”
He pondered for a moment, running his fingers over his lips as he gave a deep, pensive hum in the back of his throat.
“Let’s just talk,” he finally said. “No strategy, just… conversation.”
You lowered your head slightly, gazing at him skeptically through heavy lashes.
“What?” he asked.
“Just… Speaking from our past conversations, I never seem to end up with anything I can actually publish.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll be good.”
“Okay.” You bit your lip to hold back a smile, taking out your phone and opening the voice recorder. “So… what do you like to do for fun?”
He let out a laugh, and you immediately rolled your eyes.
“Fine, let me rephrase,” you said. “What have you been doing to switch off from everything? What’s been keeping you sane through all of this?”
“As boring as it sounds, I like to work.”
“Mhm, you’re right, that is boring.”
He chuckled. “Well I play pretend for a living. What better way to take your mind off something than to immerse yourself in the mind of someone else?”
“But when you’re alone, when you’re just… here by yourself, when you’re just being Benedict-”
“Ben.”
“Hm?”
“You can just call me Ben,” he said.
“Oh. You don’t like it when I say your full name?”
“No, you can call me whatever you like.” He shrugged. “I just thought I’d save you the mouthful.”
You laughed. “Well, thank you… Ben.”
“You’re very welcome… Quinn.”
You felt the need to dig your pen into your thigh; as if causing yourself pain was the only way to stop yourself from flirting with him. Though, you were almost certain he was flirting with you too.
“But really,” you continued. “How have you been dealing with everything?”
“Pretty okay, all things considered. I don’t do social media, which has been a blessing, really. I think if I had access to millions of opinions on my marriage and divorce in the palm of my hand I’d have gone mad by now.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I mean, regardless of the true circumstances…”
You pretended to zip your mouth closed.
“Splits are still hard,” he sighed. “There’s a transition that has to happen - an adjustment to a new normal that, when you’re in the public eye, falls under this huge scrutiny and speculation.”
“Like the cheating rumours…“
"I honestly don’t know where people are coming up with that stuff.” He shook his head before leaning forward slightly. “I was telling you the truth last time, Quinn, neither of us had any sort of relationship with anyone else in those two years. No romance, no sex, nothing.”
“God, you must be dying.”
“Oh you have no idea,” he growled in frustration, taking a sip of his drink.
You felt a shiver run through you at the sound of his voice, like you could feel how starved he was, how he craved the very thing he’d denied himself of for so long.
“Is there anything you’d like me to write in regards to the whole cheating thing?” you asked, ignoring the shiver still trickling down your spine. “Anything you want to say?”
He thought for a moment before taking a deep breath. “It’s hard for people to accept a divorce when there’s no malice or anger or… mess. Being famous, it’s almost as if there has to be a scandal; something glamorous, dramatic, sensationalised for people to consume like entertainment. An amicable split obviously isn’t entertaining enough, and so people have chosen to create their own narratives instead. It’s hurtful and offensive, it’s like… millions of people digging their fingers into a wound that is trying desperately to heal.”
You sat in silence for a moment, mulling over his answer. “Have you ever thought about being a writer?”
He shook his head, trying to suppress a smile.
“I think it’s admirable,” you said sincerely. “That you abstained while you were together. Stupid, but admirable nonetheless.”
“Thanks,” he laughed, pausing before speaking again. “Can I ask how long it’s been since you… last…?”
Your back straightened slightly, caught off guard by his question.
“Shit, sorry,” he said. “Was that- That was far too personal, wasn’t it.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s… been a couple of months.”
“Was it the man you were in the office with today?”
“Nick!? God, no. He’s just a friend.”
He seemed almost relieved, relaxing back into his chair, like it had been bothering him since the moment he saw you together.
“You and Faye… you were friends first, right?”
“Mm, we ran in some of the same circles so we’d see each other a lot at events and such.”
“And that’s how the 'marriage’ happened?”
“You don’t have to air-quote the word marriage, Quinn,” he laughed.
“Sorry.”
“Real answer: yes, there’d been some speculation in the media that we were seeing each other. Which obviously wasn’t true. But our teams jumped on the idea and ran with it. Magazine answer: we hit it off immediately, and the more I got to know her, the more I liked her. Until I eventually plucked up the courage to ask her out.”
You scoffed. “I can’t imagine you’d need to pluck up the courage to ask someone out.”
“Why not?”
“Because don’t people fawn over you wherever you go?”
He dropped his gaze and laughed, scratching the back of his head like he’d suddenly become shy.
“Did it ever bother her?” you asked. “Faye, I mean. Knowing there were millions of people out there completely in love with her husband.”
“I don’t know about millions of people-”
“Oh come on.” You rolled your eyes. “Are you just being modest right now? Or are you really that oblivious to the effect you have on people?”
He made eye contact with you, tilting his head slightly to one side as he observed you quietly. “Are you trying to say I have that effect on you?”
You paused as you felt the air begin to thicken around you once again. But it wasn’t like the last time; it wasn’t heavy and oppressive, the tension closing in on you until you could barely breathe. This time it was hot, close, like you could practically feel his hands on you, his question making your heart thud in your chest.
You lowered your voice, your conviction wavering. “I’m interviewing you-”
“There’s only so many times you can use that to avoid answering my questions.”
“I’m just trying to stay professional,” you said softly, allowing a slight smile as you continued. “And you promised you’d be good.”
“I am being good.”
“Sure.”
He smirked, before taking a deep breath and finally answering your question. “If she was ever bothered by it, she never made it known. There’s things you have to accept when you’re with someone who has a fan base as… devoted as mine. And she always handled it with grace.” He shifted in his seat. “If anything, it makes me more attentive to the person I’m with - like I have a duty to show them they are my priority.”
“So… with that in mind, in terms of this interview… what went wrong with Faye?”
He looked up at the ceiling and laughed softly to himself. “We’ve gone with 'grown apart’.”
“Very original.”
“I know, right?” He laughed again, bringing his gaze back down to meet you. “Sometimes you just get to a point where you’ve got everything out of a relationship that you can. We drained our marriage dry, came out of it better than when we went in. Now it’s time to move on.”
“And what are you hoping to move on to?”
There was no denying you were asking purely for yourself, and he knew it too. But he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed more than happy to indulge you.
“Who knows.” He shrugged. “I’m not looking to jump straight out of one marriage into another, but I like to think I’ll be open to… connecting with someone else.”
You nodded, hanging on his every word so intently that you hadn’t written a single thing in your notebook.
“Do you worry about the stigma surrounding celebrity couples?” you asked. “The fact that you’ve technically fulfilled the prophecy of Hollywood marriages being cursed to never last?”
“I think there’s some truth to it,” he replied contemplatively. “I mean, there’s so much pressure and scrutiny that comes with being in the public eye. Even if only one person in the relationship is famous, it can still cause a strain. The busy schedule, the travelling, the glitz and glam of it all. It can be a lot to deal with.” He paused, taking a moment to look at you. “But you definitely wouldn’t get bored, that’s for sure.”
You smirked, remembering back to your first meeting. 'I get bored easily’, you’d said to him as you sat in that same exact spot.
“Sounds like I need to find myself a famous boyfriend.”
He chuckled. “But to answer the question: yes, it’s not nice being viewed as just another celebrity with a failed marriage. But I don’t think it’s an inevitable curse. If two people work, then they work. Regardless of how many eyes are on them.”
“Was there ever a part of you that felt like you should stick it out? How do you decide when it’s time to call it quits?”
He sighed. “Sometimes the gracious thing to do is end it, instead of dragging it out. You could say ending our marriage was Faye and I’s way of preserving our love and respect for one another, stepping away at a time when we still cared about each other and could look back with fond memories, instead of staying together in spite of our issues and having those memories tainted by resentment.”
“Ooh yes, that’s nice, I like that,” you said, making a note in your book.
“Oh you like that?” He laughed. “I’m glad you approve of my answer.”
You realised what you’d said and began to laugh too, shaking your head and tucking your pen behind your ear.
“To answer the other part of the question,” he said, a sudden calmness in his tone. “I didn’t love her, so there was never a desire in my mind to stick it out.”
“I can’t publish that…” you replied quietly.
“I know. That answer was for you.”
“Oh.”
“But when I do love someone, I give myself to them completely. It’s very hard for me to ever picture myself walking away while there’s still feelings there.”
You cleared your throat. “You sound like a very… passionate person.”
“I am.”
There was a long silence, an intense atmosphere that left an ache deep inside you, like he’d been speaking directly to the part of you that you never even knew existed until that very moment.
“I…” you began, flustered, sifting through the papers in your lap. “I had so many questions about y-your movies and upcoming projects and acting and… I-I, y'know, I can’t seem to remember any of them.”
“Well can I ask you a question then?” he replied. “Without you reminding me who’s interviewing who?”
You looked up at him and gave a gentle nod.
“Did you leave your bracelet here on purpose?”
Oh god, your bracelet. You’d completely forgotten about it until that very moment; suddenly remembering the way he looked as he slept, how kind and gentle he had been towards you.
“No, it must have fallen off in my sleep,” you lied. “Why would I leave it on purpose?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“Well here’s a question for you,” you said, quickly changing the subject. “If it were any other journalist who did what I did, would they be sitting here right now getting a second chance?”
He stayed quiet for a moment, squeezing the arms of his chair in a slow, steady rhythm. “No,” he finally said.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you’re not 'any other journalist’…”
“What does that mean?” you asked with a breathy, confused laugh.
“It means that I’m not the only one who’s oblivious to the effect they have on people…”
Chapter 7: VII
Chapter Text
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.”
Chapter 8: VIII
Chapter Text
It had been raining for three days straight, and though you’d never minded the wet, gloomy weather before, there was something about this particular storm that felt almost personal; as if the universe could feel your discontent and was sulking in solidarity with you.
It started almost immediately after you left Ben’s house that night; fine beads of rain beginning to pepper the windshield as you sat behind the wheel of your car in silence - chagrin, frustrated - your papers and notes tossed carelessly on the backseat, as if the victory of a successful interview meant nothing when compared to what came after.
You were sat on the edge of the island, breathless and bewildered as you watched him take a step back, offering out his hand to help you down. You took it, sliding down onto your feet and quickly straightening out your skirt which had ridden up in the fervour.
“I apologise…” you said awkwardly as you ran your thumb along your bottom lip, still tingling from the pressure of his kiss.
He shook his head with a reassuring smile. “No need to apologise,” he said, leading you out of the kitchen and back towards the study. “It’s my fault really, I should’ve known better than to do that in the first place.”
“Should’ve known better?” you asked as you followed behind.
“Well yeah.” He pushed the door open and stepped aside for you to walk into the room. “This is technically work, for both of us. And after everything that’s happened, you’d think I’d have learned by now that you’re…”
You turned to him.
“Dangerous,” he finished with a breathy laugh.
Your brows began to furrow over narrowed eyes, and in that moment it was as if he realised the implication of his words, how they sat much heavier in the air than they had on the back of his tongue.
“You think I’m… dangerous,” you said.
He sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I-”
“What?” you interrupted. “You don’t think I can be trusted, is that it?”
“No-”
“Y-you think I’d… I’d write some sort of kiss and tell?”
“No-”
“That I’d fuck you and then use it to blackmail you or something?”
“No, look, I didn’t mean-”
“How else could you have meant it?” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder.
“What are you doing? Do we not still have interview questions to get through?”
“No I think I have enough material to work with, thank you.”
You scooped up your notes and papers, holding them messily in your arms as you elbowed past him into the hall.
“Wait, Quinn,” he called out from behind you.
“What?” You spun around, waiting for him to apologise, to explain himself.
“You forgot your phone.”
You pursed your lips, marching up to him and clumsily taking it out of his hand, trying desperately to keep your notes from falling out of your arms. He remained quiet, watching as you gave him a stern nod and pivoted on your heels towards the front door, fumbling to open it with your elbow, your irritation growing more palpable with every second you remained inside his house.
When it finally opened, you let out a huff, straightening your spine and clearing your throat. “Thank you for your time, Mr Cumberbatch,” you said, stepping over the threshold before stopping and looking back over your shoulder at him. “Your name is ridiculous, by the way.”
He dropped his head, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he breathed out a quiet laugh. “Yep, I’m aware.”
“Well… Good.”
It had been three days since that moment, since the sky opened and began to cry for you. Yet you still cringed, body folding in on itself whenever you thought about it. Maybe you’d overreacted, maybe he hadn’t meant it that way. But even if he had, would he really have been that wrong? Perhaps you were dangerous, always had been, and he was simply the first person brave enough to say it.
It was another cold, soggy November morning. You climbed out of your car and stepped directly into a puddle, murky water splashing over the ankles of your brand new trousers. You let out a long exhale and rolled your eyes, shaking it off and putting up your umbrella before making your way down the street to a small café on the corner.
The scent of fresh coffee welcomed you in, like a rich, comforting escape from the weather outside. Your cheeks began to tingle as your body thawed in the warmth of the café, the rain continuing to lash against the windows, like it longed for you, banging on the glass and demanding you let it in. You joined the queue, gazing up at the menu and running your tongue over the inside of your lip, so bitten and chewed in frustration that it had begun to swell.
Then something caught your eye through the window; a digital ad flashing to life on the side of a bus stop, a set of familiar blue eyes smouldering in the centre of a colourful, dramatic movie poster. And you knew as you stood there, watching the rain trickle down the face of the man you couldn’t stop thinking about, that the universe was no longer your ally, it was your tormentor.
“Excuse me?” a voice sang, pulling you back into focus.
You turned to see the barista waiting behind the counter, eyebrows raised with concern as she looked at you.
“I’m sorry,” you said, taking a step forward. “I was miles away.”
You placed your order and stepped aside to wait, the poster of Ben lighting up in the periphery of your vision every few seconds, like it was taunting you, reminding you of what he’d said - that you were dangerous. You nudged the girl standing beside you, catching her attention and pointing to the poster through the window. She slid down her headphones and glanced over her shoulder towards the bus stop curiously.
“I’ve kissed him,” you said matter-of-factly.
The girl looked at the picture of Ben, then back to you, then back to Ben, before laughing quietly and shaking her head like it was nothing more than a joke. You bit the inside of your lip again, furrowing your brow as you watched her slip her headphones back on, take her order and leave. Maybe you weren’t that dangerous after all, you thought.
~*~
You sat down at your desk, lifting the lid of your laptop and cracking your knuckles dramatically as you prepared to continue your work. You had one more day to finish the feature, and you were falling significantly behind; spending hours agonising over a single line, unable to move onto the next until you got it just right.
He tells me to call him Ben-
No. You shook your head, deleting it all.
I’m caught off guard when he says I can call him Ben-
Fuck sake that’s even worse, you thought, aggressively hitting the backspace letter-by-letter.
He says-
“Quinn, do you have a minute?”
You felt a hand rest on the back of your chair, a cloyingly sweet perfume clouding in the air around you. You swivelled around, looking up to see Julia standing over you, all sharp suit and pretty hair, a mascara-black eyelash sitting on her cheek. You’d always liked Julia; she was pleasant, kept to herself, always smiled when she passed you in the bullpen or the corridor. But now, since being assigned as Dan’s temporary replacement, you were finding her less pleasant and a lot more irritating.
“I need to send you on an assignment tonight,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning her backside against your desk.
“Oh I can’t sorry, I have a deadline,” you replied.
“Quinn, every other staff writer here is juggling two or three projects at once. You’re going to have to start being a team player at some point, y'know, pick up some of the slack.”
You were going to tell her about the eyelash on her cheek, but then she started using the tone.
“It’s an easy assignment,” she continued. “The SPF are holding a gala in central London-”
“Suncream…?”
“No. The Sustainability Prosperity Foundation.”
“That’s a mouthful,” you muttered under your breath.
She gritted her teeth at you, taking a deep breath before continuing to speak. “It’s like a big charity ball. Think Met Gala but… eco conscious. Lots of celebs attending, raising money to end poverty and climate change and all that stuff. I just need a journalist inside to report on the event, who’s there, what they’re wearing-”
“Oh, I don’t write about fashion-”
“Well it’s not just about that. You’ll be there to learn more about what the SPF’s doing, to hear all the guests’ ethos and standpoints on why they support it, what sustainable fashion brands they’re wearing, what we can do to help. Then you just have to write a nice, thoughtful, ‘save the planet’ type piece on it all.”
“Save the planet? Me?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Julia, about an hour ago I threw my coffee cup in the regular bin because I was too lazy to walk the extra two steps to the recycling. And you know what? I don’t even feel that bad about it-”
“Quinn, you’re doing it. End of. I’ll have a press badge and ticket on your desk by the end of the day.”
“Fine,” you huffed, pausing for a moment in thought. “I would like expenses for an outfit.”
She glared down at you.
“I don’t own anything appropriate for a gala,” you said in a sarcastically posh voice.
“Fine. I’ll sort you out with a company card.” She rolled her eyes and began to walk away.
“Thank you,” you said, glancing across the bullpen as Nick emerged from a meeting room. “And I would like Nick to join me,” you added quickly.
Julia turned on her heels. “Bloody hell, anything else?”
“Just thought it’d be more efficient.” You shrugged. “We can split up, cover more ground.”
“Fine.”
You smirked. “You have an eyelash on your cheek, by the way.”
She stopped, swiping her hands over her face a few times before looking back at you for confirmation. You nodded and gave her a thumbs up, though you were unsure if the eyelash was actually gone.
~*~
It was dark, and the glow from the streetlights turned the raindrops on the window a vibrant orange; while some sat in perfect specks, like stars in a night sky, others streamed across the glass like comets. Those were the ones you were watching, getting lost in the way they meandered and merged together, changing direction as the taxi moved and turned in the heavy London traffic.
You felt a gentle kick on your leg, peeling your eyes from the window to Nick who was sitting opposite you in a smart navy blue suit.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” you said, sitting up straighter in your seat. “I could just do without this, if I’m honest.”
“Yeah me too… Thanks for volunteering me, by the way.”
You smirked, resting your elbow on the car door.
“How’s the feature coming?” he asked.
“It’s… coming. Slowly.”
“Did the interview not go well?”
“No, it was- it was great.” you sighed, pushing away the memories of Ben’s lips on yours, his body pressed between your legs. “I just, I ended up leaving with some things still… unanswered.”
“Ah, so now you’re having to fill in the gaps yourself.”
“Mm.”
The taxi turned a sharp corner, causing Nick to almost fall off his seat.
“Well,” he said, trying to compose himself again. “If he’s at this thing tonight then you might get the chance to ask him those unanswered questions.”
“Wait, what?”
“What?”
“He’s going to be there? Ben- I mean Benedict? He’s-”
“I don’t know.” He gave a nonchalant shrug, like he hadn’t noticed your sudden panic. “I would’ve thought so.”
You exhaled slowly, turning your attention back to the window, to the stars and comets and people walking in the rain, finding yourself longing to trade places with them.
The pair of you sat in a comfortable silence for the rest of the journey; Nick with his face buried in his phone, you fiddling with the press pass in your lap. It wasn’t until the taxi rumbled to a stop that you realised you’d arrived, looking up to see a hectic crowd of fans and photographers, a red carpet carving a pathway through them.
As you stepped out of the car, you immediately began to regret your choice of dress; the thin straps and plunging neckline doing little to shield you from the cold wind and fine rain. High heels threatening to catch in the slick cobbles as you walked across the road towards the event.
“Nick, I’m freezing. Give me your jacket.”
“Piss off, people’ll think we’re a couple.”
“Oh, fucking heaven forbid.”
“Shush. We’re practically inside now anyway. Come on.”
He grabbed you by the hand and tugged you along the red carpet, meandering through the sea of famous people stopping for photographs, assistants and publicists holding umbrellas over their heads.
“Well I’m sure no one will think we’re a couple now,” you said sarcastically, squeezing his hand as it gripped yours.
He rolled his eyes and let go, taking out his press pass and flashing it to a pair of security guards standing at the door.
~*~
“Thank you, it was lovely to meet you.” You smiled as you watched the tall, handsome man walk away, almost blushing when you saw him glance back at you one more time.
He was the third person to show interest in you so far, to offer to buy you a drink or flirt with you as you asked questions for the magazine. Maybe it was the dress, you thought, maybe it wasn’t such a bad choice after all; a skintight, shiny magnet for handsome British actors. And you weren’t complaining.
You let your eyes wander around the large ballroom, searching for Nick and finding him on the other side deep in conversation with a group of radio presenters. He was so charismatic; able to draw words from people like a snake charmer. You, on the other hand, had yet to fill a single page in your notebook. You shifted your weight from side to side in an attempt to relieve the pressure from your high heels, sifting through the blank pages of your book, trying to look busy as you prepared to go searching for your next target.
“Quinn?”
You didn’t even have to look up, the voice alone flooding your mind with a crystal clear image of those pale eyes and sharp cheekbones.
“Quinn,” he said again, softer this time, the slightest brush of a hand against your back.
You turned your head, eyes trailing slowly from his chest to his neck to his lips, until eventually your eyes met.
“Hello,” you replied.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“You look… wow, beautiful.”
"Thanks.”
You didn’t know if you were being awkward or cold, if you were nervous or still angry. Either way, it was undeniable, and the small laugh that escaped Ben’s throat made it clear he’d noticed it too.
“I’m getting the feeling you’re still annoyed after what happened,” he said.
“You mean when you refused to sleep with me even though I was practically begging for it?” Angry. You were definitely still angry.
“Ssh!” he hissed, looking around to make sure no one heard you.
“Then proceeded to insult me by implying I can’t be trusted…” you continued.
“I never said that.”
“Okay maybe you didn’t. But you did say I’d thank you in the long run.” You bit your lip, shaking your head slightly as you looked up at him. “Y'know, I’ve got to tell you, I’m still waiting for the gratefulness to kick in.”
He rolled his eyes, jaw clenched as he adjusted his tie. “It’s only been three days. Not really the long run yet, is it.”
“Oh let’s be honest, Benedict, you had no intentions of ever seeing me again.”
“I hoped I might.” He leaned in slightly. “And I told you to just call me Ben.”
You eyed him up and down. “No,” you said bluntly before turning and beginning to walk away.
“Quinn…”
You stopped, glancing back at him.
He looked around before clearing his throat. “How’s the feature coming along?” he asked, like he was grasping at any excuse to stop you from walking away.
You were dying to say something sarcastic, something snippy and snide. But you stopped yourself, breathing out a defeated sigh as the truth struggled out of your reluctant lips.
“I… I actually have a few questions I wanted to ask, but never… did.”
He raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile, like he knew you would never admit it unless you were desperate. “Well I’d be happy to oblige.”
You looked around the busy ballroom; the sound of a thousand conversations happening all at once, music playing through large speakers on either side of the room, no table empty, no corner unclaimed by groups of people with drinks in hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said with a shrug. “The deadline’s tomorrow, it’s too busy, I wouldn’t be able to think straight-”
He interrupted you with his index finger, holding it up in the air before pointing towards a door at the back of the room, gesturing for you to come with him. You rolled your eyes, looking back towards Nick to see him still deep in conversation, before letting out a huff and following Ben through a crowd of people.
You slipped through the door into a narrow hallway, a set of stairs on the other end leading down to a cellar. It was cold, a bitter draught pouring in from a nearby fire exit and raising goosebumps along your exposed arms. You crossed them over your chest, leaning back against the wall as Ben peered through a crack in the door to make sure no one saw you.
You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m about to sell you fucking drugs or something.”
He turned around to face you. “I was just making sure we’d have some privacy, alright.”
“Why does it even matter? I know you think I’m dangerous and all, but I’m not going to say anything that could get you in trouble.”
“No, but I am.”
You furrowed your brow in confusion, musing over his words as he closed the space between you, only stopping when you were close enough to touch, able to smell his cologne.
“Do you want to know why you’re dangerous, Quinn?”
“Go on,” you replied quietly, looking up at him with a stony resolve.
“Because you seem to have a hold on me that I don’t quite understand,” he said slowly as he flattened his palms against the wall either side of you, caging you in. “If anybody else did what you did the night we first met… If anybody else spoke to me the way you did… I wouldn’t have even given them a chance.”
You felt your breath becoming heavy, your chest swelling with each slow inhale as his voice poured into your ears and seemed to trickle down the back of your neck, making your hairs stand on end, a shiver roll down your spine.
“But you…” he continued, voice so deep you could almost feel it rumbling in your bones. “It’s like you’ve crawled into my brain.”
You paused for a moment before replying quietly. “That’s awfully dramatic.”
It was like you couldn’t help yourself, like you were incapable of letting him win, of admitting he was making your legs weak, making your heart thud in your chest.
He dropped his head with a slight smirk, before bringing his eyes back up to yours.
“How about this,” he began, precision in every word. “If you hadn’t faltered that night. If you hadn’t had any doubts… I’d have fucked you right there on that kitchen counter.”
You felt a sudden, intense jolt of electricity in your core, rippling up through your stomach and stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Because when I say you’ve ‘crawled into my brain’,” he continued. “What I’m trying to say… is that I can’t stop thinking about you. About what I want to do with you… to you.”
He slowly lowered his head, bringing his face closer to yours, your hot, heavy breaths blending in the space between you.
“I really do have questions for the feature,” you whispered.
“They can wait.”
He pressed his mouth to yours, slowly at first, the pressure making your bitten lip ache, but you didn’t care. You immediately brought your arms up, wrapping them around the back of his neck and pulling him further down to you. He responded by letting the weight of his body press against yours, pinning you to the wall and cupping your face in his large hands as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping across your lips to part them.
You broke away and looked up at him, panting to catch your breath. “What would people think if they saw Benedict Cumberbatch canoodling with a journalist in the back corridor of a charity gala?”
“Hm,” he pretended to ponder. “Lucky Benedict.”
You rolled your eyes, but quickly melted as he began to traipse kisses down your neck.
“Even when you’re supposed to be in the throes of a divorce?”
“I am in the throes of a divorce,” he mumbled against your skin.
“Mhm, and you seem absolutely heartbroken.” You grabbed his face and brought it back to yours, devouring him in another hot, heavy kiss.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound rich like honey pouring down the back of your throat, and pressed himself harder against you. Your skin pricked and tingled as he found the slit in your dress, fingers brushing over the bare skin of your thigh and dipping beneath the satin, agonisingly close to the place that was aching for him.
A soft moan escaped your lips, making him almost buckle, like the sound was too much for him to bear. But you continued to kiss him, bringing a hand down to the waistband of his trousers, fingers dancing over the first button.
He pulled his hips back slightly. “Not here,” he whispered breathlessly.
“You turning me down again?” you teased.
“Definitely not.” He leaned in and kissed you again, letting out a soft growl, like it was killing him. “Come home with me.”
“I’m here for work…”
“So am I.”
“But I came with my friend, I can’t just leave.”
He pressed his lips to your neck, igniting a new flame deep in your core.
“Mm,” you hummed. “But I’m sure I can think of an excuse.”
“Good girl.”
Chapter 9: IX
Chapter Text
Your heart was still thumping as you walked across the busy hall, your lips still tender, flesh still tingling with the memory of Ben's touch. You pushed your way through a large group of people, mumbling a string of insincere apologies and impatient 'excuse me's as you went, eyes focused on Nick as he sat at a table on the other side of the room.
"Sorry, I just need-" You forced yourself through a small gap of people, accidentally elbowing the woman beside you and spilling champagne from her glass all over her hand. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry."
She was taller than you; her slender frame draped in a pale gold dress, blonde hair falling in soft waves over her chest. She was pretty, even as she frowned at the champagne covering her left hand, the sparkling liquid dripping from a large diamond engagement ring, a thin wedding band slotted perfectly behind it. You looked at her again, eyes darting over her face; so familiar yet-
Wait. Is that... Faye Dennehy?
"It's okay, it's fine," she sighed, as if only reluctantly accepting your apology. "I'm sure it was an accident."
Oh my god. It is, it's her.
"It was an accident," you insisted, looking around frantically for something to dry the spill, before tearing a page from your notebook and pressing it to her hand like a napkin. "Here."
She glanced down at the sheet of lined paper, then back to you, raising one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows.
"I'm a journalist," you said, flashing your press pass. "Here for work."
"Well I'm afraid whatever you wrote on here is gone for good," she said, gesturing to the ink running across the page, the words too smudged to read.
"That's fine, really, I probably wasn't going to use that bit anyway."
You turned on your heels and kept going without waiting for a reply, too focused on making it to the table where Nick sat interviewing another celebrity you couldn't quite remember the name of. He was scrawling quickly in his journal, laughing and nodding along as you pulled up a chair beside him, tapping him on the arm - tapping and tapping and tapping until eventually, he gave in and turned to you.
"What?" he hissed.
"Hey, listen I'm really sorry but I have to go."
"What!?"
"I know, I'm sorry. But look, I'll make it up to you - After tonight, you don't have to do anything else for this article, I'll write the entire thing."
"You were supposed to be writing the entire thing anyway..."
You groaned. "Oh Nick come on! Please!"
"What's going on? Why do you have to go?"
"Because..." You trailed off as a rolodex of lies began to flicker through your mind, but before you could land on a convincing one, he began to speak.
"You're leaving to shag someone, aren't you."
"What? No!"
"You are. You've met someone and now you're going to abandon your friend at an event you dragged him to, all so you can go and get plowed by some fancy famous twat in a nice suit."
"Firstly, 'plowed'?"
He rolled his eyes.
"Secondly, it's none of your business. So will you just say it's okay for me to go?"
He paused, the beginnings of a smirk forming. "Who is it?"
"Ugh, Nick, for fuck sake come on please-"
He rolled his eyes, waving his hand at you dismissively. "Yeah, fine alright, go."
"Thank you."
You had been given a strict set of instructions to follow, a detailed plan that Ben made you repeat back to him before he was satisfied you knew it. The first part was done; you had told Nick you were leaving, though you hadn't expected to run into the ex-wife on your way there. Next, you had to find Ben's publicist.
You walked out into the foyer, the noise from inside the gala turning to a mumble as it made way to the sound of rain against the roof, paparazzi and fans shouting outside. Your eyes fell on the woman you were looking for; older, blonde, wearing a long black coat and holding an umbrella.
"Hi, I think I was supposed to come and find you?" you said as you tentatively approached her.
She turned to you, scanning you quickly from head-to-toe and back. "Ah right okay, come on then."
"'Ah right okay'?" you asked with an awkward laugh as you followed her outside. "Like... 'Ah right okay, I see why he's taking you home'? or 'Ah right okay, each to his own'?"
She gave you an unamused look, remaining quiet as she put up the umbrella and held it over your head, leading you to the end of the red carpet and down the street where a black car with tinted windows was waiting.
"I'm not being kidnapped am I?" you said.
"Just sit tight, we'll be about five minutes," she replied.
You climbed into the back of the car, so warm it almost stung against your cold skin, making your face begin to flush. The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror and you pressed your mouth into a tense smile as you sat back and began to wait, mind wandering to the narrow corridor at the back of the busy hall; the way he'd kissed you, the things he'd said as he pressed himself against you. You began to chew the same sore spot on the inside of your lip, crossing one leg over the other and squeezing your thighs together, anything to distract from the impatience growing between them.
After a few minutes, you noticed a commotion down the street; a scattering of flashing lights, people screaming, pushing and shoving around the edges of the red carpet. The car began to move, rolling slowly towards the chaos and coming to a gentle stop in the middle of it. You peered through the dark window to see Ben walking out, waving and smiling as his publicist walked closely beside him, umbrella shielding him from the rain.
She opened the door first, climbing into the car and shuffling down until she was sat right beside you, pressing you uncomfortably against the car door. You were annoyed, teeth clenched to hold in the angry huff brewing in your lungs, but as she turned her body away from you, leaning forward slightly as cameras continued to flash in the direction of the car, you realised she was shielding you from it, keeping you hidden. And suddenly, you felt the huff evaporate into a very thankful sigh.
As Ben climbed into the car, closing the door with one last wave, you noticed he'd put his wedding ring back on. Your eyebrow raised curiously, a million questions rattling around your mind; journalism and jealousy combined.
"Sorry about that," he said, breathing a sigh of relief as the car began to drive away. "You okay, Quinn?"
"Yeah," you replied quietly.
You were unsure what you'd expected from the drive back to his house. Perhaps some hand holding, maybe even a sly kiss or two, but having his publicist wedged between you both definitely wasn't on your list of possibilities. You wondered what she was thinking, what she knew. Had he told her why you were there? Or had he made up some kind of excuse to spare you the judgement of a woman whose entire job centred around public image.
But the more you thought about it, the less you feared her and the more irritated you became. This was one of the people who had orchestrated his marriage, who had convinced him it would be good, who had led him down a path of lies and secrecy and utter misery for two years. You wanted to tell her how awful you thought it all was, and how you hoped the seatbelt buckle was digging into her arse as she sat in the uncomfortable middle seat.
The car pulled up outside the house you'd come to know well. The porch light, the path, the door, all providing you with a sense of calm, like you were back on familiar soil. Ben jumped out before the tyres had even fully stopped, as if he were too eager to wait the extra few seconds, or maybe he was just desperate to escape the awkward atmosphere. Either way, within a few seconds he was at your door, opening it for you with a gentlemanly stoop of his head.
You climbed out into the cold, immediately crossing your arms to protect your exposed chest as you waited for him. He was leant forward, speaking to his publicist as she remained inside the car. You couldn't hear what they were saying, and for a brief moment you contemplated taking a small step forward to eavesdrop, but you stopped yourself, staying put until he finally stood up straight and shut the door.
You watched as the car drove away, leaving you both alone for the first time since he'd asked you to come home with him. The street was dark, quiet, the only sound coming from the rain as it bounced against the pavement. He turned to look at you as you looked up at him, both of you breaking into a quiet giggle, as if acknowledging how painfully awkward the journey had been.
"Shall we?" he said as he slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, placing a hand on your lower back to lead you towards the house.
You walked with him, pressing your nose gently to the collar and luxuriating in his scent; a blend of cologne and soap, the faintest whisper of cigarettes. You thought back to how Nick had refused to give you his jacket, while Ben didn't even have to be asked. It made you smile, but it also made you wonder just how deep the gentleman in him really went. A part of you hoped it wasn't all the way.
He opened the door and let you in, closing and locking it behind you. You slipped off the jacket and handed it back to him, watching as he strolled down the hallway and hung it in the cupboard. You remained still, standing near the front door as you watched him; admiring how good he looked in a suit, even without the jacket. How the trousers hugged his thighs, how his chest and arms seems so broad beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He shut the cupboard door with his foot and turned to look at you. "What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes with a slight smirk.
"Just think it's funny." You shook your head with a soft laugh. "It hasn't even been a week since we first met and yet somehow this is the fourth time I've been in your house."
"Mm, I think you might be a bit obsessed with me," he said as he began walking back towards you.
"Is that so?"
"Mhm. Look, even tonight you followed me all the way to an event." He was getting closer, holding back a grin as he spoke. "Cornered me in a back corridor, all alone, no escape..."
"Ah, you're right. That is absolutely what happened."
The smile finally made its way across his face, creating lines in his cheeks, creases at the corners of his eyes. Then he looked you up and down, almost hungrily, taking in every inch of you before speaking. "You look... incredible tonight."
"I should hope so. This dress cost my boss a fortune."
He dropped his head, breathing out a laugh.
"So you should probably be careful," you added, softening your voice to an almost whisper. "Y'know, when you... take it off me."
He brought his gaze back up to meet yours, the smile gone and replaced with a much more serious expression.
You cleared your throat. "In case it wasn't clear, that was a hint that I want to-"
"Yeah, I got it," he said, closing the distance between you and taking your face in his hands.
His lips were soft as they connected with yours, his kiss so forbearing and considerate it caught you off guard. He tasted like mint and champagne, that same suggestion of cigarettes, so slight it was barely there. You brought a hand up to the back of his neck, the other slowly snaking up his chest and resting on his shoulder, pulling him closer to you, making sure to leave no doubt in his mind that you wanted this, you wanted him.
He parted his lips, and you seized the chance to let your tongue sweep gently into his mouth. He reciprocated, his kiss slowly morphing into something more eager, more starved with every brush and flick of your tongues, the slightest grazing of teeth. You could feel your desire beginning to swell once again, the ache deep in your core forcing a soft moan to escape your lips. The sound seemed to ignite something within him as a growl rumbled in his throat, his hands moving to the back of your head, fingers gripping your hair.
"Fuck," he sighed softly, almost as if he didn't mean for you to hear it.
"What?" you whispered back.
He shook his head, stealing you back into another kiss, his lips curving into a slight smile as your hands dropped to wrap around his waist, your palms spread flat across his lower back and pulling him flush against you.
You stumbled backwards, bringing him with you, only stopping when your back made contact with something hard and cold. The front door? He pressed his body against you - seemingly unfazed by the location you'd found yourselves in - his mouth leaving yours to travel down your jaw to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and soft bites in his wake. You felt one of his hands moving through the slit in your dress to grip the flesh of your hip, bracing you against the door with a firmness that made you shiver with excitement.
Not always a gentleman, after all. Thank god.
"I have to tell you I don't usually do this," he said breathlessly.
"I know. You've been celibate for two years," you replied sarcastically.
"No." He rested his head on your shoulder with a laugh before laying a kiss there. "I meant I don't- this- this isn't-" He sighed. "I just need you to know that I'm not normally the type to do this with someone I just met."
"I'd say me neither but that wouldn't be entirely true."
He laughed again, but this time you caught his eyes with your own. You thought about how scary it must have been; to be someone like him, to know that any and every interaction you had could be the wrong one, and it made you feel terrible all over again.
"I understand what you're saying," you said, putting a hand on his face and running your thumb over the dark smattering of hair along his jaw. "And despite everything that's happened, you can trust me. Please know that."
He returned both hands to your face, leaning in to kiss you once again. It was as if your reassurance had ignited a confidence in him; taken away the last specks of apprehension and replaced them with pure lust.
You could feel him; the rigid length pressed to your stomach as you hastily undid the buttons of his shirt, leaving it open to drag your nails softly down his bare chest, his stomach, and eventually to the waistline of his trousers. There was a deep hum in the back of his throat as he pushed himself harder against you, allowing his fingers to dip beneath the fabric of your dress and ghost over your bare skin.
You undid his trousers and slipped a hand into his underwear, teasing his cock with a too-light touch, leaving him groaning into your mouth and rocking his hips back and forth, searching for the friction you were so cruelly denying him.
"Not fair," he mumbled, hooking a finger into the delicate strap of your dress and dragging it down over your shoulder, revealing to him a bare canvas ready to be marked, branded as his.
He started with your collarbone; teeth grazing softly over it, tongue dipping into the hollow. You let your head fall back as his lips trailed to the base of your neck, eyes closed as you sighed with pleasure. But that sigh quickly turned to a sharp gasp when you felt him draw your skin into his mouth, sucking on it just enough to leave behind an ache as he moved onto the next spot.
"Ben." His name fell from your open mouth, as easily as a breath.
"Mm," he responded, the hum of his voice tingling against your skin as he travelled up towards your ear.
"I need-" you moaned as he nipped your lobe, sending a deep shudder directly to your core. "I need these off."
You moved to take the waistline of his trousers with both hands, dragging them down over his hips along with his underwear. He groaned as you returned a hand to his cock, this time gripping it firmly, silently thanking the universe for his impressive length as you slid from root to tip and back again.
His mouth found yours, his hands disappearing back under your dress and bunching it up around your waist, allowing him access to thrust against you, his cock nesting snugly between your legs, rubbing against your aching centre that was still covered by the thin fabric of your underwear.
"I had every intention of taking my time," he said breathlessly. "And I swear I will. Next time, the time after that, however many times you want. I will make it up to you." He kissed you again, fingers tangling in your hair. "But right now, I just need to have you."
You nodded, intending to speak but instead letting out nothing but a shaking breath.
He broke the closeness of your bodies, hastily stepping back and whipping a condom from the breast pocket of his shirt. The air suddenly felt cold in his absence, your entire body shivering with need as you watched him impatiently tear open the wrapper.
There was a moment as you waited for him to return to you, a fleeting spark of clarity where it suddenly dawned on you that there, standing in front of you, was Benedict Cumberbatch - practically naked, rolling a condom over the cock he was about to impale you with. Surely this wasn't real. None of this could possibly be real.
The warmth of his body soothed you as he returned, melting the shivers and replacing them with a searing heat as he wasted no time in kissing you again, grabbing the backs of your thighs and lifting you off the ground in one quick, eager motion, as if his desire had completely outweighed his civility.
You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, your legs locked around his waist as he pinned you back against the door, slipping a hand down in the narrow space between you to shift your underwear aside. He hummed in satisfaction as his fingers made contact with your wetness, like he had been starved for a lifetime, and you were the most perfect fruit, dripping with the sweetest nectar.
His grip returned to your thighs, and without wasting another moment, he sank himself into you; cock bullying through the tightness of your walls until it was buried right to the depths of your core. You let out a soft cry, your body clenching as you adjusted to the size of him, the unexpected yet desperately needed intrusion.
"Fuck," he grunted, forehead falling to your shoulder. "God, you're so-" His voice broke, breath hot against your skin.
You slid your hands up to the back of his head, taking fistfuls of short, dark hair and pulling him back to look at you. Your eyes met for a second before devouring each other in a hot, yearning kiss, like a silent agreement that this was right, you belonged in this moment.
He began to move his hips as you kissed, his length stroking into you and making your stomach coil, your eyes roll in utter bliss. You felt him shift on his feet, planting one hand on the door beside your head as he braced to strengthen his thrusts, building up power until he was pounding into you with a steady, vigorous force. The door began to creak and groan under the weight of your bodies, and you could only hope the street outside was still as deserted as it was when you arrived.
You almost couldn't believe this was the same house where everything had gone so terribly wrong. The same door you'd stormed out of, more than once, that he was now fucking you against. Usually, you'd be feeling ashamed in this moment; typical Quinn, can't keep it in her pants. But this was different somehow. You didn't feel guilty or wrong or disappointed in yourself. You felt like this was exactly what was supposed to happen. Divine Timing, as Nick would say.
You could feel the pleasure building in the depths of your core, pouring out and spilling into every part of you as Ben continued his delicious manhandling of your body. He let his head fall to your shoulder again, pressing kisses to your collarbone between heavy breaths and deep groans, his fingers digging into your thigh, so hard you were sure you'd see bruises in the morning.
"Oh god," you gasped, wrapping your arms tight around his shoulders, every snap of his hips sending another shockwave through you.
His voice broke with a desperate whimper, as if he were about to speak but pleasure had overwhelmed him, stolen the words straight from his throat. A shiver rippled through you in response, a moan falling from your parted lips, the sound only fortifying his movements; quickening his pace and adding even more weight to his thrusts.
You could feel it coming; the familiar yet never tiresome swell of pressure and heat. It started deep in your stomach; throbbing, intensifying as it began to spread through you. You were on the very edge, vision beginning to blur, mouth falling open when suddenly, you felt his hips begin to stutter, a collection of garbled moans spilling into the crook of your neck.
And before you knew it, clarity returned, the edge disappearing from sight as if you were falling away from it against your will. The throbbing eased, the pleasure retreating and settling in your core, like a fire slowly dying out.
Ben let out a frustrated groan before lifting his head to look at you, brows furrowed, almost apologetically, like he was more than aware you hadn't come, and he was furious with himself for it. He let out a sigh and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as you both panted to catch your breath.
"I'm sor-"
"So," you cut him off quickly, anything to avoid hearing him say that word. "How does it feel to finally put an end to your drought?"
He paused before chuckling softly. "You are my hurricane, Quinn."
You giggled too, leaning in and placing a reassuring kiss on his lips.
He pulled out of you slowly and carefully lowered you to the ground. You tugged down your dress, fixing the straps back onto your shoulders as you watched him pull up his trousers and button them up. You leaned back against the door, running your hands over the cold metal letterbox behind you, the grain in the wood.
"Well, I've never done it against a front door before," you said.
"Me neither," he replied distractedly, trying to find somewhere to dispose of the used condom in his hand.
"How come you had that?" you asked.
"Hm?" He looked down at it. "Oh, a friend of mine gave it to me at the gala tonight as a joke. Called it a 'divorce gift'."
"Serendipitous."
"I'll say."
You shifted on your feet, your high heels already beginning to hurt. "Mind if I... nip up to the bathroom?"
"No I was actually thinking you could just stand there for the rest of the night." He smirked.
"Are you forgetting I'm writing a piece on you?" You raised an eyebrow. "The fate of your reputation is in my hands... until 5pm tomorrow."
"Well I suppose I better do everything you say then," he replied, still smiling as he nodded towards the stairs, gesturing for you to go.
The bathroom mirror provided a glimpse into the truth of your latest encounter, the harsh overhead lighting drawing attention to every bite and bruise, the smudge of your lipstick, the way your mascara had begun to run in the corners of your eyes.
The sex was good, you thought to yourself as you cleaned your face with water. You just shagged Benedict Cumberbatch - famous actor, international heartthrob. You, Quinn Armitage, just shagged him. And it was... good.
You sat down on the edge of the bath and took off your heels, soothing your bare feet on the cold tiled floor.
I mean, yes you didn't finish, but it was still good. And the man hasn't been with anyone in two years! Can you blame him?
You stood up and walked back over to the mirror, leaning in to examine the trail of love bites he'd left along your collarbone, before turning to inspect the red fingertip marks on your thighs.
Or maybe you just have a magic vagina.
You stepped out of the bathroom and made your way back downstairs, padding barefoot around the house in search of him. You wondered how he took such good care of it, how much input he'd had in its decoration; the beautiful, rich colours, the textures and trinkets and warm, welcoming spaces.
You found him, unsurprisingly, in the study. It was dimly lit by a single lamp on the desk in the corner, curtains almost completely drawn. He was standing near the window, peering out through the gap into the dark back garden, a glass of rusty golden liquid in one hand. You moved quietly across the room, not towards him, but towards the tall bookshelf you'd never had the chance to look at before.
"Did Faye live here with you?" you asked quietly.
"Mm, no," he replied as he took a sip of his drink, back still to you as he spoke. "We had a 'marital home' that we both stayed at on and off. But she spends most of her time in New York, and I've had this place for years."
"Does it get lonely? Big house like this all to yourself?"
"You live alone too."
"Yeah but my flat's a box compared to this. Hard to get lonely when you can hear every move your neighbours make."
He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder towards you. "I suppose I do get lonely. Maybe that's why I work so much."
You nodded, reaching up and sliding a heavy script off the shelf into your arms. You began to fan through the pages with your thumb when you felt him come up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, palm against your stomach to pull you back against him. He pressed his lips to the side of your head, as you began to read aloud.
"Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never-"
"But never doubt I love," he finished as he began to kiss your neck.
"You still remember your lines?" You smiled.
He laughed softly against your skin. "I said them enough times."
You looked over your shoulder at him and he lifted his head, your eyes meeting for a moment before he slowly leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.
This room. This room that held so much tension; so much anger and discomfort, so many crossed words you wished had never been uttered. This room that was now bearing witness to your kiss, to the way he looked at you, let you read Shakespeare as you stood wrapped in his embrace. How could it be real? How could any of this possibly be real?
You pulled away, staring up at him, almost in awe. "How the hell did I end up here?" you whispered.
He kissed you once more and gave a shrug. "I don't know, divine timing."
You felt your heart stop for a brief moment, the coincidence sending chills through your body. "What did you just say?"
"Divine timing...? Why? Is that not a thing? Or, wait no, divine intervention, is it?"
You shook your head with a laugh, turning in his arms to face him and pulling him down into another kiss, the heavy script wedged between you, one of his hands still occupied by his glass.
"I think we should go upstairs," Ben muttered breathlessly against your lips.
"Why is that?"
"Because I said I'd make it up to you." He pulled you closer, fingers gripping your hip through the fabric of your dress. "And after what happened out there, I have a lot of making up to do."
Chapter 10: X
Chapter Text
Ben took you by the hand and led you out of the study. You felt your breath shallowing as you walked with him towards the stairs, your stomach fluttering with nerves, as if your neck wasn’t already decorated with the aftermath of his kisses, your thighs not already marked by his fingertips.
The first time had been quick; an explosion of pent up frustration against the front door you’d barely made it through. There had been no time to think it over, no time to consider what either of your intentions were; what it meant or what would come after. Only now were those thoughts beginning to seep in. Not in doubt, but in an uncharacteristic shyness.
You stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face him, taking a moment to ground yourself by pulling him into a deep, yearning kiss. You could taste the burn of alcohol on his tongue, feel his need as he hummed in approval and slid his hands around your waist to hold you close. It was enough to melt your reserve; leaving you a pool of impulse and desire in his arms.
His enthusiasm began to intensify, his body pressing against yours and encouraging you to move back onto the staircase. You followed his lead, trusting his hands to keep you steady as they roamed your lower back. The first step almost brought you to his height, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck with more ease, pressing your chest flush against his.
You let out a gentle gasp as his hands moved to your hips, gripping them firmly as he began to guide you backwards up the stairs. You kept your arms wrapped around him as he pushed you up each step, his hold on you strong, like he was practically carrying you. He moaned softly as he began to trail hot, impatient kisses over your neck, revelling in the taste of your skin. You couldn’t remember another time when you’d felt so desired.
You were almost at the top of the stairs, and though it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds since you began your ascent, the eagerness in your belly made it feel like forever. You wanted to hurry up and get there, to have him fulfil his promise of making it up to you; ‘next time, the time after that, however many times you want.’
“Not to ruin the mood, Ben,” you said breathlessly. “But there’s old people out there with stairlifts quicker than this.”
The laughter came out of him like he hadn’t felt it coming; escaping through his nose with a snort and distracting him just long enough to make him lose his footing. He fell forward, toppling onto you as you landed with your back against the steps.
There was a look of fear on his face, but it slowly melted away once he saw you were laughing, legs wrapped around his waist, hands gripping the spindles of the banister. He laughed too, resting his forehead against yours.
“That was your fault,” he said.
“Yeah?” you giggled, tilting your head up and catching his lips in a kiss.
’“Yeah.” He kissed you back. “That mouth of yours. Lethal.”
“Mm, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Ooh, was that a speck of jealousy?” you teased.
“Why would I be jealous? I’m the one between your legs.”
Touché, you thought, welcoming another kiss - a harder, hungrier kiss that made you remember exactly why you’d been heading upstairs in the first place.
You could feel his desire. Not just in the way he kissed you, but in the rigid length beneath his trousers. You arched up against it, a deep groan pouring from his mouth into yours. He swept one of his large hands up your thigh beneath your dress, his elegant fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You whimpered softly against his lips as his hand travelled further inwards, journeying to the place that still craved him.
“Up,” he said sternly. “I want to actually make it to the bedroom this time.”
He pulled you to your feet impatiently, almost growling the command. You liked it, wished you could save the sound and play it on a loop.
His hands never broke contact with your body, his chest against your back, lips on the back of your shoulder, teeth nipping at your neck as you rushed along the landing to his room. You fumbled clumsily with the door handle, and though it was just for a moment, you could feel the impatience growing between you, certain that if he hadn’t instructed you to get up, you would have never made it off the stairs.
The door swung open and you turned to face him, stumbling back through the dark room towards the bed as his mouth found yours again, kissing you as he brought a hand to the side of your neck, his thumb caressing the pulse beneath your skin.
“I just have one small request,” he whispered against your lips.
“Depends what it is.”
He rolled his eyes, pausing as he slid down the straps of your dress, pressing fresh kisses to the bruises he’d already left along your collarbone.
“I need you to not be too loud,” he finally said.
A breathy laugh escaped the corner of your mouth. “Bit presumptuous of you, isn’t it? What makes you think you’ll be getting any noise from me at all?”
“Because I’m going to fuck you,” he said bluntly, matter-of-factly, as he pushed you back onto the bed. “Properly this time.”
You kept your eyes on him, the sarcastic smirk wiped clean from your face as you leaned back on your elbows, watching him unbuttoning his shirt.
“None of that rushed, nervous mess like downstairs.” He threw the shirt to the ground and moved on to his trousers. “This time, I plan to leave you so thoroughly fucked that you lose the ability to backchat me.”
Your throat suddenly felt dry, your breath becoming uneven. “That’s ambitious…”
He dropped his head and let out a quiet chuckle as he removed his shoes and socks, letting his trousers and underwear fall to the ground and kicking them aside.
You took a moment to admire the sight before you; the tanned, freckled skin that sat taut over his broad chest, the defined arms and surprisingly muscled torso. It made you wonder how you’d spent so many years ignoring this man’s existence. How whenever you saw him on screen or in the pages of magazines, you had somehow managed to avoid the allure that so many others around the world fell victim to.
He knelt at the foot of the bed between your legs, leaning forward to kiss you as one of his hands slowly moved up your thigh, taking your dress with it until it was bunched up near your hips.
“Do I actually need to be careful taking this off?” he asked.
“No,” you replied with a breathy laugh, confounded by the charm in his consideration.
“Good.”
He tugged at at impatiently. You arched your back and raised your arms above your head, allowing him to remove the dress from you in one swift motion, turning it inside out as he peeled it from your body. There was a slight chill in the room you hadn’t noticed until now. It danced over your skin as you lay beneath him; exposed, unguarded, the softest and most intimate parts of yourself laid bare for him to seize.
You gasped softly as his warm hands made contact with your cold skin, the contrast so stark that you were sure his palms could sear brandings into your flesh.
“So perfect,” he whispered, his fingers ghosting over the curve of your hips.
You slid your arms around his back and pulled him down, welcoming his full weight on top of you as you pressed your lips to his ear, nipping the lobe between your teeth before soothing the sting with a kiss. The sound that poured out of him was delicious; deep and throaty, travelling straight to your core and resonating there.
His mouth returned to you swiftly, leaving licks and kisses over your goose-bumped skin as he travelled south, taking detours on his journey to explore the planes of your body. His hands gripped the soft flesh of your breasts as he drew their firm peaks into his mouth one-by-one, sucking gently until you hissed in pleasure, your hands taking root in his hair and tugging on whatever your fingers could attach themselves to. He groaned in response and pushed himself roughly against you, only your thin, lace underwear separating you from the thick, hard length he’d vowed to fuck you with.
He continued his descent towards your aching centre, dragging his tongue down your stomach, your skin tingling as the cool air made contact with the hot trail his mouth left behind.
“Can I tell you something?” His voice murmured against your hip.
“Mhm,” you hummed.
“The second I met you, I wanted to do this.”
You felt his weight shift on the bed, his hands gently parting your legs.
“I don’t mean the sex,” he continued, pausing every few moments to lay kisses on your inner thighs as he dragged down your underwear. “I mean this, specifically. I wanted to taste you.”
His voice sent a ripple through your stomach, spreading to every part of you and forcing a yearning sigh from your lungs. You opened your mouth to speak, but he didn’t give you a chance. Instead he buried his face between your thighs, lapping you up with no hesitation.
You threw your head back at the feeling of his tongue circling your clit, letting out a heavy, unexpected moan. You reached down instinctively and ran a hand through his hair, guiding his head deeper between your legs until they began to shake.
“Oh, fucking hell,” you groaned.
This man had captivated the world with his tongue; the precision with which he spoke, the rich tones of his voice, the screen kisses that left viewers weak and blushing. This tongue already had the world at his mercy. If only that world knew the extent of what he could do with it, you thought, you were sure he’d be able to conquer it completely.
You felt the familiar rush of electricity, the swell rising through your stomach and dancing along every nerve as he pressed and stroked, swirled and sucked, completely devouring you like he’d been created just for you - to do nothing else but this - and you understood now why he’d asked you not to be too loud.
You were panting and moaning, swear words falling from your mouth in whimpers and cries as he continued to coax the climax from your core like he was stealing it from you. Your hips were writhing with pleasure, your fingers moving out of his hair to the bedding beneath you, clutching it desperately.
“Oh my god,” you cried out. “Fuck!”
He pulled away just as you felt yourself approaching the edge, and for a moment you thought he was going to leave you there, hanging on just like the last time, begging him to push you over. But then you heard him; shushing you softly, like he was soothing you, coddling you. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, and he was encouraging you to take every last bit of it.
He pressed a lazy kiss against your clit before sliding two long fingers into you, curling and stroking the exact spot that instantly turned you into a squirming, quivering mess. You cried out and arched your back. He wrapped an arm over your stomach in response, pinning you back down against the bed as he worked his fingers at a relentless pace and returned his mouth to your centre.
You glanced down at the arm keeping you still, the hand still adorned with a shining, golden wedding band. You couldn’t help but run your thumb over it, turning it slightly on his finger. He stopped what he was doing, pulling back to speak.
“Shit, sorry, I’ll take it off.”
“No,” you replied quickly. “Keep it on.”
He furrowed his brow.
“It’s sexy…”
“The ring, or what it represents?”
You rolled your eyes. “So the reminder that you’re married might turn me on a bit. I’m a terrible person, alright, you already knew that.”
“You’re not a terrible person,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to your inner thigh and biting the sensitive skin there. “You aretrouble, though.”
He slid his fingers back into you and you almost came from the sensation, fluttering on the edge of an orgasm before he’d even begun to move them.
“Mm, I felt that,” he growled. “You’re close.”
You let your head fall back as you felt his mouth on you again, eating you out so perfectly as he worked his fingers in and out of your body. He hummed in approval and you began to see stars in the periphery of your vision.
“Fuck,” you cried.
You had never been so loud, so vocal. You’d even laughed at him when he asked you to stay quiet. Yet now, your voice was betraying you.
“Oh god, so close,” you whimpered. “So close, so close, so- Fuck, Ben!”
He growled at the sound of his name, pushing his mouth deeper, harder against your soaking centre, curling his fingers against the place that made the air vanish from your lungs.
It didn’t take much longer for you to fall apart around him, moaning and whimpering as you writhed your hips, riding out the intense, electric waves of your climax. You didn’t realise you were still mewling until you felt one of his hands reach up and grip your throat, stifling the noise as he shushed you again.
He crawled up your body, bringing you face to face. “Remember when I asked you not to be too loud?” he purred. “That’s because I have very nosy neighbours, who probably just heard that entire thing.”
“Sorry,” you replied in a breathless whisper. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-”
A smile curled the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you. “Have I broken you already?”
You quickly regained some composure, stubbornness setting back in as you took his face in your hands and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips before drawing the bottom one into your mouth and biting on it. He winced, pulling away from you with a deep, guttural groan, the softest fleck of amusement in the corner of his mouth.
You leant up to kiss his neck, revelling in the sounds escaping him as you began to suck on the smooth, delicious skin near his throat.
He pulled away quickly. “If I’m seen with a love bite, I’m finished.”
“What about a hidden one?” you mumbled as you began to press hot, gentle kisses down his chest.
“Don’t you dare.”
He was rocking his hips as he lay between your legs, his hard, unsheathed cock rubbing against your sensitive clit. He was teasing you, relishing the breathy, needy whimpers escaping your lips with every lazy stroke. The sensation was irresistible, the head of his cock hot and heavy as it swept back and forth along your slick folds. You bucked your hips, accidentally catching him at an angle that allowed his length to slip inside you.
You both gasped in a mixture of shock and pleasure; the feeling of him, raw and uncovered within you, undeniably exquisite.
“Shit,” he hissed, lowering his forehead to your shoulder and stilling himself for a moment.
You expected him to pull out. But instead he lifted his head to look at you, breathing heavily before sinking himself further into you, deep and slow, until he was bottomed out inside you; the feeling so intense you could barely breathe.
“I told you you were dangerous,” he said in a low, gritty voice.
“Hurricanes usually are,” you replied.
His eyes seemed to change, as if the storm existed within them. He drew his hips back and snapped them forward, sending a shockwave through your belly, your eyelids fluttering with the threat of another orgasm.
He repeated the action, over and over again until he was pounding the living daylights out of you, keeping his promise to steal your ability to answer back, inadvertently stealing your ability to say anything at all. You were a mumbling, whimpering mess, your fingers clawing at his back, thighs aching from being spread apart beneath him.
“Fuck, Quinn,” he growled through gritted teeth.
And you knew he could feel your walls tightening around him, pulsating with the swell of another approaching climax.
“So tight,” he continued, letting the words gush into the crook of your neck. “You feel- So. Fucking. Good.”
You clamped a hand over your mouth as your orgasm ripped through you, pulling you apart with an overwhelming heat. Ben groaned at the feeling of you coming undone, throbbing around his cock as he continued to move, drawing every last drop of pleasure from your body. He gave a garbled moan, his rhythm faltering until he finally pulled out and came between your thighs, the warmth of his release spilling down your throbbing centre onto the sheets below.
You were spent; breathless and aching, no longer bothered by the cool air of the bedroom. Ben collapsed at your side, the pair of you lying in the middle of the bed staring up at the ceiling. It was quiet for a while, the only sound coming from your laboured breaths as they slowly began to even out.
“That was really stupid of us, wasn’t it,” he said.
“Hm, don’t know.” You turned your head to look up at him and shrugged. “I mean, I hear the pull-out method’s like… sometimeseffective.”
Even through the darkness, you could tell he was looking at you in fear.
You pursed your lips, but eventually began to laugh. “I’m joking!”
He didn’t seem convinced.
“I swear. Honestly I’m joking. I have the implant, look.” You sat up and took his hand, pressing two of his fingers to the inside of your upper arm, letting him feel the small bar beneath your skin. “And I’m clean too, obviously. I mean, I don’t have proof of that but I’m sure I could get you my medical records if you really needed me to…”
He rolled his eyes with a smile. “Don’t be stupid, I trust you.”
You stared down at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You shook your head. “It’s just… After everything that’s happened, it’s nice to hear you say those words.”
He smiled, pulling you down to rest your head on his chest. “I’m clean too, by the way.”
“Phew,” you replied sarcastically.
It fell silent again, comfortable, relaxing, as he drew swirls with his fingers over your back, his leg tangled between yours.
“Let me feel it again,” he said, reaching for your arm.
You let him press his fingers to the inside of your arm again. He grimaced, making you giggle and swat his hand away gently.
“Do you want children?” he asked.
“Fucking hell, Ben. Your whole life flashed before your eyes two seconds ago, and now you’re trying to get me pregnant.”
“No,” he laughed. “I’m not, of course I’m not. It just made me wonder if that’s something you’d ever thought about.” He looked down at you. “It’s called 'getting to know you’, Quinn. It’s what people do.”
You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know. It’s never really crossed my mind.”
“Never?”
You shrugged. “Well I can’t say I’ve ever met someone and thought 'god, I’d just love to mix our DNA together and bake it in my womb for nine months.’”
He laughed. “That mouth again. Such a way with words.”
“Speaking of words…. I still have those questions.”
“Go on, hit me.”
“Well, the first one was how do you feel about… moving on. What does the future of dating and romance looks like for Benedict Cumberbatch.”
You both smiled at the irony of the question, laughing quietly together.
He sat up slowly, turning his body to face you. “My future looks… interesting.”
“I need more than that.”
He smirked, thinking for a moment. “How I feel about moving on is… scared, uncertain, but ultimately optimistic. Of course I have goals for where I want to be personally in, say, five years. But I’m not going to force myself to hit them.”
“Why?”
“Because life has a very interesting way of throwing curveballs.”
“Hurricanes,” you smirked.
He laughed deep in his throat. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You always do.”
“When you look at me, do you see me? Or do you see Benedict the famous person?”
You pondered for a moment. “I see you. But then… every now and again, I’ll get hit with this sudden realisation of who you are, and then nothing feels real for a while.”
“Does this feel real?”
You nodded softly, but you were unsure if you actually believed yourself.
~*~
He convinced you stay, pulling you back into bed whenever you tried to get up and leave. You didn’t really want to leave, secretly glad whenever you’d feel his reluctance to let you go. You showered in his ensuite bathroom, though the act proved entirely futile when you returned to find him ready and waiting to have you again.
You slept soundly after that; exhausted, bruised and thoroughly satiated. You would wake throughout the night, forgetting for a split second where you were before feeling him beside you, letting out a sigh and nuzzling in close to him, listening to the breath rumbling in his chest.
You began to stir to the sounds of birds outside, dawn seeping in through the window with a golden glow. You felt Ben turn, his arms wrapping around you, his body pressed against your back. He was grumbling in his sleep, a gentle, rhythmic wheeze escaping his nose. You smiled and nestled your head back against him, laying your arms over his.
He began to wake slowly, kissing the back of your shoulder. You turned your head and he shifted slightly, kissing your jaw, your cheek and squeezing you tight in his arms.
“How did you sleep?” he croaked.
“Good.”
“Good.”
You could feel his arousal in your lower back. You were still aching from last night, but somehow the feeling of him made you crave more. He leaned over to kiss you but you turned your head to avoid it.
“Ugh don’t kiss me. Morning breath.”
He laughed sleepily. “I don’t care.”
He placed a hand on your face and pulled you towards him to kiss you. You turned onto your back, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and parting your legs for him to lie between them. He rolled on top of you and pulled the duvet up over his back, shielding you both from the morning chill as he kissed your neck, reaching down and guiding his cock into you as if he belonged there.
You moaned languidly and he sighed against your neck as he began to move in slow, sleepy thrusts; not chasing an orgasm or satisfying an impulse, just connecting with you, waking up with you in the most delicious, intimate way.
The duvet slid down and you ran your hands over his bare back, feeling the goosebumps as they began to rise on his skin. You parted your thighs wider, bringing your knees up to allow him to sink deeper, making you both groan at the same time. He took your hands off his back and weaved his fingers through yours, pinning them gently above your head, holding them there as he stroked into you, forehead resting against yours.
There was a shuffling followed by a creak, the bedroom door opening suddenly across the room. You stopped immediately, your heart almost jumping out of your chest in fright as Ben glanced over his shoulder to see his ex wife standing in the doorway. She looked stunned.
So did he.
He pulled out of you and jumped up quickly. So quickly, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen another human being move so fast.
“Jesus, Faye! You can’t just stroll in here like that-”
“Wow.” She breathed, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek. “You move on quick.”
You rolled your eyes, pulling the duvet up to cover your chest.
“What are you doing here!?” he shouted, scrambling to pull on a pair of trousers.
“I needed to go over some things with you and you gave me a key, so-”
“Yeah, so you could come and check on the house for me when I wasn’t here, not to let yourself in whenever you please!”
“Well now I know why,” said Faye, nodding towards you.
You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself; at the feigned outrage, the performance of a woman scorned. You slipped out of bed and grabbed your dress, turning your back to her and pulling it quickly over your head.
Faye scoffed at you. “I’m not sure what’s so funny about me walking in on my husband with another woman before our divorce is even finalised…”
You giggled and turned to Ben. “Ever thought about getting her into acting?”
He pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Faye, it’s okay,” Ben sighed. “She knows. About this, about us, she knows.”
“What?”
“It’s fine,” you said, pulling your dress down over your hips and turning towards her. “It’s cool, honestly, I’m not going to say anything-”
“Yeah, too right you’re not going to fucking say anything.” She marched towards you, teeth gritted angrily.
“Whoa,” said Ben. “Faye!”
Her narrowed eyes began to widen as she regarded your dress; her gaze trailing up from your body to your face, her back straightening in realisation as she stopped approaching you.
“You’re the journalist who spilled my drink,” she finally said, almost whispering. “Last night… You-”
“Yeah that was me,” you sighed. “But there’s more to this than-”
“Are you stupid, Ben!?” She turned to him, pushing him in the chest. “There’s an NDA in that contract for a reason! It’s not even been two weeks and you’ve already blabbed to the first slut who let you stick your dick in her!”
“Hey!” you shouted.
“And not just a slut but a fucking journalist!” She shook her head at you before looking back at Ben, tears welling in her eyes. “You just couldn’t wait, could you.”
He sighed. “Faye, I wouldn’t have told her if I didn’t trust her-”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
You furrowed your brow as you saw her eyes flit to the messy bed, the genuine hurt in her face.
“Look, I’ll call you later, okay?” said Ben.
“You’re kicking me out…?”
He pushed his fingers into his eyes. “No, I’m not- just- this obviously isn’t a good time.”
“Obviously.”
“I can go…” you said.
“No,” he said quickly. “You stay here. Faye, come on I’ll walk you out.”
He led her out of the room and you exhaled slowly, surprised by the quiver in your breath. You sat on the bed, listening to their footsteps as they descended the stairs, the hum of their voices through the floor. After a few minutes, he returned; flustered, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, sitting down next to you.
“I thought you said your relationship was just business?”
“It was…”
“Really? Because that woman is very clearly in love with you.”
“What? No.” He shook his head dismissively. “Faye and I, we really are friends. We care about each other a lot. It doesn’t mean she’s in love with me.”
“Did you not see her face?”
“I think anyone’d be mortified walking in on that.”
You shook your head. “That wasn’t the face of someone who felt embarrassed. That was the face of someone who just walked in on the love of their life balls deep in another woman.”
He rolled his eyes. “Your use of the English language never ceases to amaze me.”
“She was devastated, Ben.”
He huffed, as if he still didn’t believe you.
“Tell me, who was the first one to actually suggest divorce?”
“Me.”
“And let me guess, when you did suggest it, her response was something along the lines of 'yeah, I’ve totally been thinking the same thing’,” you said in a mockingly sweet voice. “I bet through this entire process it’s felt like she’s been dragging her feet, hasn’t it? And when you began legal proceedings, it was always your team reaching out to hers, waiting to hear back, having to chase up responses…”
He stared at you.
“I’d put money on her coming here today hoping to make you reconsider.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He scoffed. “We were in almost constant contact for two years and she never ever eluded to having feelings for me.”
“Didn’t she? Or did you just not notice?”
“She told me to my face she wanted to move on, meet someone, have babies-”
“Yeah. She doesn’t just want babies, Ben, she wants your babies.”
He thought for a moment before letting out a groan and pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. “Well it doesn’t matter either way. She knew where we stood when we got into this.”
“And then you slept with her…”
He glared at you, dropping his gaze after a moment and sighing.
“And if the night you spent with her was anything like last night, I’m not surprised she fell in love you.”
He laughed softly to himself. “Are you falling in love with me, Quinn?” he teased.
You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I don’t do love, Benny.”
You stood up, wandering around the room in search of your underwear.
“And I have to go,” you continued. “My deadline’s today.”
“Do you want me to drive you to work? I can take you home first to get changed.”
“No don’t worry, clearly you have a lot of… shit to deal with.” You walked up to him, standing between his parted legs and placing your hands on his shoulders.
You leant down to give him a peck, but instead he pulled you into a deep, hot kiss.
“So…” he whispered against your lips. “I’m flying out to LA tonight.”
You didn’t reply.
“And I’ll be there for two weeks…”
Your heart sank, but you pretended it didn’t bother you. “Well I hope you have a nice time.”
You turned to walk away but he pulled you back against him with a laugh, his hands on your backside.
“Can I see you when I get back?” he asked.
“Hm, I don’t know. Two weeks is a long time and I get bored easily, remember?”
He squeezed your bum and growled playfully.
You laughed and gave a small huff. “Yes. I’ll be… anxiously awaiting your call.”
He smirked and let you go, watching as you continued to pace the room. “Quinn…”
“Yes?”
“Your knickers are over here under the bed.”
Chapter 11: XI
Chapter Text
Only a select group of Draft employees had ever set foot inside Ellen Ford's office. Mostly because she was never there, and when she was, she liked to be left alone. It made being inside feel like you'd entered a forbidden realm; a place you'd been invited into, yet somehow still felt unwelcome in.
You'd been sat for the past hour in what was no doubt a very expensive armchair; soft velvet, mustard yellow, not a stain or a mark in sight. You wondered if she had special people who came in just to clean it, or if she simply never had guests long enough to leave a blemish. The more you looked around, the more you realised it wasn't just the chair. In fact, the entire office felt unused; while it was beautifully decorated with expensive pieces, luxurious textures and pops of rich colours, the carpet - like the chair you were sitting in - almost seemed like it had never been touched, and the shelves around you were meticulously organised with every issue of the magazine since its launch in the late 90's.
Ellen was sat opposite you behind her desk with her glasses on the end of her nose, deep burgundy nails flicking through the pages of your final draft, silent. Your leg was bouncing restlessly in time to the clock on the wall, the loud ticking providing the only sound besides the occasional flip of a page in her hand.
You looked around, trying your best to never let your eyes fall on her, your gaze finally settling on the large floor-to-ceiling window; the darkening sky, city lights springing to life below. It wasn't raining anymore. In fact, it hadn't rained at all since you left Ben's house that morning. The universe had finally stopped sulking, and you smiled to yourself at the thought.
The sound of Ellen clearing her throat stole you back into focus. You turned your head to see her nodding slightly, placing the printed proof of your feature on her desk and glancing up at you over her glasses.
"This is good work," she said simply.
"Thank you," you replied with a relieved exhale.
"You have a very distinctive voice in your writing. It works well for a piece like this."
"Thank you."
"Most people get several weeks, if not months to write these things. So I appreciate your timeliness."
"Thank you," you said again, like a broken record, too taken aback to form any other words.
"How did you find it?" she asked, leaning back in her chair and pushing her glasses on top of her head.
"Th-the interview?"
"Mhm."
"It was... A joy, really."
"I hear you and Benedict got along well."
Your stomach turned slightly. Did she know? Surely she didn't know. She couldn't possibly know.
"We did," you finally said, fiddling with the turtleneck of your jumper, making sure it was still covering the marks he'd left on your skin. "He was very gracious and... forthcoming with me."
"That's good," she said plainly. "Well thank you. I'll have this rushed over to his team for approval."
You nodded and stood up quickly, wasting no time in making your way towards the door.
"Quinn..." she called out, her smooth, elegant voice bringing you to a sudden halt.
"Yes?"
"I was made aware of the... issue regarding my former Editorial Assistant Daniel Swain."
Your heart sank, a shiver crawling up your spine at the mere mention of his name.
"I don't need to know what happened," she continued. "I just want to assure you it's been dealt with, and I hope that can be the end of it."
Though it was kind enough, there was something about the way she said it that provided no comfort. It was stern, intimidating, as if she wasn't reassuring you, but instead giving you a warning - 'you are to never speak of this again'.
"Y-yes," you said, your voice almost a whisper. "Of course."
You left the office like you were stepping out of an oven, closing the door quickly behind you and taking deep breaths as you fanned yourself with the empty folder in your hand. No one had ever intimidated you the way Ellen Ford did; it was as if she had some kind of supernatural ability, a way of reaching into your mind and taking every ounce of confidence from you, like a leech draining you of your blood.
The bullpen was quiet with only a handful of people still pottering around, usually the ones that had nowhere else to be at 6pm on a Friday. You wandered towards your desk, sitting down and beginning to pack everything into your bag when it suddenly dawned on you that you were one of those people. You had no plans, no missed calls or messages, not even a Tinder date or an old flame inviting you out for a drink. There was something vulnerable about it, like you were open, empty, on standby. You didn't like it.
You stuffed your laptop into your bag and stood up, throwing on your coat and letting out a huff before making your way towards one of the small conference rooms. Nick had been in there for most of the day, too busy arguing back and forth with Julia about his piece for the March issue to even say hello. You tapped your knuckles against the door and opened it immediately without waiting, Julia's voice becoming louder, clearer as you peered your head around the door.
"Sorry, can I just get Nick for one sec?" you interrupted.
They both glanced up at you blankly.
"I need your notes from the gala."
His eyes lit up, as if he'd forgotten everything about the night before until that very moment. He stood up and rummaged impatiently through his bag, taking out a notebook and hurrying towards you. You reached out to take it from him, but just as he was about to place it in your hand, he snatched it away again.
"We made a deal that you'd tell me where you went," he said quietly as he pulled the door closed behind him.
You furrowed your brow. "Er, no. No we did not..."
"Okay no we didn't. But I'm not giving you this book until you tell me."
You paused, chewing your lip as you looked up at him. "There was a family emergency."
He narrowed his eyes.
"My... grandmother got sick," you added.
"Oh how awful. Which one?"
"Well-"
"The one that died when you were fourteen? Or the one that died before you were even born?"
You paused, staring blankly at him, unwilling to recant your lie. "The first one..."
"Oh my god, Quinn," he whispered. "Why won't you just tell m-"
"Because..." You lowered your voice to a hiss. "Because I'm trying out this new thing where I actually give a shit about other people and their privacy."
"Ah, so you did go home with someone..."
"Nick."
He rolled his eyes, reluctantly handing over the notebook. "I'm going for a drink later with Lace if you want to come. We can celebrate you winning back the Cumberbatch feature."
You hummed softly, pressing your lips together. "I'll probably give it a miss."
"Why?"
"Just not really up for feeling like a third wheel tonight."
"Since when have you given a shit about that?"
You shrugged. "Since I had that... family emergency."
He paused for a moment, his expression softening in a slow realisation. "Okay," he said sceptically. "Call me if you change your mind."
~*~
You weren't going to change your mind.
There was no way you could have possibly sat in Nick and Lacy's company all night and not mentioned Ben, or Faye, or any of it, especially not with alcohol slackening your tongue. It was a marvel to you that you'd managed to keep it to yourself at all; the urge to tell every single person you came into contact with so strong it was like a compulsion you were fighting to suppress. It wasn't that you wanted to brag, or gossip, or betray Ben's trust. You just wanted it to feel real; for it all to exist outside of your own mind, for it to be a solid, tangible moment instead of a wild, surreal memory.
You let yourself into your flat, locking the door behind you and throwing your bag to the ground. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply through your nose before releasing a loud, frustrated groan into the air above you. You couldn't stop thinking about those final moments in Ben's house:
You shook your head and marched around the side of the bed, crouching down to find your underwear in a ball on the floor. You grabbed them and stood up, placing them in Ben's hand with a wry smile.
"A souvenir," you said sarcastically.
He dropped his head and chuckled, running a thumb over the delicate lace. "I'll cherish them."
You laughed too as you walked to the other side of the room, checking yourself in a mirror that stood against the wall.
"Here's an idea," Ben said with a casual shrug, watching you as he remained sat at the end of the bed. "Why don't you just... come with me?"
"To America?" you scoffed.
"Yeah, why not."
You knew he was only joking. But perhaps there was an air of truth in it, a part of him that didn't want to part ways after only just getting his hands on you. You knew the feeling well, the thought of leaving creating a dull ache in the base of your chest; a longing that had no business being there.
"I can't," you said, rolling your eyes to hide your despondency. "I have to go to work and spend my whole day writing about you."
"You're so lucky."
You breathed out a laugh and turned to look at him. "And for some reason, you're unavoidable."
"I will be when I get back.” He stood up, making his way over to you. "So you better be waiting for me like you said you would."
"Hm, I give it a week before you forget all about me."
He furrowed his brow, a perplexed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How on earth could I forget any of this?"
He snaked his arms around your waist, planting his large hands on your backside and pulling you close. You could feel his body hard against you; his arms, torso, groin, all firm like marble, yet warm and enticing. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, his kiss so intoxicating you could feel the heady, beguiling fog beginning to seep into your mind, encompassing every rational thought in a cloud of desire and temptation.
He breathed out a soft growl and squeezed your bum, keen to finish what Faye had so coarsely interrupted earlier. You sighed against his lips, forcing yourself to break away.
"I have to go," you said.
He groaned, still holding you close. "Right this second?"
"Yes. Because you have to go and be a big celebrity or whatever it is you do over in La La Land, maybe take a minute to deal with the small issue of your very pissed off ex wife while you're at it. Meanwhile, I need to be right here in soggy London making your divorce sound totally amicable and not like the complete showbiz farce it really is."
"Lovely."
"And..." You rolled your eyes, yielding to sincerity. "If I let you get me back in that bed, I worry I might never make it to work."
He smirked. "Alright, fair enough," he said, giving in and letting you go.
As you sat alone in your flat, curled up on the couch, television playing quietly in the background, you were sorely regretting your decision to leave that morning. The memory of his hands slowly slipping away from your body had been tormenting you from the moment you walked out of his house, and now the only thing keeping you busy was gone; typed up and sitting on the edge of Ellen Ford's immaculate desk.
You glanced down to your coffee table, Nick's notebook catching your eye as it sat beside your laptop. You leaned forward and picked them both up, desperate for anything to keep your mind off how long the next two weeks were going to feel. You flipped the book open, flitting through the pages and skimming over his writing, the famous names and small notes he'd left in brackets and down the margins. He really was good at this, you thought, thank god you'd brought him with you.
You landed on a page that made your face flush, a name scrawled at the top like it was plaguing you, following you everywhere, even into the safety of your own home.
Faye Dennehy (Fashion Designer)
Thoughts on Gala: Loves it, always trying to be more conscious, esp as a designer. Great opportunity to give back & get ideas for making own label more sustainable.
Wearing: Own label (obv. what a surprise. She looks gorgeous though can't lie) SS 2021 collection - couture dress 'asymetric (sp?) gold filigree'.
You stopped reading, too distracted by the memory of her face as you tried to dab the champagne off her arm, the rings she still wore, the hurt as she stepped into Ben's bedroom, the shock in her eyes as she recognised you.
You flipped open your laptop and began to scour the internet, desperate to add weight to your theory, to prove she loved him. You began with pictures of them together, zooming in on the way he looked at her; so lovingly, convincingly. He would hold her hand on red carpets, speak quietly to her to make her laugh, put his arm around her as they walked through paparazzi. He was a good actor, you thought, so good that it was no wonder she fell for him.
Your attention slowly turned to pictures of him. Just him. The ever-changing cycle of hair colours, how his eyes always shifted hue in different lights, the lines in his face deepening slightly as the years passed. You found yourself reading things from other articles, from profound, insightful quotes to funny one-liners. You watched short clips of him in interviews, giggling along with his jokes and admiring how intelligent and charismatic he was. Your eyes zoned in on his hand as he scratched his face while answering a question, the hand that had touched every inch of you, the fingers you'd came around just last night. God, just last night. It hadn't even been 24 hours and you were pining over him like his biggest fan.
"What the hell have you done to me?" you muttered.
You clicked on a link to a gossip website, bringing you to an article that was published just one hour ago. Your eyes narrowed, brow furrowing as you read it, partly in confusion, but mostly in absolute horror.
Does Benedict Cumberbatch Have a New Mystery Woman?
Just under two weeks after announcing his split from fashion designer Faye Dennehy, it seems the beloved actor Benedict Cumberbatch (Doctor Strange, Sherlock, The Imitation Game) may have already moved on. Although the couple released a joint statement claiming their decision to divorce was due to growing apart, rumours of infidelity quickly began to spread with neither parties confirming nor denying the accusations as of yet.
But just as speculation began to subside, an anonymous poster on Reddit uploaded a snap of what seems to be a mystery woman leaving Cumberbatch's residence just this morning. The now deleted post was accompanied by a caption which read: 'Taken this morning by a neighbour. Still think there was no cheating?'
The post garnered a wide range of responses. While some questioned the authenticity of the photograph, others chastised the neighbour in question for invading the actor's privacy. Many others saw the post as proof that there is more to the split than the couple have claimed and attempted to identify the woman despite her face not being fully visible.
Cumberbatch is believed to have landed in LA just hours ago to attend the Obel Awards. The actor arrived looking dapper in a Giorgio Armani suit, still sporting his wedding ring on his left hand along with a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch. But on his right wrist, eagle-eyed fans spotted something which may hold the key to Reddit's mystery woman.
You scrolled down to see a photo of Ben, a bright red circle zoomed in on his wrist, your nameplate bracelet glinting from beneath the cuff of his shirt.
While it has not been confirmed what the bracelet says, many believe it to be the name of the woman in question with some deciphering the visible letters to be 'Qui'.
Who is 'Qui'? Could she be the reason behind the sudden and unexpected divorce?
You felt sick, the giddiness of seeing Ben wearing your bracelet completely overshadowed by the dread of it ending up in the press. You put down your laptop and stood up, pacing your living room as the panic began to grow. In just a handful of days, your feature was going out to the world; your name would be in print beside his, two dots that the zealous online sleuths would no doubt connect eventually.
He's an idiot, you thought. Ben, you fucking stupid, sweet idiot.
You picked up your phone and dialled with shaking hands, bringing it to your ear as you continue to walk back and forth.
"Hi, have you changed your mind?" asked Nick, the distant sound of pub chatter behind him, as if he'd stepped outside to take your call.
"I may have lied to you today," you said.
He paused, and you knew it wasn't out of surprise, but instead preparation to hear whatever it was you were going to say.
"Go on," he finally said.
"I slept with Benedict Cumberbatch," you began, finally letting the words spill out of you freely. "His marriage was a PR stunt and I know that because I went snooping around his house and read his private emails and that's why he really kicked me out that night. But then I went over there drunk and he gave me a second chance and then Dan got fired and I ran into Ben last night at the gala and that's where I really went. His ex wife walked in on us having sex this morning and it was really fucking awkward but then I just... went into work like nothing happened and it's been such a weird day and Ellen Ford scares me, anyway now he's gone to America for two weeks and I don't even have his phone number so there is literally no way to talk to him while he's gone, I don't even know if I want to talk to him because then I'd be admitting I actually might like him a bit more than just sex which I absolutely do not want to do, also he's shaved off his beard and I don't know how to feel about it. Oh and I'm sort of scared his ex wife might try and have me killed or something, I know that seems farfetched but honestly I slept with the guy she pretended to love while also pretending she didn't love but clearly did fucking love, so anything's possible. And now the press are trying to track down this home wrecker called 'Qui' who apparently destroyed their marriage, but there isn't a home wrecker called Qui, it's just me, Quinn. Stupid, impulsive, thinks-with-her-imaginary-dick Quinn."
You took in a deep gasp of air, realising you'd practically reeled off the entire thing in one breath.
There was a long silence on the other line before Nick calmly cleared his throat. "I think you should come for that drink now."
Chapter 12: XII
Chapter Text
Day 2
You woke to the sound of two voices talking quietly, a door closing, a television being switched on. There was a headache settling in behind your eyes, a dryness in your mouth that only seemed to get worse as you sat up slightly, grimacing at the distinctive pub smell still clinging to your clothes.
You flinched slightly as you felt something brush against your leg, looking down with puffy, itchy eyes to see Nick and Lacy's cat burrowing a space for himself beside you on the already cramped couch.
"Piss off," you croaked.
"How dare you talk to Schmoops like that," said Lacy with a sarcastic gasp.
You didn't realise she was there, turning your head in surprise to see her sitting on the other couch. She was wrapped in a thick, fluffy dressing gown, hair tied up, white sheet mask over her face.
"You look like Hannibal Lecter," you said.
"And in about five minutes, I'll have glowing, soft skin."
You rolled your eyes, forcing yourself to sit up a little further. The cat gave a soft trill as you moved, stretching himself out before curling up at your feet.
"Lace, your cat's vibrating."
"He's purring," she laughed.
"Does it have to be so loud?"
"I think that's probably the hangover talking…"
Hangover. God, that's why you felt so rough; why you'd just woken up on your friend's couch with a splitting headache, why you could still taste tequila on the back of your sandpaper tongue. You tried to remember how you'd ended up there, but memories of the night before were murky and fragmented, like trying to watch yourself back on a damaged videotape.
You looked over at Lacy again, a feeling of regret washing over you that you couldn't quite place. But you had an inkling.
"How much did I blab last night?"
"A fair bit," she replied.
You sat up fully.
"I mean," she continued, keeping her tone light. "I now know the intimate details of one of my favourite actors' penises, which I never thought I'd be able to say-"
You interrupted her with a loud, mortified groan, dropping your face into your hands.
"And from the sounds of it, he's a very... thorough lover-"
"Oh my god!" you shouted, the sound muffled by your palms.
"Quinn." She laughed softly. "You know we're not going to say anything."
You glanced up at her. Of course they wouldn't say anything; in some ways, you trusted them more than you trusted yourself. But that wasn't the point. The point was that you'd told them in the first place.
The living room door opened and Nick walked in. He was in his pyjamas carrying two steaming mugs of tea, a grin spreading across his face as he laid eyes on you.
"There she is," he said chirpily. "The future Mrs Sherlock Holmes."
"Not funny."
"Or will you be Doctor and Mrs Strange?"
"Not. Funny," you repeated more sternly.
"I'm just winding you up," he said with a laugh, handing you one of the mugs. "How are you feeling now after sleeping on it?"
"How am I feeling about what?"
"About what we talked about last night...?"
"Nick, I have no memory of what we talked about last night."
"Bloody hell, really?"
"Yes, really." You rubbed your eyes with your fingers. "Why the fuck did I drink so much?"
"Well you were in a bit of a panic when you first arrived," said Lacy. "So you had a few drinks, y'know, to calm yourself down. But then you just... sort of... never stopped."
You paused. "So I, I told you both... everything, then?"
They looked at each other for a moment before Nick cleared his throat, like he was signalling he would take this one.
"It's honestly not that bad of a situation, Quinn."
You glared at him, completely unconvinced.
"This is what I was trying to get you to sleep on last night," he continued as he sat down next to Lacy. "Think about it; you met someone, you liked him, you slept with him. Sure, it's not ideal that it happened during a work thing, but-"
"You're conveniently leaving out the fact that he's a ridiculously famous actor and in the middle of a very high profile divorce which I was tasked with interviewing him about for one of the biggest magazines in the world..."
"So what? Look, no one knows you've slept together besides you, him and Faye Dennehy-"
"And now us," Lacy chimed.
"And now us." He rolled his eyes.
"He was photographed with my name on his fucking wrist, Nick. The same day a mystery woman was spotted leaving his house."
"All circumstantial evidence."
"You know people can be convicted of murder because of circumstantial evidence…"
"Yeah but you didn't murder anyone, Quinn. The only thing you're guilty of is having your guts rearranged-"
"Eurgh," you cut him off with an aggrieved scoff, while Lacy groaned in disgust, elbowing him in his side.
He tutted, holding his hands up in surrender.
"Look," said Lacy, bringing a sense of calm back into the room. "I think you just need to wait until he gets back and talk to him."
"He's gone for two weeks,” you stressed. “How on earth am I supposed to wait two weeks?"
~*~
Day 6
The key to waiting, you quickly discovered, was pretending you didn't care.
You spent the first five days acting like none of it had ever happened; backing Ben into a corner in your mind and forcing him to stay there, quiet, invisible, like a child in a permanent timeout. It seemed to work, as with each night, sleep came easier, the urge to scour Google lessening until it barely crossed your mind at all. You went to dinner with an old friend from uni, took yourself shopping for clothes you probably couldn't afford, rearranged the furniture in your living room before deciding you didn't like it and changing it back. You were ignoring everything, and you were totally, completely fine.
But on the sixth day, 'fine' suddenly became harder to maintain.
You trudged down to the foyer of your apartment building, crystals of sleep still in the corners of your eyes and a pair of slippers on your feet. You made your way over to the wall of mailboxes and unlocked yours, reaching in and furrowing your brow when your fingers made contact with the hard edge of a book. You dragged it out quickly, eyes widening as you realised it wasn't a book at all, it was a magazine. Your magazine.
You stood there in silence, staring down at the front cover in a blend of awe and fear, pride and dread. It was your first big feature, first front page, first high profile interview, first exclusive. There were so many firsts, so many achievements wrapped up in one sleek, glossy package that you could barely hold back your smile. But the face on the front of that package was like an allegory; eyes that had pierced through you, lips that had kissed you, all reminding you of just how you got there, and where you could possibly end up.
There were eight days left. Eight days of waiting, of hoping your face didn't end up in the media somewhere too, of hoping he would still want to see you when he returned.
~*~
Day 9
You startled to the sound of your phone ringing in your bag, so loud it made the people around you stop for a second and look. You snatched it out quickly, bringing it to your ear and answering in a hushed voice.
"Hello?"
"Oh, Quinnie is this a bad time?"
"No, no, mum you're fine, I'm just in a shop so I can't talk too loud."
You loved your mother dearly, but she only ever seemed to call when you were busy; whether it be walking around a fancy clothing shop, at work, or in the shower. It was as if she possessed a psychic ability to always feel compelled to speak to you at the worst possible times.
"Well it's just a quick call anyway," she said. "Just to let you know your Dad's gone and bought four more copies of your magazine this morning."
"Four? Bloody hell, how many's that altogether now?"
"Honestly, Quinnie, I've lost count. He's been giving them out to people like party favours."
You laughed as you continued to wander around the shop, running your hand across a rack of soft cashmere jumpers.
In the three days since the issue went out, the response had been - surprisingly - positive, and not just from your overly proud parents. People seemed to believe Ben, to empathise with him; your words painting him a charming, humble gentleman who still cared deeply for his ex wife, managing to bury the rumours of infidelity and mystery women, drowning out the conspiracies with praise and support. It almost seemed too good to be true, and perhaps it was. But for now, you were more than okay with that.
"He's going to frame one, he says," your mother continued.
"You do realise it'll just look like you have a framed picture of Benedict Cumberbatch on your wall, don't you?"
"I know, I know, I've told him this. He's just proud of you, that's all. We both are."
You rolled your eyes, a slight smile threatening to break.
"I told you, didn't I," she said. "All those years ago when you graduated from uni. I told you it'd happen for you one day as long as you kept at it."
"I still think you were just trying to ship me off to London."
"Well I'd already planned what I was going to do with your room once you moved out."
You covered your mouth to hide a laugh, trying not to disturb the people around you.
"Anyway, I'll let you go," she said. "We'll try and visit you before we go away, okay?"
"Okay, speak to you soon."
"Speak soon, love."
You put your phone away, giggling to yourself and almost blushing as you meandered around the shop, picturing your father hanging a photo of Ben on the wall, totally oblivious to the things that man had done to his daughter.
~*~
Day 11
He was still on your mind. No longer pushed into a corner, but taking over it completely. Everything reminded you of him; writing, music, even the rain pattering against your window. You couldn't even lie in bed without remembering how it felt to have him between your legs. It was torturous, and you almost hated him for it.
You were tossing and turning, your frustration leaving you hot and clammy despite the December chill bleeding through the gap in your bedroom window. You rolled onto your back and let out a huff, staring up at the ceiling through the dark, hoping Ben was somewhere out there, staring at a ceiling in frustration because of you.
It was his hands. How they were so large yet agile as they groped your breasts and clamped around your throat, how they gripped your thighs to spread them apart beneath him, how he plunged his long fingers inside you, still wearing his wedding ring as he coaxed the most exquisite orgasm from your aching depths.
You felt a throb in your core, like your body remembered exactly how he felt and was longing for more. You yielded to it, slipping your hand down beneath your underwear and beginning to work your fingers over your clit, sighing and closing your eyes as you gave way to thoughts of him, allowing him to flood your mind without resistance.
You could practically feel his voice rumbling, the hums of approval as he buried his face between your thighs, setting you on fire with the ministrations of his tongue. You slid two fingers along your folds, coating them in your wetness before pushing them inside, letting out a soft moan as you brought your other hand up to gently squeeze your breast.
As you moved your fingers, curling them to press against your most sensitive spot, you remembered what it felt like to have him inside you; the pressure, the fullness, how he'd growled into the crook of your neck.
Fuck, Quinn.
So tight.
You feel- So. Fucking. Good.
You pulled a quick, shivering climax from your core, holding your breath as it pulsated through you and exhaling softly as it began to settle. You stayed quiet for a while, lying there in the dark, wondering if he'd been doing this too; if he'd been replaying the night in his head, stroking himself to the thought of you.
Or maybe he hadn't thought about you at all, maybe he'd forgotten all about you like you said he would.
~*~
Day 13
You sat at your desk, warming your hands on a cup of coffee as you lazily proofread a piece you'd been working on. The heating had broken in the entire building, turning the bullpen into a freezer, people wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves as they worked, able to see their own breath in the air in front of them.
They were starting to dress the place for Christmas, hanging fairy lights and glittery snowflakes on the walls, making room for the huge, real tree Ellen Ford would have imported all the way from Norway. You pushed in your earbuds, playing music through them to drown out the sound of Julia directing people where to put their decorations, disapproving of anything she found too 'tacky' for Draft's office space.
Your music suddenly stopped, making way to your loud, irritating ringtone, your phone buzzing on the desk beside you. You rolled your eyes, expecting your mother's name to appear on the screen, but when you looked down, you furrowed your brow in confusion at the sight of a random mobile number.
You bit your lip, debating with yourself for a moment before giving in and answering the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi there, may I speak with Quinn Armitage?"
"This is Quinn…"
"Okay great, one moment please."
You grew even more confused as the line seemed to go dead. But after a few moments, there was a shuffling sound, followed by the clearing of a throat.
"Quinn?"
Your breath hitched, your back straightening in your chair. "Ben?"
"Hi." He breathed out the word, like he was relieved to hear your voice.
You yanked out your earbuds and brought the phone to your ear, standing up quickly and rushing into an empty conference room nearby. "How did you get my number? Who was that woman? Where are you?"
He chuckled, the sound so rich and warm, so familiar. "Got the number from a receptionist at Draft. It was my PA, she wanted to check we had it right first. And I'm currently about… 36,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean."
"Oh." You leaned your back against the wall, pulling your coat tight around yourself. "Well- So- I mean, well-"
"Why am I calling you?"
"Yeah."
He laughed softly. "I was just calling to see if you'd... got bored."
You bit your lip to suppress a smile. "I was starting to."
"Well it's a good job I'm on my way back then, isn't it."
You pressed your mouth closed, a giggle escaping through your nose.
"No, I was actually calling because I hoped you might be free tomorrow night," he said. "I thought we could meet, talk..."
"Okay," you replied quietly.
You couldn't tell from his tone what he was thinking, how he was feeling or what the intentions behind his invitation were. He sounded reserved, and you wondered if it was because he had people with him, or if his feelings towards you had changed. It was unsettling, annoying. You hated that he somehow had the power to make you doubt yourself like that.
"Okay," he said. "So this, is this your personal number?"
"It is."
"Great. I'm calling you from mine right now."
"Oh, cool. I'll be sure to leak it to the press when I'm in need of some extra cash."
"Ha ha, very funny. Just… Make sure you're there tomorrow. Please."
You raised an eyebrow. "Or what?"
"Quinn, I said please."
"Alright fine," you said, rolling your eyes and trying to keep your voice serious.
You said your goodbyes and hung up, the air fogging in front of you as your breaths grew heavy. But even in the freezing cold room, with broken radiators and frost gathering in the corners of the windows, you suddenly felt a flush of warmth.
Chapter 13: XIII
Chapter Text
You never liked when people said they had nothing to wear. It was stupid, you thought, how someone could stand in front of an overflowing wardrobe and yet somehow see nothing there. But as you stood in the middle of your bedroom, wearing nothing but your underwear, your floor and bed buried beneath heaps of discarded clothes, you finally understood.
You'd showered in your expensive body wash, shaved without cutting yourself or getting any rashes, your hair had cooperated perfectly, your makeup had gone just right, and the new lingerie you were wearing made your boobs look incredible. All that was left to do was get dressed, and you hated everything.
It didn't help that you had no idea where you were going. You'd spent the entire day waiting to hear from Ben, yet now at almost 7pm, he still hadn't called. You were starting to think he wasn't going to call at all; that your inability to choose an outfit was some kind of bad omen, that everything had gone so perfectly just to make it hurt more when he snubbed you.
You crouched down and grabbed a pair of well-worn jeans, pulling them on before fishing through the pile on your bed for an old t-shirt. If he was going to stand you up, you thought, then he could stand you up in your scruffiest, comfiest clothes. But just as you picked up your phone to leave the room, it buzzed in your hand. You looked down to see his name on the screen, a text with nothing but an address and time.
You rolled your eyes, unbuttoning your jeans and whipping the t-shirt over your head as you returned to wade through the sea of clothes.
~*~
You’d settled on a silk button-up shirt and a pair of matching trousers, the bottoms of them grazing the wet pavement, even in your heels, as you stood outside the restaurant. You glanced up at the sign above the door and back down to the text in your hand one more time. This was definitely the right place.
You were greeted with a rush of warm air as you pushed through the door, the delicious smell of food and the sound of glasses clinking, hums of conversation. The place was fancy; dimly lit, understated, classical music playing softly in the background as straight-backed waiters weaved effortless between tables. You wandered in slowly, silently congratulating yourself on your choice of outfit as you looked around at all the impeccably-dressed guests.
"May I help you, madam?"
You turned to see the maître d' standing in front of you, a polite smile on his face.
"Yes, I'm here to meet someone," you replied, unsure if he would even believe you when you said Ben's name. "Er, Benedict Cumberbatch? He's expecting me."
He took a moment to regard you, his eyes assessing you from head to toe, like he was deciding whether or not you seemed the type to meet celebrities for dinner. "Of course," he said. "If you could wait here one moment."
You watched as he wandered off, meandering between the tables with the same grace as his waiters. You bit your lip as you waited, occupying yourself by eyeing people's food and trying to guess how much it cost.
"This way, Madam," the maître d' said as he appeared in front of you again, gesturing for you to follow him.
He led you to a booth near the back, with tall leather seats that curved slightly around the table, like a wall separating it from the rest of the room. You approached tentatively, a strange, unwelcome nervousness in your stomach as you waited for him to walk away before daring to look inside.
"Quinn."
And there was that voice. Warm enough to make your cheeks flush.
"Hi," you replied.
Ben shuffled out from his seat and stood up, allowing you to see him properly, closely. His facial hair was gone, his charming smile now fully visible despite the stubble starting to form. His dark hair had grown slightly too, just long enough for it to begin curling at the ends, his fingers creating a wave as he ran a hand through it. He was dressed neatly, navy blue trousers and a well-fitting jumper, a pair of glasses hooked into the neck.
"Your beard's gone," you said, almost involuntarily.
"Oh, yeah." He smiled, rubbing his slightly stubbled jaw.
He lay a hand on your back, leaning in and placing a formal, polite kiss on your cheek, like you were a valued colleague or an old friend. He smelled incredible; citrus and sandalwood, clean yet rich, the scent taking you back to the first time you met him, how he'd captivated you before he'd even taken your coat.
He sat back down, gesturing for you to sit opposite. You obliged, taking off your jacket and slipping into your seat, your eyes never leaving him, not even for a moment.
"What?" he asked sceptically. "You don't like it?"
"Hm? Oh, no." You shook your head with a slight smile. "You look good. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here, that's all."
"What do you mean?"
"Well I must be here for a reason..."
He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head curiously. "I said before I left that I wanted to see you when I got back, didn't I."
"You did. Though when I got the invitation to a restaurant, I was certain it'd be in the company of your legal team. Y'know, while they made me sign some pretty hefty non disclosure agreements."
He pressed his lips together to subdue a laugh, making the sound resonate in his throat, deep and warm like the whiskey he'd been drinking.
"No lawyers," he said. "Just me."
"Wow, so you really must've missed me then."
"Pfft."
You gave a smirk, glancing over your shoulder before speaking again. "Enough to steal my bracelet, at least..."
He paused before releasing a quiet sigh. "Yeah that was pretty stupid of me."
"Really fucking stupid."
"I don't even know why I did it," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in slightly. "It was on the side as I was leaving for the airport and I just... grabbed it."
"And wore it around Los Angeles."
"In my defence, it was tucked away under my sleeve. I only realised it'd slipped down after I had hundreds of photographs taken."
"Well you're lucky I'm such a fantastic writer," you teased, resting your elbow on the table, chin on your fist. "Managed to shut down all those cheating rumours with a single magazine feature. Though I think it's only a matter of time before someone questions if Quinn Armitage, writer at Draft, is the same Quinn from Benedict Cumberbatch's bracelet."
"Er, I believe it was 'Qui'," he replied sarcastically.
"Piss off."
He laughed, the smile creating lines around his mouth, creases in the corners of his eyes. It made you want to smile too, but you didn't. Instead you tried your best to remain serious, softening your voice as you looked straight at him.
"I could lose my job, Ben."
"I won't let that happen."
"How? Are you going to pull some more strings with Ellen Ford?" you replied sarcastically.
"If I need to."
You breathed out a laugh, shaking your head at him. "You can't keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Bailing me out."
"Well if you behaved, I wouldn't have to."
You bit your lip, pausing to keep your composure. "Actually, I've been on my best behaviour, Mr Cumberbatch. I think you'll find that this one's all your fault."
"My fault?"
"Mhm. Think about it; you get me into bed and wear my name like a trophy afterwards. Then you go and invite me to dinner, in a restaurant, where people can see us."
"In fairness, you did just write a huge feature on me; who's to say we're not here for work? Doing a follow up? Discussing my thoughts?"
"Did you actually read it?"
"Of course I did."
"Okay prove it. What did you think? Any critiques?"
He narrowed his eyes at you, a slight smile forming. "Something tells me you don't take too kindly to feedback."
"Not true. I'm great with feedback... If it's positive."
He laughed and took a sip of his drink. "Well I liked it. Really liked it."
"Good."
You noticed his eyes flitting over you, lingering on your chest before returning back to your face.
"Subtle, Ben," you said.
He chuckled, as if he hadn't realised he'd done it. "Sorry. You do look nice though. Beautiful."
"Thank you."
You were interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared, glancing up to see a waiter standing awkwardly at the edge of your table. He was young, licking his lips as if preparing himself to speak, and you could tell immediately that he was nervous.
"Are you ready to order?" he asked, chin raised, feigning confidence.
"Not quite yet, sorry," Ben replied kindly.
You could tell he'd sensed the nerves too, like he was used to dealing with fans and knew exactly how to put them at ease.
"But could I get another?" He held up his whiskey glass. "And Quinn?"
"Oh, erm, I'll have... An old fashioned, please."
You noticed a smirk on Ben's face from the corner of your eye, ignoring him as you thanked the waiter and watched him walk away, remaining quiet until you were completely alone again.
"Let's see if it's as good as yours," you said.
"Not a chance."
You giggled, falling quiet again as you looked at him, preparing yourself to speak.
"So, have you had a chance to speak to Faye?" you asked, clearing your throat awkwardly. "Y'know, since... what happened..."
"Not personally, but I will," he replied. "Her team did get in touch with mine though."
"Oh?"
"Mm, after the interview went out. Apparently she's not best pleased with 'how our relationship was portrayed'." He raised his fingers, air-quoting sarcastically.
"Is that a dig at your interview answers? Or my writing?"
"Probably a bit of both."
You scoffed in disbelief. "Well now I know she's full of shit because there was nothing wrong with my writing."
He dropped his head, breathing out a laugh.
"What? You don't think I'm a good journalist?"
"No, no. I think you're an excellent journalist," he replied. "I, for one, had a... wonderful experience working with you."
You noticed the way his voice darkened, the suggestive glint in his eyes. It made you stop for a moment, shaking away the memories of that night, the things he'd done to you.
"And you had the audacity to tell me to behave?"
"What?" he laughed. "I did have a wonderful experience."
"Well it obviously wasn't that great since you ran off for two weeks straight after."
"Come on, that's not fair. I had prior commitments I couldn't get out of. And trust me, I paid the price for it." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I couldn't stop thinking about you the whole time. It was torture."
You remained quiet for a moment, basking in the knowledge that he'd been just as miserable as you, before finally giving in and letting out a gentle sigh.
"I thought about you too."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Mhm. Thought about you a lot, actually. Mostly in bed, with my hand between my legs..."
He choked slightly on his drink, clearing his throat and steadying his breath before glancing out of your booth to the busy restaurant. You smirked as you watched him push his tongue to the inside of his cheek, trying as hard as he could to remain composed.
"Can we at least try to get through the date part of this evening first?" he whispered.
"Date?" You furrowed your brow. "Is that what this is?"
"What else would it be?"
"I don't know. A meeting? A catchup? A briefing- or, maybe a debriefing, depending on how you look at it-"
"Quinn," he laughed softly. "I haven't seen you for two weeks. Of course I wanted to take you on a date when I got back."
You stared at him for a moment; the smile, the eyes, the hand on the whiskey glass, nothing but a subtle pale line where his wedding ring used to be. You didn't know why your chest was suddenly fizzing; it didn't feel like fear, but it wasn't excitement either. It was the siren, the one that would ring whenever it sensed a connection beginning to form.
You shifted slightly in your seat, lowering your voice. "You know what we did- I mean, you know it was just sex... Right?"
"Just sex..." he repeated slowly.
"Yes," you replied, unsure if you were even convincing yourself.
"Then why did you wait for me?"
"Hm?"
"You say you get bored easily, yet you waited a fortnight for me to come back, even agreed to meet me here. Why would you do that if it was just sex?"
You paused, eyes flitting across his face as you searched for a response.
"Because the sex was good," you said bluntly. “And I wanted to do it again.”
"Ah, I see."
"Ben," you sighed. "You just came back from rubbing shoulders with the Hollywood elite, smiling and waving at adoring fans while some poor sod stood there holding an umbrella over you so you didn't get your $20,000 watch and custom designer suit wet."
"What's that got to do with- Wait, do you think I'm a snob or something?"
"No, I just think you're somewhat disconnected from how... disconnected you are. I think because you still feel so normal on the inside, you forget your life is anything but." You cleared your throat, folding your arms on the table in front of you. "Think about it; Do you really see yourself falling for the woman who offered to shag her boss for a leg-up at work? Who snuck around your house and violated your privacy? Am I the type of person you'd want on your arm at galas and movie premieres and award ceremonies? Would you sit in a restaurant with me if they didn't have super private booths to keep us hidden?"
His lips were parted but no words left them. Instead he just stared at you, brows knitted in confusion, a crease across the bridge of his nose.
"Exactly," you said. "Because you're the smiling, waving celebrity, and I'm the sod with the umbrella."
He breathed out a laugh, like he was too stunned to say anything else. You watched him quietly as he picked up his drink and gulped down the last of it; how his throat moved as he swallowed, how he leaned back in his seat, drew his thumb across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of whiskey.
"You're awfully self-deprecating, you know," he said.
"It wasn't meant to be self-deprecating. I was just being honest."
The waiter reappeared with your drinks on a tray, placing them in front of you carefully. "Should I give you a few more minutes to look at the menu?"
"Please," Ben replied, his eyes remaining on you as the waiter took his empty glass and hurried away. "So," he said once you were alone. "You're just interested in sex..."
"Well I mean, it really was very good sex."
He glared at you, the same stern expression on his face as the first night you met. "So you're saying I could take you home right now, fuck you, and then just... Tell you to get out afterwards, and you'd be okay with that?"
You paused, pressing your mouth into a straight line. "See, I know that's supposed to sound unappealing, but you're sort of turning me on."
He rolled his eyes.
"I'm not saying I don't like you or enjoy being around you, because I do. I just don't want to waste your time, that's all." You sighed, taking sip of your cocktail. "Mm, that's actually not bad. Not as sweet as yours, though."
"Well I doubt they make it with real sugar here-" he stopped himself, shaking his head and letting out a huff. "Quinn, why would you be wasting my time?"
"Because you are a successful and charming and desperately desired man who just broke free from a two-year-long sexless PR nightmare. And I'm the sod with the umbrella."
It was all too familiar; the compulsion to appear apathetic, aloof, uninterested, the need to make him think you didn't care. You almost wished you could call it a defence mechanism, a way of stopping yourself from being hurt. But it wasn't. You just didn't know how to be anything other than cold.
He was staring at you, his gaze so intense it was like he could see through you.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked.
"I just don't think I've ever met a more infuriating person."
"infuriating because I'm not jumping at the chance to be wined and dined by you?"
"Infuriating because you are and you just won't admit it."
"See, there's that big, celebrity ego." You leaned back, mirroring his posture.
"I think you're mistaking my supposed ego for your own insecurities."
"I'm not insecure."
"You think my status makes me too good for you. That's insecurity."
"I never said you were too good for me, I said we're too different."
He gave a hum in the back of his throat, like was thinking over your words, considering them quietly.
"What?"
"You have this way," he began. "Of distancing yourself, trying to act like you don't care."
"Less than a month ago, you didn't even know I existed and now you're psychoanalysing me?"
"It's not because you're scared of getting too close," he continued, ignoring your interjection. "It's because you like to have the upper hand, to be the one with the power."
You pursed your lips, taking another sip of your drink as he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a deep, gravelly murmur.
"Do I make you feel powerless, Quinn?"
Your breath quivered, his words burrowing right through you to the place they resonated most. But you couldn't let him know that. Even if you wanted to, your lips refused to let the words leave them. So instead you cleared your throat and leaned in, just like he had.
"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered. "You weren't that good."
The corner of his mouth curled, his jaw clenching like he was trying to hold back a smirk. He found you amusing, you knew that already, even when you were throwing insults or picking fights, he never backed down. You hadn't been with anyone like him before; someone who's ego you couldn't bruise, who saw right through the uninterested veneer you armoured yourself with.
You threw back the rest of your drink, welcoming the gentle burn in the back of your throat, before grabbing your jacket and shuffling out from the booth.
"How many times have you stormed off on me now?" he asked sarcastically, remaining put in his seat. "I think this would be the third- no, fourth, wouldn't it."
You rolled your eyes and looked down at him. "I'm not storming off. I just think we had very different understandings of what this was."
"If you're walking away because you think I'll chase you, so can have that upper hand you so desperately want-"
You planted both hands on the table in front of him. "The only thing I wanted from you tonight was an orgasm. And since I'm clearly not going to get it, I'm leaving."
You turned on your heels and began to walk away, passing by your waiter as he was making his way back towards your table.
~*~
Your trousers were too long when you didn't wear your shoes, catching under your bare feet as you walked through your flat. You went into the kitchen, taking your phone out of your jacket pocket and placing it on the counter as you searched the fridge for something to eat, silently cursing yourself for not at least sticking around for a starter.
You closed the fridge with a sigh, glancing at your phone like you were waiting for it to light up, for something, anything to happen. This couldn't have been it, you thought, surely tonight wasn't going to end with you alone, hungry, watching tv on the couch in your brand new underwear. You knew you had no right to be upset; you'd done it to yourself. As always, your mouth was your biggest saboteur, your stubbornness its greatest accomplice. You slid off your jacket and hung it over the edge of the door, untucking your shirt and unbuttoning it as you made your way back down the hall towards your bedroom.
You startled at the sound of a knock at the front door, almost convincing yourself you'd imagined it until a second one came. You pulled your shirt closed around you as you hurried towards it, rising on your tiptoes to look through the peephole, your heart beginning to thud when you saw Ben standing on the other side.
He was wearing his coat zipped up to the collar, hood pulled up to hide his face. You thought about leaving him there for a while longer, letting him stew in the risk of being spotted, recognised by one of your neighbours. But when he knocked again, you quickly relented, unable to resist your need to know why he was there, what he was going to say to you.
You opened the door wide, standing there holding your shirt closed, staring up at him as he threw back his hood and rested a hand on the doorframe.
"You're not the sod with the umbrella," he said.
You didn't reply, continuing to stand there, eyes fixed on him as he clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply through his nose.
"You're the whole fucking storm."
Your heart skipped, breath catching in your throat.
"I hate the rain," he whispered through gritted teeth.
"I don't blame you," you replied softly. "It's a nightmare."
He moved quickly, stepping over the threshold into your flat and taking your face in his hands. His lips were on yours in an instant, an eruption of heavy breaths and eager kisses as he kicked the door shut with his foot, pushing you back against the wall with a firmness that made it clear he was still annoyed, and he was intending to take his anger out on you.
His hands moved to your neck, thumbs pressing into the soft tissue of your throat, forcing you to tilt your head back, gasping into his mouth as he continued to kiss you. You fumbled for the zip of his jacket, dragging it down impatiently and taking fistfuls of the material in your hands. He let go of you for a moment, long enough for you to remove his jacket and tug his jumper off over his head, the only courtesy he was planning to afford you.
His hands returned to your body quickly, pushing your shirt off your shoulders and unhooking your bra as his lips traipsed hungrily down your neck and over your collarbone, replacing the bites and bruises that you'd only just got rid of with fresh blooms. You ran your palms down his bare torso, fingers working to undo his fly until he gripped your wrists suddenly. You gasped softly as he pushed your hands away from him, making it clear that this encounter wasn't for you. None of this was for you.
He pulled roughly on the waistband of your trousers, breaking the clasp and creating a tear in the delicate silk. You felt a jolt of electricity in your core; ashamed for liking it, too overwhelmed with want to protest. He returned his mouth to yours, swallowing you in another kiss as he pushed his hand into your trousers and beneath the material of your underwear, growling softly as his fingers made contact with your hot, yearning centre.
Your body had betrayed you; his fingers sliding effortlessly through the undeniable desire between your legs, the soaking wet mess he'd created before he'd even reached down to touch you there. He pressed his fingertips to your clit, watching your face closely as he rubbed in heavy circles, adjusting his movements until he drew a moan from your parted lips. He brought his other hand up to your face, tilting your head back to look at him as he pushed two fingers inside you.
Your eyes rolled, knees buckling slightly as you felt him filling you, stroking your sensitive walls at an intense, relentless pace.
"F-fuck." The word barely left you, escaping in a shaking breath.
There was a part of you that feared this was it; that he was going to make you come right there in the hallway, give you the orgasm you said you wanted and then leave again without another word. But when you saw him close his eyes, gathering himself just for a moment, you knew he wasn't going to be able to stop.
"Ben-"
"Where's the bedroom?" he interrupted, his restraint wavering at the sound of you whimpering his name.
You nodded further up the hall, letting out a small cry as he took his hands away from you, the loss of pleasure leaving you aching with need.
You led him to the door, turning the handle before stopping suddenly, remembering the mess you'd left your room in, the floor and bed hidden beneath the blanket of clothes. You glanced up at him over your shoulder as you pulled the door shut again.
"I wasn't expecting company…"
He rolled his eyes and let out a huff, stooping his head to bring his mouth to your ear. "Open the door. Now."
His voice made you shiver; the sensation rolling down the back of your neck and turning your legs weak. You did as you were told, pushing into the room and rushing ahead of him to swipe the heaps of clothes off your bed onto the floor. He came up behind you and gripped your waist, lips and teeth on the back of your shoulder as he dragged your trousers and underwear down over your hips, letting them fall to the ground. He moved you forward onto the bed, pushing you onto your stomach where you lay panting, waiting, every graze of his fingers over your bare skin like a searing burn, every shuffle and sound behind you completely agonising.
You felt his breath on the backs of your thighs as he pushed them apart, followed by a sudden, all-encompassing pleasure as he pressed his mouth to your centre, flattening his tongue and dragging it over every inch of you. You moaned into the mattress, clutching the unmade bedding as he pushed his mouth deeper into you, lapping and sucking at your clit, making your hips writhe beneath him. But as quickly as he started, he pulled away again, leaving you breathless, looking over your shoulder in search of him.
He was standing behind you, trousers already off as he pulled his underwear down, allowing his thick, hard erection to spring free from their tight confines. You watched as he approached you, palming himself as he aligned at your entrance, hesitating.
"Ben," you whispered.
He shushed you, spitting into his hand and covering his cock before sinking it into you without a second thought, right down to the root, grunting quietly. There was an intense flutter deep in your stomach, the sensation of being filled to your limit so satisfying it was almost too much to bear. You buried your face back into the bed, letting the mattress absorb your moans, taking the weight of each heavy thrust.
You felt him lift you by the hips, bringing you up onto your knees as he continued to drive into you with such force it was like he was punishing you. He flattened a palm on your back, keeping your chest pressed to the bed to create a deep curve in your spine, the new angle so intense it knocked the air from your lungs.
"Fuck!" you cried out, followed by a desperate string of moans, so loud not even the bed could muffle them.
He brought a hand down on your backside in response, his palm cracking like a whip against your skin and sending a shockwave through you, the pain only sweetening the pleasure. He spanked you twice more in quick succession, the sting making you whimper, while the ache that followed only made you crave more.
He reached forward and tangled a fist in your hair, pulling you up until your back was pressed against his chest, his hot breath on the side of your neck. He let go of your hair, wrapping his fingers around your throat instead, holding you in place as he continued to fuck you, his other hand slipping down to work your clit.
"You wanted your orgasm," he groaned into your ear. "Take it."
Your eyes rolled, the unmistakeable knot in your core growing tighter and tighter as he quickened his pace, squeezing slightly around your throat.
"Take it," he repeated.
You brought your hands up, wrapping them around his wrist as he pinned you back against him, holding onto him desperately as he continued to draw the climax out of you, and you couldn't help but wonder how anyone could make someone feel this good when they were so angry with them.
Your legs began to shake, your vision blurring as the knot in your core finally broke, flooding you with a beautiful, overwhelming heat that set every last inch of you alight. You fell limp in his grasp, whimpers and moans spilling from your open mouth as he continued to thrust into you, riding out your climax, making it linger.
He let you go, allowing you to flop forward on the bed and roll onto your back. You lay there panting, mewling beneath him as he knelt between your legs and slid himself back into you. You were spent, sore, completely sated, your inner walls so sensitive that every stroke of his cock sent a shiver rippling through you. But the sound of him moaning, the grunts and the groans as he used your body to chase his own release was too delicious to care.
You reached up and took his face in your hands, pulling him down to press your lips to his. He yielded to you, laying his chest on top of yours and letting you kiss him, tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself on him.
"You don't hate me," you whispered.
"No," he replied breathlessly. "You just really get on my nerves."
"I can tell."
His cock grazed your g spot, making you gasp and bite your lip. He dropped his head at the sight of you, closing his eyes like it was too much to bear. You dug your nails into his back, urging him to keep going. He steadied his pace in response, his hands planted either side of your head as he snapped his hips so hard it ignited another quick, unexpected orgasm deep in your belly. It was enough to push him over the edge, his rhythm faltering until he could no longer hold on, finishing inside you as he bit down on your shoulder to suppress a groan.
He waited to catch his breath before pulling out of you, collapsing next to you and staring up at the ceiling in a state of awe. You rolled onto your side, draping an arm over his stomach and closing your eyes, almost beginning to drift off to sleep when you suddenly felt him shift, disappearing from your side.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"I can't stay," he replied, fumbling for his underwear on the floor and pulling them on.
"Why not?"
"I have a meeting tomorrow, followed by a script read through, then a-"
"And that means you can't stay why?" you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows, lip curled in dissatisfaction.
"Because the director I'm meeting with is back in LA, and he'll be calling me over zoom at about 6am."
"So stay here and just get up early."
"There's no point," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting on his trousers. "I'd get about three hours sleep."
You glared at him, but he simply laughed, crawling up towards you and leaning in for a kiss.
You pulled back before your lips could touch. "I still stand by the 'just sex' thing."
"Mhm," he replied, completely unconvinced. "That's why you're trying to get me to spend the night with you, and why you're pissed off that I'm saying no."
You glared at him again, unamused.
He rolled his eyes. "Are you going to kiss me or not?"
You waited a moment before giving in, tilting your chin and making him come to you. He obliged, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours in a heady, passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that made your skin tingle, the hairs on your arms stand on end.
He broke away, resting his forehead against yours as he assessed your dazed, wanton expression.
"Just sex, hm?"
"Just sex," you replied.
A smirk began tug at the corner of his mouth, a soft laugh escaping his throat. "We'll see."
Chapter 14: XIV
Chapter Text
Sea foam eyes rolled beneath fluttering lids, a deep swallow, an intake of breath, as if he were preparing himself to speak. But it wasn't you that Ben was speaking to, because your mouth was already unreservedly occupied.
He was sat on the small couch, one arm outstretched along the back, the other holding a phone to his ear. "Mhm, yes that's what I was thinking," he said, his words calm and casual, deliberately controlled.
You looked up at him from your position on the floor, lips sliding back and forth over the length of his cock as you knelt between his parted legs. The corner of your mouth curled with a smirk as you watched his eyes close, his head falling against the back of the couch as he tried to concentrate on the voice on the other end of the phone.
"Well, I wouldn't say I'm completely sold," he said, struggling to keep his breath even.
You felt his hand against your cheek, his fingers brushing a stray hair out of your face as he allowed himself a quick glance down at you. You were giving him some of your best work; hollowed cheeks, swirling tongue, firm hands, all before you'd even said a word to each other.
An accidental groan slipped out of him and he tried to disguise it with a cough. "Hm? Oh, no I'm fine, sorry," he said. "Just had a tickle in my throat."
You wondered if maybe this was too cruel, if you had somehow transcended teasing and arrived right at the apex of sheer torture. But maybe he deserved it.
He'd been on the phone when you arrived, opening the hotel room door and holding a finger up at you before walking back inside without so much as a greeting. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a pair of dark suit trousers, the accompanying blazer hanging over a chair near the window, the tie draped over the arm of the couch. You'd followed him inside expecting him to hang up the call, but when he left you standing there in the middle of the room, throwing himself down on the couch to continue his conversation, you found yourself with two options: take off your coat, sit down and wait quietly for him to acknowledge you, or take off your coat and remind him exactly why he'd invited you there in the first place.
He'd stared at you in complete confusion as you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him, his mouth falling open as you began to unfasten his trousers, the realisation of what you were about to do suddenly dawning on him. By the time you slid him into your mouth he was already hard, eagerly welcoming the feeling with an eye roll and a silent sigh. But when it was finally his turn to speak again, he quickly sobered, realising just how difficult you were intending to make it for him.
It had only been a few minutes since then, but you could already feel him shifting his weight beneath you, growing restless, struggling to concentrate.
"I'd- Yeah, I'd be happy to," he said, the words tight and broken as they left him. "Would that be in person, or?"
You freed your hands from the base of his cock, gripping his thighs as you took all of him in your mouth, feeling it slide down the curve at the back of your throat. He bit down on the knuckle of his index finger to keep quiet, eyes falling on you with heavy lids as he watched you draw back, spluttering slightly as you caught your breath, a rope of saliva connecting your bottom lip to the head of his cock.
You stuck your tongue out to break the rope, maintaining eye contact with him and relishing the sight of his composure beginning to wane. You couldn't tell if you were going to be in deep trouble when he hung up the phone, or if you would be greatly rewarded for your service; somehow in that moment, both were equally as appealing. You dragged your tongue slowly up the length of him, teasing for a moment before resuming your work.
"That's good," he said, the words just as much for you as they were for the person on the phone. "So I take it that'd be in the new year?"
You felt his hand on the back of your head, attempting to guide your rhythm as he struggled to keep his hips still beneath you. He was dying to thrust into your mouth, to fuck your throat, you could tell in the way his fingers tightened in your hair, how his voice grew more hoarse like he was suppressing a growl.
"Sure."
You gripped the base of his cock with one hand, stroking him in time with your mouth. He moved the phone away and held it at arms length for a moment, just long enough to throw his head back and let out a quiet moan towards to ceiling.
"Yep, I'll speak to him about it," he said as he brought it back to his ear.
You picked up pace, yielding to his hand and allowing him to push your head down further, taking as much of him in your mouth as you could until you felt him beginning to tense.
"I- No that's fine-"
He sucked the air in through his teeth and let it out again in a soft hiss. You flitted your gaze up towards him, observing how fevered he had become, how his complexion - usually so even and unblemished - had grown flushed and clammy, how his eyes were fighting to remain open, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, 'mhm' seeming to be the only response he could muster.
"Mhm," he said again, his breathing becoming ragged. "Mhm. Yes. Mhm."
His fist clenched in the back of your hair as he pressed his lips together, so hard you could see the muscles tensing in his jaw. He threw his head back, hips rolling slightly beneath you as he finally came, silently, painfully, into the back of your throat.
You took a deep breath and slid him out of your mouth, gazing up at him with an impish grin as you swallowed and licked your lips, wiping the corners of your mouth with your finger.
"No problem. Well thanks, Billy, I appreciate it," he said; his tone was light but his eyes were dark, fixed on you. "Bye now."
He locked his phone and threw it down next to him before covering his face with his hands and breathing out a long exhale, as if he'd been holding his breath the entire time. He dropped his arms to his sides, looking down at you as you remained knelt between his legs.
"Hi," you breathed, suppressing another smile.
"You know, I always took pride in my professionalism." He glared down at you, reaching out and drawing his thumb across your bottom lip. "Until I met you."
"I think you should thank me," you said. "I make you less boring."
The corner of his mouth curled with a smirk.
"I also just taught you a lesson in what happens when you ignore me," you added.
"I didn't ignore you."
"You most definitely did."
He rolled his eyes and stood up abruptly, hooking his hands under your armpits like he was picking up a child. You laughed as he carried you across the room like that; how easily he'd swept you up, like you somehow weighed nothing in his grasp.
"Well I deeply apologise," he said sarcastically, throwing you onto the large bed and tugging your boots off one at a time. "I assure you it was never my intention."
You leaned back on your elbows, giggling softly as he eagerly undid your jeans and dragged them down your legs. You were thoroughly enjoying the arrangement you'd somehow found yourselves in, how you would meet whenever you could - which usually meant whenever Ben could spare an hour or two - laughing together, sleeping together, learning the intricacies of each other's bodies; what made your back arch, what made him bite down on his knuckles. It was all so ideal, so deliciously easy.
As you lay on your back, his fingers grazing your thighs as he pulled down your underwear, you had a feeling you would be seeing the inside of a lot of hotel rooms. It had only been a week since his return, yet you'd already witnessed how hectic his schedule could be; how he lived in a series of stolen moments, promises to be back soon. It only solidified what you'd said to him at dinner that night, you were too different, but god did that seem so insignificant when he was buried between your legs.
He arrived immediately at the place that made you moan, his tongue gliding repeatedly over your clit, swirling and sucking, devouring you like he'd been craving your taste. But he was impatient in his ministrations, no teasing, no talking, no pausing to kiss your inner thighs or whisper words of praise and desire. You almost hated how good he was at getting you off; the fact that he could control how quickly you came, fit your satisfaction into whatever amount of time he had available to spend.
You parted your legs wider, bent your knees back further as you felt the pleasure beginning to swell, your clit growing more sensitive, thousands of nerve endings throbbing and pulsing against the pressure of his tongue.
"I'm going to come," you sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was all too soon. Ridiculously soon.
He hummed in approval, pressing his mouth harder between your legs, keeping his tongue exactly where you needed it to be.
You let out a breathy moan, your back arching as a wave of intense pleasure flooded through you. Shivers rippled over your flesh, the aftermath leaving your legs twitchy and weak. He pulled away and smiled up at you, proud of his work, making you roll your eyes and let your head fall back on the bed, allowing yourself a moment of rest before another round began.
But when you saw him stand up, fixing his trousers and tucking in his shirt, you propped yourself up again, watching with narrowed eyes.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"I have to go, I didn't have as much time as I thought I'd have."
"Seriously? I drove all the way to the other side of London and you're bailing on me?"
He knotted his tie and tucked it under his collar before shrugging on the blazer. "I know, I'm sorry. I really thought I'd have more time but then my agent called and-" He huffed, checking his reflection in a mirror. "But why don't you stay?"
"Stay?"
"Here. In the room."
You glared at him, unimpressed by his suggestion.
He turned and made his way back to the bed, leaning forward and taking your face in his hands, kissing you as he spoke. "This thing's happening downstairs in the hotel. You could stay here, wait for me, order food if you wanted. It's just a round table, I can leave as soon as it's over."
You were sceptical, rolling your eyes as you pretended to reluctantly accept his kisses.
"No one will bother you in here," he said, as if he could hear your concerns before you even voiced them. "This is my private room, no one on my staff even has a key card."
"Oh your staff," you replied in a mockingly posh voice.
"Quinn," he groaned. "Please stay."
You weren't sure if it was the deep, seductive voice, the way he looked in his suit, or the promises he whispered in your ear of what he was going to do to you when he returned. But whatever the reason, you agreed to stay.
You indulged in a shower, exchanging the clothes you came in for a t-shirt you found in Ben's bag. It smelled like him, felt worn, loved. You sat on the couch, flicked through channels on the TV, sat by the window watching the dark, rainy street below, lay on the bed texting Nick. Waiting was fine.
Until you seemed to be waiting forever.
The last thing you remembered was watching the clock on the bedside table. Then suddenly, Ben was at your side, whispering your name and stroking the hair out of your face. You woke in a daze, squinting and grumbling as you remembered where you were, glancing back to the clock to see it was after 1am.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Things ran over, I couldn't get out. I'm a shit, I'm sorry."
You sat up slowly, clearing your throat and rubbing a crystal of sleep out the corner of your eye. "It's alright," you said. "I'll er, I'll get out of your way-"
"Wait no, stay."
"Ben."
"Stay," he repeated, crawling closer to you as he began to place kisses over your face, your neck, your jaw. "Stay."
"Ben," you said again, this time with a soft giggle.
"Don't leave me," he pretended to whine, focusing his kisses on your lips, hands roaming your bare skin beneath the t-shirt you were wearing. "I want you. God, I really fucking want you."
You felt a surge of heat, like his voice had a direct line straight to your core. "Okay," you whispered. "But you're doing all the work."
"Fine by me," he said enthusiastically, planting a flurry of quick kisses on your mouth before getting up and beginning to undress himself at the foot of the bed.
He was being clumsy; hopping to take his shoes off, almost tripping over himself in the dark. You laughed as you lay there watching him, growing curious, suspicious.
"Ben, are you drunk?" you laughed.
"I may have had a few drinks."
"Should I be concerned that I'm taking advantage?"
"Absolutely not," he said firmly, climbing back on the bed and crawling up your body, pressing his lips to your neck. "You still have that thingy in your arm, right?" he muttered. "No babies."
"Jesus Christ," you laughed. "You're definitely drunk."
"I'm merry."
"Ah I see, well that is completely different."
"So sarcastic," he groaned as he returned his mouth to yours.
You chuckled, but the sound quickly morphed into a quiet gasp when he began to push himself into you, filling you slowly, deeply, smiling against your lips as he felt you bring your legs up to wrap around his back.
It was as if he knew that you were unhappy with how quickly you'd finished the first time, because he spent the next half hour fucking you, relentlessly, without stopping, even when you came, he kept going. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe he'd realised it would be a few days until he could see you again, and he wanted to leave you aching, reminded of him whenever you closed your eyes or touched yourself in the place he’d managed to take such ownership of.
If only he knew that was already the case, that almost every waking thought was overrun by his voice, his face, his hands.
You slept in his arms after that, too spent to climb out of bed, too comfortable in his t-shirt to peel it from your body. But the next morning, you woke first, manoeuvring yourself out of his embrace without disturbing him and dressing in the dim, dusky light. You left the room and hurried down to your car, sending him a text as soon as you got in behind the wheel.
Don't leave me waiting too long to see you again. You know I don't like to be ignored.
~*~
To your surprise, he didn't disappoint.
It had been two days since the night in the hotel. You were attempting another shift around of your living room furniture, only realising once you were halfway through turning the room upside down that you didn't like it. It was mid-afternoon, the view from your window a flurry of snow, so thick you could no longer make out the London landscape through it.
You were pissed off with a table for being too heavy to drag across the room, giving up and sitting on it when your phone began to ring on the TV stand. You leaned over and picked it up, your mood immediately lifting when you saw his name on the screen.
"Hello," you said.
"Hi, are you home?"
"I am."
"Good, because I'm at your door."
Your heart skipped, your breath catching in disbelief. "You're...? "
You jumped up and hurried down the hall, pulling open your front door to see him standing there, hood pulled up, a layer of snow settled across his shoulders. You let him in, taking his jacket and hanging it on a hook as he stood blowing warm air into his palms.
"So, is this my life now?" you began sarcastically, walking back towards the living room. "Hearing from you out of the blue every few days when you get a spare five minutes?"
"Quinn, I am always busy. But this, this has been a lot even for me." He threw himself down in an armchair you'd been in the process of moving. "I've had three films come out in less than two months. I was at the premiere for one of them literally last night."
"I know, I saw pictures online. You looked good."
"Thanks," he laughed. "And then there's press, meetings, events, my schedule's insane for the next few months- I honestly don't even know how I'm functioning today."
You tutted. "Oh, you poor little famous thing."
"Your compassion is always overwhelming."
You smirked, approaching him slowly and straddling his lap, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. "So you said you've got press..." you said, feathering kisses along his jaw.
"Mm. Back to back junkets, a couple of radio interviews. I have a few days off over Christmas but then it's straight back to it."
"Mhm," you hummed distractedly, moving your lips to his ear. "So what's after Christmas?"
He sighed at the feeling of your teeth grazing his earlobe, the warmth of your breath as you coated his neck in kisses. "Lots of back and forth between here and the US. I've got audiences with, more press, magazines, photoshoots, not to mention my manager and publicist's got me award campaigning like mad."
"Hm, what are you campaigning for?" You were rocking your hips against him now, eliciting a hard response beneath his trousers.
"Oscars, SAG-" he paused to look at you as you reached down between your bodies, unzipping his trousers and releasing his cock into your hand.
"Keep going," you said softly, innocently. "What else have you got to do?"
He exhaled through his nose, trying to hold back a smirk as you kissed him, grinding down on his exposed erection.
"I've got meetings for some upcoming projects..."
"Mhm?" You were secretly thanking yourself for only wearing a pair of pyjama shorts, the fabric loose enough to allow you to move it to one side.
"Promo for Doctor Strange..."
You licked the pads of your fingers, using your saliva to wet the tip of his cock before sinking yourself down on it, smiling as he let out a faint, controlled moan, his hands immediately finding your waist.
"What else?" you asked as you began to move, rocking your hips back and forth.
He exhaled a laugh. "Just so much- travel," he said, struggling to get the words out between heavy sighs and breathy groans. "But I can cancel it all."
"Oh, you're going to cancel?" you giggled.
"Yep, I'll cancel everything. All of it... But only if we can do this instead." He tightened his grip on your waist, tilting his chin to kiss you. "Nothing but this."
You smiled and leaned forward, your arms draped over his shoulders, chest pressed against his as you rode him slowly, decadently, gasping against his lips as he rolled his hips to meet your movements. You would never tell him, but sometimes you were convinced he had been made just for you; the way your bodies fit so perfectly, creating the most beautiful, intense friction that resonated deep in your core.
"Fuck, I needed this," he whispered.
"I know."
"Your living room's a mess."
"Yeah, I know."
There was a knock at the door. It startled you for a moment, but you quickly turned your attention back to each other.
"Ignore it," you said, grinding down on him, taking every last inch to the hilt.
Another knock.
You stopped, letting out a huff and carefully getting off him, readjusting your shorts as you hurried to the door. You rose onto your tiptoes and looked through the peephole, your heart stopping, lungs shrivelling in your chest.
You spun on your heels, looking back towards Ben who was still sat waiting in the armchair. "It's my parents," you hissed.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"Get in the bedroom. Now."
He shot up and ran into your room, closing the door tight behind him. You cleared your throat and opened the front door as they began to knock again, painting a surprised smile on your mortified face.
"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"We said we'd try to pop in and see you one day this week, didn't we," said your mother.
"Oh right, of course. Sorry, I just... Usually people call or text before they-"
"Have we interrupted you, love?" your father asked. "Is it a bad time?"
You stared at them both for a moment, their wide eyes, cold noses and snow-covered coats. "No, no I was just rearranging my furniture so the place is a bit of a mess."
"Oh we don't mind that." Your mother waved her hand dismissively.
You stepped aside and let them both in, taking their coats and hoping they didn't notice Ben's already hanging up. "You've caught me in my pyjamas though, so you'll have to wait while I get dressed."
They both nodded, making their way down the hall.
"Have a seat, make yourselves comfortable," you said, your eyes widening when your father went to sit down in the armchair. "Not there!"
He stopped, turning to you in confusion.
"I just, erm, I just fixed one of the legs," you said. "The glue's not dry yet."
You hurried into the bedroom, closing the door tight behind you and leaning back against it, taking a moment to breathe. Ben was sat on the edge of your bed watching you, waiting patiently until you calmed down.
"You have to go," you whispered.
"You should've told me this was a bad day for me to come," he replied. "Why would you let me in if you knew your parents were coming?"
"Because I didn't. They said they'd try and come and see me before they go but they never actually specified when that would be."
"Before they go where?"
"On their cruise. They've been scrimping and saving for years just to go on this bloody cruise around the Caribbean."
"Over Christmas?"
"Yep. They got a really good deal, couldn't pass it up."
You slid down your shorts and pulled your top over your head before making your way across the room to your wardrobe. Ben's eyes were on you, you could feel them burning into the bare skin of your arse, the backs of your thighs.
"My parents are in the next room, Ben, stop looking at me like you want to ruin me."
He dropped his head, laughing quietly to himself. "Sorry. What are they like? Are they nice?"
"Yeah they're great. They've got a picture of you on their wall."
He raised an eyebrow as you turned to look at him.
"I'll explain another time," you said. "Right now you need to go."
His gaze trailed your body again, like he found you so tempting his eyes couldn't choose a place to settle.
"Stop. Eye. Fucking. Me." you hissed.
"Can't. Help. It." he replied, mocking your voice.
He stood up and made his way towards you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. You felt yourself melting as he drew you into a kiss, and in that moment you realised just how easy it would be to forget your parents were there at all.
Maybe if we were really quiet, you thought. What!? No, Quinn. Don't even think about it.
You tore yourself away from him and quickly threw on a jumper and a pair of trousers, allowing yourself one final kiss before slipping out of the room and rejoining your parents.
"Sorry about that," you said. "So how was the drive here?"
You closed the door over, keeping them talking long enough for Ben to creep out. You could hear the faint rustling of his coat, the slightest click of the front door. Then you allowed yourself to breathe, properly, sitting down and finally enjoying their company.
Chapter 15: XV
Notes:
Content Warning: Brief mention of pregnancy loss/infertility (not Quinn), verbal fighting & arguing, smoking, alcohol consumption.
A/N: Don't set alcohol on fire pls.
Chapter Text
You woke with no idea of the time, stretching out your body with a satisfied groan before settling back into the mattress with a smile. It was your Christmas present to yourself; a blissful, comfortable, undisturbed lie in, and it had been entirely worth it.
You wandered barefoot around your flat, taking your time in the bathroom and forgoing breakfast for a glass of Buck's Fizz, sipping on it as you tore into the gifts your parents had left for you on the day they made their impromptu visit. There was the body lotion your mother bought for you every year, the scarf you would probably never wear, and the book with the handwritten message inside. It was all perfect, reminding you of home, and it almost made you wish you weren't spending the day alone.
They loved you. Sometimes too much. Growing up, your parents loved you so much they could have suffocated you with it, tethered you to them with concern. You were born after two miscarriages, and another three losses followed before they finally gave up trying for any more children. Which meant you were it. You were all they had, all they would ever have. So much so that even the thought of you spending Christmas by yourself, even as a fully grown woman, had filled them with so much guilt that they'd travelled all the way into London just to see you before they went away.
The sky was battling with itself; a constant cycle of rain and sleet sliding down your windows, heavy wind battering against the string of lights you'd hung outside. You were thankful you didn't have to go anywhere, much preferring the view from beneath the comfort of a warm blanket.
The momentary loneliness had quickly passed after a few cocktails, and by mid afternoon you had watched two of your favourite Christmas films and made a start on the novel your parents had bought for you. You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Nick, a Merry Christmas and another reminder that there was a place for you at his family's table for dinner. It reminded you of your last conversation with your parents before they left.
You were too busy looking at the armchair, your mind wandering back to what you'd been doing in it just moments before they arrived. You hadn't even registered your father's voice until he called your name again.
"Quinnie?"
You shook your head and blinked a few times. "Hm?"
"Dinner?" he asked again.
"Oh, yeah sorry. I er, I'll be eating with friends," you lied.
"Really?" He sounded sceptical. Not sceptical of where you would be eating for Christmas, but of the notion that you had friends at all.
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, really. A friend of mine from work. His name's Nick, I've mentioned him before."
They both smiled at you.
"We're not together," you said bluntly.
"Oh leave us alone," said your mother. "You know we just want to see you happy and in love and-"
"Knocked up so you can finally have grandchildren?" you finished sarcastically.
"It would be nice..."
You shook your head and let out a laugh.
"Surely there's got to be someone special in your life," she pressed.
"Yeah actually, there is. You know the guy from my magazine thing? He was just here; I snuck him out when you first arrived."
"Oh Quinnie," she rolled her eyes. "Must you always be so sarcastic?"
The bad weather had made the sun set even earlier than usual, the string of lights outside barely hanging on as they began to twinkle in the darkness. You stood up and walked to the window, looking out over London with a slight smile, imagining all the drinks, songs, children playing with new toys, fathers in paper crowns falling asleep in armchairs.
You were somehow more than okay with being on the outside of it all; happy to picture it from the quiet comfort of your flat instead of sitting amongst it waiting for it to be over.
Nick had sent you photos of his dinner, his plate overflowing with food while you ate cheese and crackers, downed another homemade cocktail. You were in heaven, legs tucked under you, laptop on the arm of the couch as you cracked your knuckles dramatically, preparing to start working on your new pitch for Draft's April issue.
But your glass was empty, the crackers making your mouth feel dry, and it was bothering you.
You let out a huff and forced yourself up, taking your glass into the kitchen as your phone pinged once again. You opened Nick's message to see a picture of a Christmas pudding engulfed in vivid blue flames.
Watch your eyebrows.
You pressed send, putting your phone down on the counter and taking a bottle of rum out of the cupboard.
Then you saw the box of matches on the side, the picture of Nick's pudding flashing into your mind. You looked down at the bottle, then back to the matches, the devil on your shoulder pondering if your rum was high enough proof to make a flaming shot.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted your stupidity before you could act on it, snapping you back into your body as if the thoughts hadn't even been yours at all. You put the bottle down and walked to the front door, glancing through the peephole and breaking into a smile at the unexpected sight.
"You just caught me before I made a very bad decision..." you said as you opened the door.
"I struggle to recall ever catching you in the middle of a good one," Ben teased, stepping into your flat and taking off his coat.
"Does that include sleeping with you?"
He smiled. "Of course. Worst decision you've made so far."
You giggled, taking his coat and hanging it up before turning back to him eagerly, your fingers immediately hooking into the waistband of his trousers as you rose on your tiptoes to kiss his neck.
But he pulled away with a gentle laugh. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I just got here."
"So? I seem to remember turning up at your house and having you inside me before I'd even taken my coat off."
"I've changed since then."
"It was last week."
He laughed through his nose, his smile creating deep lines around his mouth. "I just thought we could spend some time together first, that's all. Break your 'just sex' rule for one night."
"Why?" you asked suspiciously.
"It's Christmas. I didn't want you to be alone on Christmas."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I'm being serious," he said.
"What about your family?"
"I just got back from spending all day with them. Left my mum and dad tucked up drinking sherry in front of the fire."
"Oh how festive," you said, turning on your heels and heading back towards the kitchen.
"Speaking of festivities," he said.
You turned to see him rummaging in his coat pocket before pulling out a colourfully wrapped box.
"Merry Christmas," he finished, walking towards you and placing it in your hand.
"Gifts? We're doing gifts now?"
He laughed, following you as you made your way into the kitchen. "Do you want it or not?"
"Well obviously yes," you replied bluntly, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter.
He smirked, walking up and standing between your parted legs, watching as you tore it open.
Beneath the paper was a stone-coloured velvet box, fancy scripture embossed in the centre. You lifted the lid slowly, forgetting to take a breath when you laid eyes on the most beautiful gold watch you'd ever seen.
"What the fuck..."
"What?" he asked. "Do you not like it?"
You were speechless, moving your lips and hoping the words would come, but they didn't.
He smiled and gave a casual shrug. "I just thought since you made that snarky comment about my watch-"
"I can't accept this."
"Why not?"
"Because this... this- this is not the kind of thing you give to someone you practically just met. I mean, we're not even- and this-"
"It's fine, Quinn. Honestly. I just wanted to do something nice for you. Really, it's just a token."
"A token?" you scoffed, almost spluttering as you stared up at him with wide eyes. "A... a bath set, a box of chocolates, those are tokens. This... This is..." You pushed him gently out of the way and jumped down, taking the box into the living room with you. "I'll tell you what this is. This is... insane, it's too much."
He followed you, standing in the doorway as you sat down on the couch, pulling your laptop closer and beginning to type.
"If you don't like it then you can just tell me," he said. "I won't be offended-"
You let out a shriek and shot up onto your feet. "Thirty. Thousand. Pounds!?"
He furrowed his brow. "You seriously looked it up!?"
"Oh my god." You began pacing the floor. "Why the hell would you go and spend thirty grand on a fuck buddy!? Jesus Christ, Ben! I mean, what do your girlfriends get? Cars? Houses?"
"Quinn," he laughed softly, as if he truly couldn't understand your reaction. "Stop reading into it. I had them send a few pieces and I chose one I thought you'd like. I didn't even look at the price-"
"Oh my god! You didn't even look-" You laughed in disbelief. "This is it, isn't it. This is the difference between us that I was talking about. Thirty grand, Ben! That really is just pocket money to you isn't it?"
"That's not fair." He rolled his eyes. "Alright, yes I make a lot of money, but that doesn't mean it has no value to me. Do you know how hard I've worked to get to a place in life where I don't have to look at the price tag?"
"Yes and that's wonderful for you, Merry Christmas, congrats on all the cash-"
He scoffed.
"But do you not see how spending this much money on me could make me feel like-"
"Don't say like I'm paying you for sex-"
"Like shit, Ben. I was going to say like shit. Because I can't return the favour."
"I don't expect you to return the favour. I expect you to... put the bloody watch on."
"No!"
"For christ's sake, Quinn."
"No. I'm not accepting it, I can't."
"Yes you are."
"No I'm fucking not."
"Well I'm not taking it back, so..."
You stopped pacing and let out a loud, irritated growl. "Why are you so insistent on being nice to me!?"
He laughed in disbelief, brows coming together over his eyes. "Are you hearing yourself right now!?"
"Yes! And that's not- ugh, it came out wrong. I meant why aren't you accepting my non-acceptance of your gift!?"
"Because it's just that: A gift!"
"An extravagant gift! A ridiculous gift!"
"Stop saying the word gift."
"Oh I'm sorry, am I annoying you?"
"Yes, actually, you are annoying me. Now get in the bedroom."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
"Because, you want to shout at me for buying you a nice gift?" he began, his jaw clenched in irritation. "You might as well do it while taking your clothes off. It's called multitasking."
"What happened to 'let's spend some time together first'?" you asked, imitating his voice.
"That was before you chose to spend that time fighting with me."
"This isn't a fight. It's a discussion."
"Could've fooled me."
"It's not a fight. Because people who are just sleeping together don't fight. Just like they don't buy each other extortionately priced-"
He rolled his eyes and walked off while you were in the middle of speaking.
You stood there for a moment as you listened to the bedroom door open and close, seething to yourself and glancing down at the watch one more time before marching after him.
You stepped into the bedroom and slammed the door, harder than you had meant to, but you couldn't admit it. He was standing near your bed, lifting his jumper over his head, seemingly unfazed by your aggressive entrance.
You took in a sharp breath. "Do you-"
He glanced up at you with a hard, unimpressed expression, like he wasn't going to tolerate your shouting.
You took another breath, a slower, softer breath, and calmed your voice down. "Do you realise how hard it is to be involved with someone like you?" you began, joining him in his undressing by removing your top. "How I have to calculate my every move to make sure I'm not coming off like some gold digging slut who's just after your fame and money?"
He threw his jumper to the floor and began to unbutton his trousers, looking over at you as you slid down your own pants.
"Then you go and slap thirty grand in front of me," you finished.
"I didn't slap thirty grand in front of you. I gave you a Christmas present. Take your underwear off."
You huffed and reached back to unhook your bra, slipping it down your arms and throwing it in his direction. His refusal to let you win had laced your annoyance with an undeniable arousal; the way he glared at you from the across the room as you stood there angry, bare, exposed, how he'd stripped himself naked while ordering you to do the same, like he was going to have you whether you stopped berating him or not.
You soon ended up on the bed, lying on your back as his mouth travelled over your breasts, tongue dancing over your nipples before trailing down over your ribs.
"What were you expecting me to do? Really?" you asked, his kisses peppering your stomach as you continued to reprimand him. "You thought I'd open it and everything would just be all rainbows and love hearts and oh wow this is so amazing!"
He rolled his eyes, leaving a soft bite on your hip before beginning to move back up your body.
"I mean, how the fuck is anyone supposed to feel comfortable walking around with thirty grand on their wrist anyway!?" You felt his lips on your neck, the heat of his breath making you tremble. "That's over a year's worth of rent, Ben-"
"Flip over onto your knees."
The way he ignored you was infuriating, but you'd gathered by now that that was the point. He knew he was driving you mad, he also knew there was a part of you that found it incredibly sexy.
You rolled onto your stomach, rising to your hands and knees and glancing over your shoulder at him. "If you think this is going to make me stop having a go at you-"
"I don't think this is going to make you stop having a go," he interrupted, spitting on his fingers and spreading his saliva over your already wet centre.
You shivered at the contact, the slight grazing of his fingertips on your clit, the feeling of his cock nudging you as he shifted his body closer.
"I've simply decided that instead of arguing back, I'm just going to fuck you."
You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off by pushing himself into you, sheathing his entire length inside you to the hilt with a quiet groan.
You gasped at the stretch, the sudden fullness. "Prick," you muttered.
He brought a hand down on your arse, the sting making you gasp again.
"See," he said.
He took your hips in his hands, grasping them firmly as he began to thrust in a steady rhythm, each crash of your bodies sending a shockwave through your core.
"I just don't get how you can't see my point of view," you said breathlessly, your words disjointed, each thrust knocking the air out of your lungs. "A month. I've known you for a month."
His grip tightened on your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh. You let out a moan as he drove himself into you, hard and deep, bracing yourself by flattening your palms against the headboard.
"Plus," you gasped. "You shouldn't be buying me things at all."
He growled, taking a fistful of your hair and pulling on it, bringing you up against him, your back curved, his lips to your ear.
"I have the money," he said through gritted teeth. "I spend it how I want."
You could barely breathe, your head tilted all the way back as he buried himself in you.
"This year, I spent some of it on you," he continued. "So either say 'thank you', or shut up."
He let go of your hair and you fell forward, your chest pressed against the bed, face buried in the pillows. The moan that poured out of you was like a white flag; a declaration of surrender, your way of admitting that he had won without actually having to say the words.
And it was clear he understood as he slowed his pace slightly, like he was savouring the way you felt around him, relieved to hear pleasure spill from your mouth instead of conflict, proud of his ability to leave you well and truly speechless. He groaned as he pulled almost all the way out of you before sinking down again, and you joined him with a desperate whimper, rolling your hips like you couldn't get enough, like no amount of him would ever be enough.
You felt his fingernails dragging down the curve of your back, his hand coming down to deliver another hard spank to your backside. You hummed in pleasure, your walls tensing around him, enough to elicit a deep, rich moan from his throat.
He came inside you, breath hissing through his teeth, hips stilling as he leaned over you to grip the top of the headboard. You felt him bring his other hand down, snaking it around you to work his fingers over your clit as he remained buried in you, staying there until he felt you begin to come undone, an orgasm ripping through you before you even had the chance to feel it coming.
You allowed your knees to give way beneath you, dropping onto your stomach and lying there breathless as he rolled onto the bed beside you. You turned your head to look at him, watching as he lay there with his eyes closed, face glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling heavily.
"Thank you," you finally muttered, your tone reluctant, brattish.
He turned his head to look at you, not speaking as his eyes met yours. But the silence didn't last long, the pair of you soon breaking into a quiet laugh.
"Merry Christmas," he replied sarcastically, making you laugh even more.
You rolled onto your side as you watched him get up, pulling on his trousers and leaving them unbuttoned, loose around his hips as he wandered around the room.
"Are you leaving?" you asked.
"Do you want me to leave?"
You shook your head, too stubborn to actually say the word 'no' out loud.
"Then I won't leave." He smiled, like it was the most simple choice in the world.
"Why are you getting dressed then?"
"Because I need a cigarette." He scooped up his jumper from the floor, pulling it over his head as he made his way out of the room. You lay there for a moment, calm, content, until you heard the rustling of his coat in the hall. You climbed out of bed and threw your clothes back on, stepping out of the room in time to find him reaching for the front door.
"You don't have to go all the way downstairs," you said. "I've got a balcony."
"You do?" he asked curiously, throwing down his hood and following you into the living room.
His mouth pressed into a straight line as he watched you open a set of french doors, beyond them a flimsy, metal railing wrapped in Christmas lights, the space so shallow it could barely fit a plant pot, let alone his six foot frame.
"Balcony," he laughed.
You rolled your eyes. "I live in central London on a staff writer's salary. What did you expect?"
It was dark and bitterly cold, your breaths fogging in front of your faces as you stood together in the doorway, looking out over the city. He took a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and slipped one between his lips, glancing at you as he lit it.
"It was for a film," he said, blowing out a plume of moonlit smoke. "I only tend to do it nowadays if it's for a role. Finding it harder to pack it in this time around though, not sure why."
You crossed your arms over your chest, shielding yourself from a cold gust of wind.
"Thought I'd get away with quitting before you found out," he added with a subtle smile.
"I had a feeling you smoked," you said. "Can smell it on you sometimes, only a little bit though. I don't really mind it."
He leaned back against the door frame, taking another drag with hollowed cheeks before turning his head to the side, trying not to blow smoke in your direction. You were staring up at him, wondering how he was so able to snap you out of a mood, to stop you from wanting to throttle him, make you forget why you were even angry to begin with.
But then you looked over at the couch, the stone-coloured box still sitting on the arm next to your laptop, and bit your lip.
"Can we talk about anything other than the watch?" he said, cutting you off before you'd even began. It was as if he could read your mind. He was strangely good at reading your mind. "Literally anything else."
You huffed, tightening your arms around yourself. "Like what?"
"I don't know, anything. Thoughts, feelings, opinions, life experiences?"
"Hm."
"Like... You could tell me why you wanted to be a journalist."
"I don't know. Why did you want to be an actor?"
He shook his head and laughed. "You really hate talking about yourself, don't you."
"I don't hate it." You shrugged. "I'm just... I'm a journalist, I like to ask the questions."
"This," he gestured to your surroundings. "Isn't an interview, Quinn. We're just talking."
You gave a reluctant sigh. "Alright, well, I didn't originally want to be a journalist. I wanted to be a playwright." You paused, laughing to yourself. "Thought I was going to be the next Pinter or Beckett or something."
He smiled. "What changed?"
"I don't really know," you replied softly, contemplatively. "I picked up my first magazine as a teenager and was just... sold. I imagined all the amazing things I'd get to write, places I'd go, people I'd get to meet." You looked up at him. "One day I might go back to it; try my hand at writing a play. But I'd like to at least conquer this career before moving onto the next one."
He chuckled, smoke escaping through his nostrils.
"What's it like," you said softly. "To have... made it?"
He paused for a moment. "Surreal... Terrifying... Validating... Confusing… Not only do I love what I do, but there are people out there who actually think I'm good at it too. I still pinch myself."
You smiled.
"I just sometimes wish I could switch off the fame, for maybe an hour or two here and there," he added.
"Wait, you're famous!?" you gasped, pretending to be shocked.
"Piss off," he laughed. You grinned and leaned back against the doorframe, mirroring his position and looking up at the night sky.
"Feels like you've switched off the fame right now," you said.
"Maybe that's why I like coming here so much."
"To my flat?"
"Mhm."
You paused. "No other reason you might like coming here...?"
He smirked and looked down at you, but he didn't speak. Neither of you spoke. Instead you both stood there in silence, eyes locked, smiles melting into much more serious expressions.
You broke eye contact first, clearing your throat and walking back through the living room. "Can you er, can you have a drink or are you driving?"
He dropped his head and breathed out a laugh. "Was that your very subtle way of telling me I'm not welcome to spend the night?"
"No!" you answered quickly. "No you… Of course you can stay. I just didn't think you'd want to. Y'know, with it being Christmas and all, I just thought you'd have better ways you'd want to spend it than here with me."
He didn't respond, mostly because you didn't give him a chance as you walked off into the kitchen with a laugh and a casual shrug.
The bottle of rum was still on the side where you'd left it, your phone still lying screen down on the counter. You took two glasses out of the cupboard and bent down to get ice from the freezer when you suddenly felt Ben come up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and you smiled to yourself as you stood up straight, expecting him to press his body against your back, kiss your neck, tease you until you were ready for him to have you again. But he didn't. Instead he turned you around to face him, taking the glasses out of your hands and putting them down on the counter.
You stared up at him as he took your face in his hands, pulling you into the deepest, most tender and heartfelt kiss you'd ever shared. It created a yearning in your chest, made you not want to undress him, but instead bring your arms up to wrap around his neck, to keep him close.
"Quinn," he mumbled against your lips.
"Mhm?" you hummed back.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked as you continued to kiss him.
“Mhm.”
He broke away, resting his forehead against yours. "There's nowhere else I've wanted to be all day besides here with you." He swallowed gently, like he was collecting himself. "Honestly, there's nowhere else I ever want to be."
You gazed up into his eyes as he remained forehead to forehead with you, his hands stroking through you hair.
"This... This is more than 'just sex' for me." He paused. "It's more than that."
You stayed quiet, barely able to breathe.
"I know that's not what you wanted, and I thought I could handle it. But-" he sighed. "I can't pretend it doesn't kill me a little bit every time I wake up in my bed to find you've already left, or when your parents turn up unexpectedly and instead of being introduced, I get shoved behind a bedroom door-"
"Ben..."
"Or when you say my name like that, and I know it's going to be followed up with a list of reasons why we're too different to work."
You sighed.
He leaned in, capturing you in another kiss. It was intense, slow, so full of emotion you could feel yourself slipping, falling for him.
"Ben," you whispered against his lips.
But he continued to kiss you, and in that moment you knew it would be so easy to lose yourself in him completely.
"Ben," you whispered again, this time forcing yourself to pull back slightly, foreheads touching again, noses grazing each other. You looked up at him, feeling your eyes beginning to water, a lump forming in your throat. You knew it might actually kill you to let the next six words leave you, but something made you say them anyway.
"I think you need to go..." Your voice was soft, wavering, barely audible.
He stared down at you, like he wasn't surprised, but it didn't hurt any less to hear you say it. He paused for a moment, as if he were going to resist you, fight you, but then he closed his eyes, letting out a quiet breath.
"Okay."
You reached up and cupped his cheek.
"Okay," he whispered again, taking your hand and moving it away from his face.
You stood there, frozen, as you watched him walk out of the kitchen, your hand instinctively coming up to your mouth, fingers pressing to your lips. You could still taste his kiss, feel his fingerprints on your skin, but the warmth of him was gone and you could hardly bear it.
What had you done?
Chapter 16: XVI
Chapter Text
"Are you fucking stupid!?" Nick's voice echoed through the cafeteria.
You huffed and dropped your gaze to the coffee in your hands, trying to ignore the sea of eyes turning in your direction from other tables.
It had been two days since Christmas, two days since the night you'd stood there and listened as Ben walked out of your flat, two days since you'd heard from him, two agonising days. You couldn't be alone in your flat anymore; everything reminded you of the last time you were with him, from the way the kitchen tiles felt on your bare feet, to how the bedsheets brushed against your skin while you tried to sleep. So you'd decided to spend as little time there as possible, taking your work to the Draft office, eating in the Draft cafeteria, and reluctantly telling everything to your favourite Draft colleague.
You let out a sigh. "Don't start with all that shit."
"Oh come on! It wasn't like he was proposing!" he continued, before lowering his voice to a hiss. "He wasn't even asking you to be his girlfriend for fuck sake. He just wanted you to know that he cares about you. Maybe he was looking for some reassurance that you care about him too."
You swirled your cup and took a sip. "Mm, they really do make good coffee down here."
"Quinn," he said, unamused. "You do care about him, don't you?"
You rolled your eyes. "Of course I fucking do."
"Then ugh! Why did you do that!?"
"Because I freaked out, Nick!"
"But why?"
"Because I was... I was losing control, I- I was going... soft-"
"So?"
"So... So I can't go soft. I can't. I don't know how."
"What do you mean you don't know how?"
You struggled for a moment to find the right words, inhaling deeply through your nose in frustration before blowing it out in a sharp breath. "I lost my virginity when I was fifteen," you said bluntly. "To a boy I didn't even know. And you know why? Because I wanted people to stop teasing me for being frigid and let me sit with them at lunch. That's it. My first time was on a bathroom sink at a house party with a boy who spent a whole minute fumbling with a condom, only to come within ten seconds of putting it in me. All because I wanted to climb the social hierarchy."
He listened to you in silence, eyes narrowed slightly, as if he couldn't quite understand why you were telling him this.
"Oh and did I ever tell you about the time I fucked my uni tutor?" you continued with a laugh, a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "In his office, middle of the afternoon, teachers and students walking up and down the corridor right outside. All because I needed a better mark on an essay." You paused. "He gave me it. Changed the grade on my final assignment before I'd even put my knickers back on."
Nick shook his head, sighing like he was about speak. But you kept going.
"And that very same night, actually, I went drinking at the student union bar and slept with someone else, just to take my mind off how guilty I felt for cheating my way to graduation." You laughed again, a louder more genuine laugh, like speaking it aloud had made you realise just how awful it all was. "I mean, fucking hell, just last month I came onto Dan Swain of all people. Promised him sex in exchange for the interview with Ben."
His mouth fell open.
"It's- I just- Sex, affection, it's all been nothing more than a transaction for me; it opens doors, it gets people what they want. That's all I've ever known, and I've been fine with that." You cleared your throat, blinking up at the ceiling a few times to stop your eyes turning glossy. "But now, along comes this man, and he's handsome and successful and charming and secure in himself and... way too fucking good for me, and yes we're having the most unbelievable sex." You paused, contemplatively. "Yet I'm somehow finding myself enjoying the parts in between the sex just as much. Like the laughing and the bickering and the talking and how even just a whiff of his aftershave on my clothes makes me hurt because I miss him so much when he's not with me."
"Quinn..." he said softly.
"That's never happened to me before, and I can't let it happen now. I can't let myself do that, Nick, because I don't know how."
He paused, thinking for a moment before folding his arms and resting them on the table in front of him. "Sometimes it's not about knowing how, it's about instinct. Maybe there's a reason you've never truly connected with anyone before. Maybe you've finally met your match and it's time to just… see where it leads you."
"And that match just so happens to be some mega famous movie star?" You scoffed. "This isn't a fairytale, Nick, it's real life-"
"And he's a real person. With real feelings that you stomped all over for no good reason."
You paused, taking in a long, slow breath and another sip of coffee. "I don't know, maybe I'm damaged or something."
"Damaged? By what exactly?" he laughed. "Your parents loving you and each other? The totally normal childhood? The never being cheated on or broken up with? The being smart and attractive? You're not damaged, Quinn, you're just a fucking nightmare."
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "Ben calls me a hurricane," you said softly.
"Oh my god, if you don't call him, I will."
~*~
Outgoing Ben (1) 27/12/21
You didn't tell Nick that you'd gone straight into the women's toilets after lunch; that you'd tried to call Ben from inside a bathroom stall but he never picked up.
When you got home that night, you lay down on your bed. You were still in your clothes, shoes still on your feet, like the effort of removing them was just too taxing. You lay on your side next to your phone, watching the black screen, waiting for it to light up with his name. You had no idea what you would say if he called, though 'sorry' seemed like a given. But after that, after the apology and the mandatory 'how are you's, you had no idea what would come out of your mouth.
You thought about it until you eventually drifted off to sleep, the phone never ringing, your clothes never coming off.
Outgoing Ben (2) 28/12/21
"Hi, it's me. Well, obviously you know it's me. I just erm- I was calling to... Y'know, I don't actually know why I was calling so it's probably a good thing you didn't answer. Anyway, bye."
You put the phone down on your desk, grimacing to yourself as you realised how awkward that sounded. You glanced to the desk beside you where another writer, Anna, was glancing at you from the corner of her eye as she pretended to work.
"Did that sound bad?" you asked.
She shrugged.
"I know you heard me, so just tell me." You swivelled in your chair to face her. "It sounded like I didn't actually want to talk to him, didn't it."
She bit her lip and turned towards you in her own chair. "It might've sounded a bit disinterested. But hey, you talk to everyone like that so..."
You closed your eyes and sighed, letting your head fall back in your chair.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Boyfriend?"
"No, he's a... He's just someone I was seeing for a little while."
She didn't pry any further, and you found it somewhat cool of her. Anna was one of Draft's best interviewers; able to pull answers from people about the most private, sensitive topics like she'd put them under some kind of spell. She could have pressed you for more information, probably would have got Ben's name out of you within five minutes of talking. But she didn't. Instead she made a point of slipping on her headphones and returning to her work.
You watched her for a moment, how she went straight back to typing like she hadn't even taken a pause, how she bobbed her head to the music playing in her ears, her bouncing leg making the miniature Christmas tree jingle on her desk. You smiled to yourself as you turned away, staring down at your phone before giving in and picking it back up.
"Hi, me again. Sorry, I just need to clarify: I didn't mean it was a good thing you didn't answer because I don't want to hear from you. I do. I want to hear from you. Anyway, what I meant was it was a good thing you didn't answer because I hadn't thought about what I was going to say. That's all. Okay, bye."
Outgoing Ben (1) 29/12/21
You'd told him to leave, and that's exactly what he did. But you hadn't thought about what would happen if he stayed gone. Perhaps there was a part of you that never expected him to; that thought he would give you some space for a few days before turning up at your door, hood up, eyes dark, and you would pick up right where you left off.
But he hadn't. And when you called him once again as you sat inside your car, only to hear his voicemail through the speakers, you finally realised he wasn't giving you space.
You had told him to leave, so he went.
Outgoing Ben (2) 30/12/21
"But I told him to leave," you said as you walked down the alcohol aisle of the supermarket. "He confessed feelings for me. So why is he finding it so easy to ignore me? I mean, surely if you care about someone, you don't just walk away and never look back or speak to them again or... or answer their fucking calls."
"Aw, is someone getting a taste of their own medicine?" Nick replied, pouting his bottom lip as he put another bottle in his basket.
You stopped walking, spinning around and bringing your face close to his. "Listen. You and your girlfriend are the only people who know about this, meaning you and your girlfriend are the only people I can talk to about this, and since your girlfriend isn't here, I'm stuck with you. The least you can do is humour me."
"I was just joking," he said with a laugh, his expression calming when saw the worry in your face. "You hurt him, Quinn. Was it enough for him to never want to speak to you again? I don't know. If I poured my heart out to someone and they told me to leave, I'm not sure I'd ever go back."
You closed your eyes. "That's really not what I wanted to hear."
"Well, what do you want from him?" he asked, adding another bottle to his basket. "If he called you right now, what would you say?"
"I don't know. That I'm sorry."
"No, I meant what would you say to him about your relationship; do you feel the same? Do you want to be with him?"
"I don't know, Nick. That's why I've been calling and not texting him. Because I don't know what I want to say yet, I've just sort of been hoping that once I hear his voice the words will just... come."
He paused, letting out a sympathetic sigh. "How many times have you tried today?"
"Twice."
"No answer?"
"No answer."
Outgoing Ben (5) 31/12/21
You didn't want to go. There was nowhere you wanted to go less than a New Year's Eve party with people you barely knew and barely even liked. Yet somehow you found yourself standing in your bathroom mirror, wearing a short sparkly dress and putting on makeup.
"So my friend's dragging me to this party tonight," you said to Ben's voicemail, your phone propped on the edge of the sink. "I really don't want to go, but I'm dressed now and he's promised to bring enough booze for both of us, so..."
It was the third time you'd called that day, and you feared after a few glasses of something strong, it wouldn't be the last. You were beginning to feel like a stalker, worrying with every call you made that you would one day find your number blocked or receive some sort of cease and desist in the post.
"Anyway, please call me back. Bye."
You arrived at a house in Soho, walking up the garden path with Nick and Lacey like their grumpy, sparkling third wheel. The host worked in Draft's HR department, her name was Andi and you could tell she'd been involved in the Dan situation from the way she looked at you when she opened the door.
You made your way straight into the kitchen with Nick's bottles, pouring yourself a drink and gulping it all down in one before immediately pouring another.
"Knocking 'em back there, aren't you," said a man leaning against a counter nearby.
"Well it looks like I'm a few drinks behind everyone else here, just trying to catch up," you replied, pressing your mouth into an almost straight smile.
He nodded with a laugh, raising his cup to you. You raised yours in response as you wandered back out the kitchen and down the hall, immediately locking yourself in the downstairs toilet and leaning back against the door.
You slid your phone out of your bag to find no calls or texts. You'd come to expect it now, yet it still made you frown, letting out a defeated breath as you dialled his number again. You listened as it rang out, but as soon as the voicemail message began to play, you hung up.
There was a full-length mirror on the wall beside you. You turned to look at yourself, fixing your hair and sweeping away a small smudge of lipstick in the corner of your mouth. Ben would love this dress, you thought, picturing how he'd look at you in it, how he'd place a hand on your exposed back, whisper promises to take it off you the second he got you home.
Then a knock at the door made you startle, reminding you of where you were, of who wasn't there with you. You drank down your entire cup before slipping back out into the busy party, finding your friends and convincing them to do shots with you.
By 11pm, you'd drank enough to make your cheeks feel warm, to turn around and have to wait a moment for the room to follow you. You were standing in the kitchen, watching as Nick and Lacey giggled, sharing drunken kisses on the other side of the room. It was sweet, lovely, but you just found yourself getting angry. Angry that your friends would be having sex tonight and you wouldn't, that they'd be bringing in the New Year together, happy, in love.
"I didn't catch your name earlier."
You looked up to see the same guy you'd spoken to when you first arrived. He was standing beside you, bottle of beer in hand.
"Oh, it's Quinn," you replied distractedly.
"Quinn. That's pretty. So how do you know Andi?"
You shoved your hand into your bag and wrapped your fingers around your phone, storming off through the house and back into the downstairs toilet.
"If this is what you want," you began to Ben's voicemail, slurring slightly as you chided him. "To drive me mad, to punish me for hurting you, then congratulations, Benedict, you've fucking excelled."
You sat down on the closed toilet seat, letting your head fall into your hand.
"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" you continued. "I don't know how many times I can tell you that. I handled it terribly and I'm fucking sorry. But the silent treatment? Really? If you're honestly done then at least have the decency to fucking tell me."
You stood up and made your way to the door.
"I'm off now anyway. I'm drunk and I feel like making some bad decisions so bye."
You stepped out of the toilet, stumbling slightly as you wandered down the hall, stopping halfway when kitchen guy appeared in front of you. He spoke as he smiled down at you, but the noise of the party drowned him out.
"What?" you asked, resting back against the wall.
"I said I wondered where you'd ran off to," he repeated, resting a hand on the wall near your head and leaning his body towards you, his gaze trailing down to your chest.
You stared up at him for a moment, eyes struggling to focus, swaying slightly on your feet. He reminded you a little bit of Dan; neat hair and perfect teeth, the way he took up so much space, almost caging you in against the wall as he attempted to flirt with you. It should have scared you, made you walk away in disgust, but you were angry and drunk and suddenly very stupidly horny.
"Fuck it," you said. "Come on."
You took him by the hand and practically dragged him through the house, finding a dark, unoccupied bedroom upstairs. You closed the door behind you and pushed him to sit down on the edge of the bed.
"So you didn't tell me how you knew Andi," he said. "Work?"
"Are you going to take your pants off or what?"
"Sorry, just trying to make small talk," he mumbled, lifting his hips off the bed to pull down his trousers.
You straddled his lap, taking his face in your hands and pulling him into an impatient kiss. But within seconds, you felt a pit forming in your stomach.
His lips felt wrong as they moved against yours, and his hands sat awkwardly on your waist; no pressure from his fingers, no tension in his touch. You ground down against him but it didn't sound right when he moaned into your mouth, didn't feel good when he rocked his hips or pulled you closer.
It was clear to you in that moment that Ben had truly spoiled you. Ruined you. Stolen your ability to find cheap satisfaction in mediocre men ever again.
And you hated him for it.
You sighed and broke away, leaning back slightly and shaking your head. "I can't," you whispered, clearing your throat. "I er, I... I can't do this. Sorry."
"Y-you... what?" he asked in complete bewilderment. "Did I do something?"
"No I just," you paused, climbing off his lap and tugging your dress back into place. "I just changed my mind."
"Alright..."
"Sorry." You turned and made your way to the door, pulling it open and letting the sound of the party pour in.
"Hope things work out with him, whoever he is," he called to you from the bed.
You looked over your shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion.
"It's obvious." He shrugged.
Outgoing Ben (1) 01/01/22
"Happy New Year!" everyone shouted in unison.
It was midnight, the freezing cold air clinging to your flushed skin as you sat on the doorstep, watching as party guests filed into the front garden and out onto the street. They hugged and cheered, some kissing, others singing drunkenly in the middle of the road as the sky began to burst with fireworks.
You tipped your head back, looking up at the night sky illuminated with glitter, the smell of smoke and the sound of distant cheering; as if the entire world was celebrating, and you could hear them all.
You took out your phone, unsurprised when he didn't pick up. "Happy New Year," you said softly, pausing as another set of fireworks filled the air above you. "I miss you."
~*~
January had always been your least favourite month. It was bleak, boring and somehow 84 days long.
You were three days in, and it had already proven itself to be as depressing as ever. Partly because you'd already failed your New Year's resolution of not making sarcastic comments to people at work, but mostly because Ben still wasn't returning any of your calls.
You stayed late at the office putting together a draft of an article you'd been working on, getting so carried away that you only realised you had to leave when the cleaning crew began vacuuming around you. It was dark and bitterly cold when you left, a layer of frost beginning to coat the windshield of your car.
You sat behind the wheel, listening to the radio and blowing hot air into your hands as you waited for the frost to clear, the urge to take out your phone and make another call so strong it almost made you angry. You couldn't keep doing this; couldn't go on making small talk with an answering machine, feeling like he hated you, like he was listening to your pleas and deleting them without a second thought.
Before you knew it, you found yourself driving towards his house, biting your bottom lip until it bled, gripping the steering wheel so tight you could barely feel your fingers. You pulled up against the kerb across the street, climbing out of your car and marching across the road to his house. You were too fuelled by adrenalin to think about what you were going to say, too worked up, too desperate to consider anything beyond each step you took up the garden path.
You curled your fist, hesitating for a moment before finally knocking on the front door.
"Ben?" you called. "Ben, it's me. Can you please just come to the door. Please."
You waited, but nothing happened.
"I swear I'm not drunk." You forced a laugh. "And I'm not here to argue. I just... I really need to talk to you, and I know I don't deserve your time but if you could please just come to the door."
You bent down, pushing his letterbox open with your finger and speaking into it.
"Ben? Hello? Oh god, please tell me you're here and I'm not shouting into an empty house."
It became clear after a while that you were, in fact, shouting into an empty house. You covered your face with your hands and let out a frustrated groan, lowering yourself to the ground and sitting in a defeated heap on his doorstep. It was as if he'd made himself untouchable, unreachable. Like you'd told him to leave and he'd somehow found a way to disappear completely.
You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there, but you knew it had been a while because you'd started to shiver. You brought your knees up to your chest and rested your back against the front door, staring up at the dark sky that seemed so empty and calm without fireworks scattering across it.
"I didn't want you to go," you said quietly, the words coming out of you before you'd even realised they were making their way up your throat. "When I told you to go, I didn't actually want you to. I was just scared."
You turned your head slightly, speaking to the front door as if it were Ben himself.
"I had a choice that night. Either speak my feelings out loud, put them out there where they can't be taken back and risk hurting myself, or don't say anything and risk hurting you. I chose to hurt you. I chose hurting you over hurting myself. Because I'm a fucking bitch. I'm a bitch. I'm a cynical, self-preserving, cowardly bitch."
Your voice cracked, your eyes watering. This was pathetic. You had spent all week talking to his voicemail, and now you were opining to a front door. But maybe it was easier when no one was listening, maybe that's why you kept going, the words spilling out of you like they'd been dying to escape.
"You were right, that night at dinner, when you said I need to feel like I have the power." You paused. "I do. And you do make me feel powerless. Because for some reason, it is so easy for me to just get... lost in you. That's never happened to me before, and I don't know what the fuck to do about it, because if I'm not the one with the power, if I'm not the one in control, then what am I besides just... lost?"
You wiped a tear that found its way onto your cheek.
"That's it. It's not that I don't feel the same. It's not that it doesn't make me physically ache when you go away, or that I don't sleep better when I'm next to you, because I do. It's the fact that as soon as I say that out loud, as soon as I put that out into the universe, any power I had in this situation is gone."
You turned slightly, resting your head on the door and wiping your face again.
"When I say I'm scared of getting hurt, I don't mean I'm scared of you hurting me. I'm not scared of opening up and 'letting you in'. I'm scared of being let in. I'm terrified of you letting me in, letting me get so far, so deep and invested in you, only for you to realise that I'm not what you want, that I can't give you what you want, that I'm bad for you." You coughed past the lump forming in your throat. "I mean, you call me your hurricane. You say I'm a storm. And you're right, I am. But those things... they're not exactly good to have around, they can be catastrophic, and I care about you too much to pretend I'm not those things. You wasted two years of your life, Ben. I can't be the reason you waste even more time."
You fell silent, thinking, sniffling.
"And yet here I am," you laughed softly. "Pestering you, begging you to talk to me instead of just leaving you the fuck alone." You paused. "Because I miss you, and I'm sorry, and I didn't really want you to go. I just really need you to know I didn't want you to go."
You closed your eyes, crying quietly to yourself as you hugged your knees to your chest to shield yourself from the cold. Was this it? Had you actually, finally gone mad? Crossed the line into stalker territory?
You felt a buzz against your backside, reaching down and pulling out your phone, wiping your eyes as you looked down at the screen.
Incoming Ben 21:02
You waited a moment, trying to comprehend what you were seeing, as if you didn't quite believe it was real.
"Hello?" you answered quietly.
"Why are you sitting in my porch?"
Your back straightened, ears pricking as your eyes began to dart around, eventually trailing up to the blinking security camera above the door.
Shit.
"Because you're not answering the door," you said plainly.
"Well it would be quite difficult for me to do that seeing as I'm currently in New York."
"Oh?"
"With Faye…"
"Oh."
Your heart sank. The thought of him being with her - a woman who clearly felt for him, who you knew he was capable of holding, kissing, making love to - made you feel sick.
"Is that why you haven't been answering my calls?"
"I needed some time away from my phone," he replied. "We both did. I thought you would too."
"Oh I see. Well I'm sorry for being a nuisance. I'll leave you alone, let you get back to your phone-less retreat-”
"Listen, I’m back in the UK later this month. I think we should probably meet - talk."
"Yeah," you said, your voice a defeated whisper. "Yeah, okay."
You sucked in a deep breath and clambered to your feet, looking up at the camera one last time before beginning to walk away from the house. At least he was going to let you down in person, you thought. You let him down, now he was going to return the favour.
"Quinn?"
"Mhm."
"I miss you too."
You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Y-you…"
"The camera picks up sound."
You turned around and looked up at it again, letting out a shaking breath at the realisation that he'd heard it all. Every last part of it.
"Happy New Year, Quinn."
Chapter 17: XVII
Notes:
TW: Panic attack & Flashbacks.
A/N 1: If you have not yet seen The Power of the Dog, please be aware this chapter contains a spoiler.
A/N 2: The excerpt from Quinn's article at the beginning of this chapter is a blend of quotes from 'Something That Needs Nothing', a short story by Miranda July who is one of my favourite writers of all time.
Chapter Text
The world wasn't safer than I had thought; on the contrary, it was so dangerous that my practically naked self fit right in, like a car crash, it happened every day. Still, I had been waiting for this moment, and I marvelled at how organically it had arisen. I usually imagined poisoning myself or getting hit by a car. Someone official, a policeman or a nurse, would ask if there was anyone I wanted them to call. I would gasp his name-
"Lunch."
You stopped typing and pinched the bridge of your nose between finger and thumb, taking in a deep inhale.
"No thanks," you replied.
"It wasn't a question. Come on."
You glared up from your computer screen to see Nick standing beside you, a hand resting on the back of your chair as he waited. Your fingertips were settled on the keyboard, as if the words were stuck in them, biding their time until they could be set free.
"I don't want to eat," you said. "I just want to write. If I'm going to put this forward for an op-ed at the next meeting then I need to get it done."
You had done nothing but write for sixteen days straight, as if words had become your food, your sleep, your sex, your conversation. You refused to admit to yourself that this newfound motivation had come from missing Ben. Instead you would tell yourself you were simply inspired, keen to breathe life into your thoughts, craft something beautiful from a topic others may find unsavoury.
"Quinn, I could hear your stomach rumbling from across the bullpen," said Nick, reaching down and pressing 'save' on your piece, before switching off the computer screen. "Lunch."
You huffed. "I need to make some new friends. You're starting to get on my nerves."
"You? Make new friends?" He laughed. "I'd pay to see you try."
You got up and slung your bag onto your shoulder, hooking your coat over your arm as you reluctantly followed him to the lift.
"So where are we going?" you asked as the doors slid open on the ground floor.
"I was thinking that new bistro down the street," he replied as you walked out of the building together. "I took my mum a few weeks ago and they do this amazing girasoli with like pine nuts and shit, it's so good."
"Pine nuts and shit does sound good," you replied sarcastically.
The January cold made you suck the air in through your teeth, your entire body tensing as you quickly threw on your coat and hugged it tight around you. The streets were packed with people, dense crowds weaving in both directions, faces buried in phones, shoulders grazing as they passed one another. Nick was walking faster than you, making you huff and quicken your pace to keep up.
"Do you ever just want to tell the world?" he asked.
"What?"
"Like when you're walking down the street like this, do you ever feel the urge to scream out loud 'I'm dating a world famous celeb'?"
"I'm not dating him," you replied. "In fact, I might not be anything to him when he gets back."
"I thought he told you he missed you?"
"He did. But... you can miss something and still not want it back, can't you. I mean, I miss the Doc Martens I used to wear when I was in uni, even though they tore the shit out of my feet and I'd rather go barefoot than ever wear them again. I still miss them."
"Did you just compare yourself to a pair of old boots?"
"I've been writing nonstop, alright? Forgive me for being short on metaphors."
You crossed the road, moving within a large crowd of people, like two fish being swept along a strong current.
"You didn't answer my question," said Nick. "Do you ever just feel the urge to tell people?"
"Of course I do. Actually I did tell someone once; some random girl in a coffee shop. I don't think she believed me though."
He turned a corner onto another street and stopped at the first door, stepping into a restaurant you hadn't even noticed was there until now. Inside was small, all white tiles, wood grain and leafy plants, chalkboard menus on the walls and oversized lightbulbs with visible filaments. There were people in suits talking business over their food, influencers taking pictures of their plates before digging in.
You were seated near the window, thanking the waitress for placing a jug of water on the table between you. It was only when you filled your glass that you realised your hands were shaking, hunger finally catching up with you.
"So I read your Kiera Knightly interview," you said.
"Oh yeah? What did you think?"
"Mhm, it was good. I almost felt bad for overshadowing it with mine."
He chuckled as he took a sip of water, holding his middle finger up at you.
You smiled. "How's your divine timing piece coming?"
"Ugh, I don't think it is anymore. I've been fighting with Julia over it for weeks but she's not budging."
You shook your head in disappointment. "You should just go over her head. Keep writing it and take it to Ellen Ford when it's finished."
"No 'cause what if Ellen Ford tells me it's shit too?"
He continued speaking but you zoned out as the smell of a chokingly strong cologne drifted past you. It was familiar, unsettling, like you'd breathed it in and now it was clogging up your lungs. You turned your head slightly, looking out the corner of your eye to the table behind you, struggling to see who was sitting at it when a sudden, bellowing laugh made it all too clear.
"Oh fuck that's Dan Swain," Nick whispered.
You snapped your head forward, eyes plummeting to the table as you felt your heart beginning to race, limbs turning heavy and numb as you fought to keep your breathing steady. The man sitting behind you wasn't just your old boss with the obnoxious laugh, the guy who would call unnecessary meetings, who would get people's names wrong unless he found them attractive. He was the man who had cornered you in his hallway, who left unwanted kisses on your neck, bruises on your arm. He was the man who Ben got fired for you, who you hoped you would never have to see again.
"Quinn, what's wrong?"
Your eyes flitted up to Nick, and you watched as his face immediately changed; confusion morphing into concern within the time it took you to take two painful, shallow breaths.
Tell me why you deserve it. Tell me what you've ever done in your life to deserve something besides opening your fucking legs for it.
You shook your head. "Can we go somewhere else please?"
He glanced over at Dan, then back to you. "Are you okay?"
Is that why you came here? Thought you could come and spread them for me, make this all go away? Well come on then, let's see how far it gets you.
"I can't- I need..." You pointed outside and stood up immediately, walking out of the restaurant without looking back.
You kept walking, your feet carrying you further down the street until you finally stopped near the entrance of another building, bending down and resting on your haunches as you tried desperately to catch your breath, to swallow down the feeling of his hand beneath your top, his lips against your neck.
"Hey! What happened, are you alright?"
You could hear Nick's voice, but it was muffled and distant, like he was underwater. You forced yourself to look up at him, the sight of your coat and bag in his hand making the cold suddenly hit you.
You stood up and took your things from him, quickly wiping away a tear. "I never wanted to come for fucking lunch," you spat.
He didn't know what Dan did to you. Of course he had a hunch, but you'd never confirmed it and he never actually asked. You knew it wasn't his fault; of all the places in London, how could he possibly have known? But it didn't stop the anger, didn't make your chest feel less tight or the memories go away.
He shook his head, eyes wide with bewilderment. "I'm sorry, I didn't..." He paused. "Quinn, what did he d-"
"Can we go, please?" you interrupted. "Literally anywhere else."
He nodded, shortening his strides to stop himself from walking too fast.
~*~
Ben: Hi. Are you free to meet tomorrow night?
Quinn: Hi, yeah I'm free.
Ben: It would be late, probably after 11?
Quinn: That's fine.
Ben: Ok. I'll text when I'm on my way.
Since the night on the doorstep, you had only spoken a handful of times. Always over text, always brief and indifferent, like he was saving everything for when he returned, sparing no words in the meantime. It was strange, having the man you had been so intimate with speak so impersonally to you. It almost made you feel worse than when he was ignoring your calls.
Quinn: I saw my old boss yesterday. Had a bit of a meltdown, wasn't very nice to my friend about the whole thing.
Quinn: Spent the rest of the day wishing you were here. Because I feel safe when I'm with you.
Quinn: Is that weird?
Quinn: To feel safe with someone? I know people say it all the time but I always thought it was just a figure of speech. But I actually do feel safer when I'm with you.
It felt like he'd been slipping through your fingers, and you feared you had made him jaded.
Ben: It's not weird. I'm glad I make you feel that way. See you tomorrow.
Always brief, always indifferent.
~*~
You stood on the pavement outside your flat building, hands stuffed in the pockets of your coat as you shifted your weight from side to side, the inside of your bottom lip tender and pulpy from your anxious biting. Above was a dark, starless sky, the street cold and still. You tilted your head back and let out a heavy breath, watching it leave your lips in a thick fog into the air above you.
You were nervous. So nervous that your insides hurt, every deep inhale providing only a second of relief before you had to let it out again, making way for the ache to return. You wondered if he was just as nervous to see you, if his was a feeling of dread or excitement, if he would smile when you came face-to-face or if he would struggle to even look at you.
A set of headlights caught your attention further down the road and you watched as a sleek black Jaguar quickly came into view, the engine purring as it rolled to a stop right in front of you. You stood there for a moment, looking down at the glossy paint job, fancy alloys and tinted windows, wondering how much he paid for a car like this, if it was more or less than the watch sitting on your nightstand.
You made your way around to the passenger side and climbed in, closing the door and putting on your seatbelt before finally looking over at him. He was sat back in his seat, elbow propped on the edge of the window as he straightened the pair of horn-rimmed glasses that adorned his face. The other arm was resting in his lap, his fingers tapping the bottom of the steering wheel, like he was drumming along with a song in his head.
"Hi," you said.
He stopped tapping and turned to look at you. "Hi," he replied with a slight smile.
You smiled back, taking a second to observe what he was wearing; a dark green corduroy shirt over a white t-shirt and jeans. Casual. Comfortable. It made you wonder where you were going.
"Are you cold?" he asked, turning on the heating before you could even reply.
"Yeah, thanks," you said with a slight laugh.
He pulled the car away from the kerb, taking off smoothly down the road. You watched his hands as they manoeuvred the steering wheel, his neck as he leaned forward to glance in the rearview mirror. God, you'd missed him. So much so that even watching him drive was somehow turning you on. But there was an atmosphere between you, like you'd forgotten how to talk to each other, the silences no longer comfortable but heavy and awkward.
You'd been driving for a while, and you'd gathered by now he was taking you to his house. You wondered for a moment why he hadn't just visited you in your flat, though it was probably for the same reason you still found it difficult to be there.
You cleared your throat and turned to face him. "Congratulations on your SAG nomination, by the way."
"Oh, thanks," he replied with a smile.
"Very well deserved."
A laugh escaped his nose. "You say that like you watched the film."
"I did watch it."
"Really...?" he asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes! The Very Powerful Dog or whatever."
He laughed again, louder this time, covering his mouth with his hand as he tried to compose himself. "The Power of the Dog," he finally corrected you.
"That's it."
He was still chuckling. The sound was infectious, making a smile grow across your face, a small giggle shaking your shoulders. It was as if, for a moment, nothing had changed.
"Why don't you believe I watched it?" you asked.
"Because it came out a month ago and you had no interest in watching it then, so why would you now? You didn't even see the new Spiderman when that came out-"
"Because I thought it might be weird." You shrugged. "Y'know, sleeping with you and then... watching you."
"Yeah, on a screen, Quinn, not through a set of binoculars."
You rolled your eyes, turning to look out of the passenger window as the car fell silent again, travelling smoothly down the long, empty road as Ben picked up speed.
"I watched the fucking cowboy film, alright?" you finally said, snapping your head back towards him, like his disbelief was killing you.
"When?" he replied dubiously, eyes still on the road.
"I don't know, some time last week."
"What was my character's name?"
"Phil," you said confidently.
"What was your favourite scene?"
"The one where you died."
He rolled his eyes and glanced across to you, a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth.
"Oh my god," you said with a frustrated laugh. "Can you just please believe that I watched it? Because I did, I watched it. It was great and you were fantastic, okay?"
"Thank you," he conceded, pausing for a moment before speaking again. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you watch it?"
You both knew the answer. But still, it seemed almost pathetic to admit to it out loud. You'd watched it because you missed him, because you wanted to see his face, hear his voice. Because when you met him, he'd looked a lot like he did in that movie; the dark facial hair, the tanned complexion and broader frame.
"It kept popping up whenever I signed into Netflix, so I finally gave in," you said.
He nodded, his gentle smile illuminated by the flickers of passing lampposts.
It was clear he was going to let you have this one. That he wasn't going to press you for the real reason, make you finally give in and admit to what you both already knew. You were thankful for it.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, catching you off guard. "For disappearing. It was never my intention to give you the silent treatment, I just..."
Oh god, this was it, you were finally talking about it.
"I was confused about what happened, then I was angry, then I was sad, and I didn't know what to do," he continued. "Then I got these emails through from Faye and I decided to just bite the bullet and go and talk to her like you'd been telling me to."
"I get it," you replied. "You don't really owe me an explanation-"
"No but it was a shitty thing to do. Instead of sticking around and talking about it, I left the country to see my ex wife of all people."
Your mind suddenly flooded with the image of his fingers wrapped in Faye's long blonde hair, her nails dragging down his back.
"How was it?" you asked, closing your eyes and shaking it away. "New York."
"Interesting," he replied with a sigh. "I was only there for about five days, then I flew straight to LA for work."
You nodded, pretending to acknowledge what he was saying. But the thought of them naked, together, bodies connecting in a tangle of sheets, was too loud to hear a word.
He glanced across to you, pressing his mouth into a straight line before moving his focus back to the road. "Just ask."
You inhaled deeply through your nose, chewing the inside of your lip as you plucked up the courage to speak. "Did you sleep with her?"
"No," he answered quickly.
You felt the muscles in your back begin to soften, the thoughts slowly fading.
"But you were right," he finished.
You looked at him cautiously from the corner of your eye.
"She loves me. She is in love with me." He said it like he almost couldn't believe it himself. "She said she went into the marriage with the sole intention of it being a PR move, but somewhere down the line..." He shrugged, unable to find the words. "I honestly had no idea. But she- she seemed to think it was obvious."
"I told you," you said softly.
"She'd even started to think the feelings might have been mutual. Which is why when I asked for the divorce, she said she felt blindsided. And when she walked in on us that morning... Well you were right. When you said she seemed heartbroken, you were right."
"What did you say to her?"
"Everything. Nothing. We went around in so many circles. But I know I apologised." He blew out an exhale, like even the memory was exhausting. "We talked for five days straight, barely left her apartment, just trying to figure out how we were supposed to move forward."
"Move forward?"
He paused. "She asked me to stay with her. To not go ahead with the divorce."
A breath caught in your throat, like a silent gasp. "Sh-she...?"
"She wanted us to give it a chance, to try and actually be together, properly. No contract, no hidden agenda."
"A-and what... I- well what- what did..."
"Honestly?" He looked straight at you. "I considered it."
"Oh."
"I'd be lying if I said it didn't makes sense; we're already married, we get along, we have the same aspirations, we're both ready to start a family. She's already comfortable in the public eye, attractive, successful. I mean, there's no reason why I couldn't grow to love her, have a good life together..."
"Well when you put it like that," you said, your voice almost a whisper as you turned to look out of the passenger window, recognising the road, Ben's house only moments away.
"I'm not telling you this to hurt you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm being honest, letting you know how easy it would be to just-"
"I know."
The car turned sharply onto the driveway and you listened as the tyres rolled over the gravel, followed by silence as he pulled the handbrake and switched off the engine.
"I turned her down."
You looked at him.
"Because I knew that if I were to do that," he continued. "If I chose a life with Faye, it would mean never having the chance of a life with anyone else..."
"Hm," you breathed. "Well I suppose it's nice to keep your options open."
He exhaled a laugh, just one, and smiled softly as he reached out to place a hand on your face, his thumb stroking your cheek.
"I really thought you hated me," you said quietly, letting your cheek rest in his palm. "I was so awful."
"Yeah. And we're going to go inside right now and we're going to talk about it."
You nodded, swallowing down the sudden lump of anxiety that had lodged itself in your throat.
He undid his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, making his way around to your door before you'd even figured out how to open it. He took your hand to help you climb out before handing you the key to the house.
"Go in, get out of the cold," he said.
You walked up to the front door, glancing up at the security camera as you let yourself inside. You almost felt compelled to thank it on your way in, as if it were a person, as if its ability to pick up sound was a choice it had made that night just for you.
The house was in darkness, cold and draughty after not being lived in for almost a month. You walked down the hallway, dragging your finger along the wall in search of the light switch when you heard him shuffling into the house behind you. You found the light and turned around, watching him kick the door closed behind him and dump a suitcase and a large bag on the floor.
"I could've helped you with those," you said.
"What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you do that?" he replied, only half-joking. "Jesus, it's freezing in here. Go sit down, I'll get the heating on."
He walked past you, gesturing for you to go into the living room as he disappeared into the kitchen. You slipped off your coat and hung it in the cupboard under the stairs, taking a few steps towards the living room before swiftly changing your mind.
Instead you wandered slowly into the kitchen, watching him as he leaned forward, messing around with the heating controls on the wall. He was swearing under his breath, pushing his glasses further up his nose with his index finger. It made you smile in adoration, made you miss him all over again despite him being right there in front of you.
He noticed you walking towards him from the corner of his eye and stood up straight. "I think my central heating's fucked-"
You took his face in your hands and pulled him into a kiss. A single, long, deep kiss. He felt tense at first, caught off guard, unsure of how to respond. But as you broke away to look up at him, you felt one of his hands on the back of your head, his lips returning to yours with an unmistakeable desire, like he simply couldn't resist you.
Your breaths were hot as they mingled in the air between you, hands beginning to roam impatiently, his body pressing yours against the wall. But as your fingers began to travel beneath his t-shirt, ghosting over the bare skin of his waist, you felt him pull back. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, breathless and confused, as he stopped kissing you.
"What's wrong?"
He sighed, dropping his head and rubbing his eyes. "I can't."
"Wh-"
"I said we needed to talk. Talk. Not..."
"Right. Okay. Sorry." You ran your fingers along your bottom lip, like you were wiping away the kiss, erasing it.
"I just don't think jumping right back in where we left off would do either of us any good right now," he said. "It's clear the whole time we were having sex that we were on very different pages about what it meant."
"But I wasn't on a different page. I told you I-"
"Technically you didn't tell me anything, you told my front door."
"Ben." You rolled your eyes. "I asked you to go that night because I was scared-"
"I know, and I understand that. But..." he trailed off with another sigh.
"But what?"
"It's not that you asked me to go," he said quietly. "It's the fact that you let me. You stood there, Quinn, and you let me leave."
It was your turn now to let out a sigh. The realisation setting in that this was going to be a very long night.
"Because..." You paused, searching desperately for the right way to say it. "Because I've never known what it's like to want someone to stay."
He stared down at you, his brow heavy over his eyes.
"And maybe it sounds bad but I'm… I'm selfish, Ben." You breathed out a laugh. "I like the fact that when all we have is sex, when our entire relationship is something that can only take place behind closed doors, it means I don't have to share you. It means I get all of you. If I'd have asked you to stay that night, after you told me this was more than just sex for you, I would've suddenly become a bigger part of your life than just the part no one else is allowed to see. I was scared of what that could do to us; if when a microscope was placed over me, you wouldn't like what you saw, and you'd realise you preferred me when I was a secret."
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. "You can't always be in control," he said slowly. "You have to accept that I'm not wrong, or stupid, or naïve for having feelings for you."
"I just feel like you're going to realise you like the sex and not me."
"Well we'll soon find out."
You raised an eyebrow.
"No sex," he said bluntly. "From this point forward, we date, get to know each other, spend time together, clothes on."
Your face said it all, narrowed eyes, parted lips, furrowed brow, like you were a child being unjustly punished.
"I'm being responsible," he said with a slight laugh. "Slowing this down, just for a little while."
"What if I don't agree?"
"You'll survive."
"Not sure I will. You didn't speak to me for a week and I almost slept with a guy who looked like he bought his teeth off the internet."
He laughed. "Almost?"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
You paused, like you were having to force yourself to tell the truth.
"He wasn't you."
Chapter 18: XVIII
Chapter Text
'He wasn't you'? God, what the hell had this man done to you?
You'd never been the type to let men hold the power in your relationships; to afford them the satisfaction of knowing they had you in the palm of their hand. It would be like giving someone a gun, pressing your forehead against the barrel and telling them to shoot. Suicide. So you'd always preferred to be the one with your finger on the trigger.
But no man had ever had a hold on you like this before, no man had ever been able to make you feel so vulnerable by doing nothing but simply adore you. It was uncharted waters, and you'd somehow found yourself sailing blindfolded without a compass right into its terrifying waves.
He wasn't you. Had you really just said that?
He smiled down at you, the kind of smile that bloomed slowly until it crinkled at the corners of his eyes. "God, you're just crazy about me, aren't you," he teased.
"No," you replied stubbornly.
"Sure. You forget I heard everything you said to my front door. I don't know why you still insist on denying it."
"I'm not denying anything."
A laugh rattled in his throat. "Now you're denying denying things..."
You rolled your eyes and stepped away from him. "Where's your boiler?"
"Over there."
You walked across the kitchen to the door he'd pointed at, the one you'd always assumed led to a pantry or utility room or something equally as fancy. But instead, you opened it to find the boiler sitting inside a dark, dusty cupboard.
You could feel Ben's eyes on you from the other side of the room as you looked at it, humming thoughtfully to yourself as you moved a few dials and fiddled with the pipes, pretending to know exactly what you were doing despite not actually having a clue. After a moment, you found the reset button, smiling triumphantly as you pressed it down with your thumb.
"Try switching the heating on now?" you said.
He pressed a button on the thermostat, and within seconds you heard the boiler rumble to life, the entire house groaning and squeaking as the cold pipes began to thaw.
"Oh yeah," you said smugly, closing the cupboard door and turning towards him. "Just call me Quinn the handyman."
He shook his head with a smile and made his way across the kitchen. "Thank you very much, Quinn the handyman. Would you like a cup of tea for your efforts?"
"Please. It's tiring work, you know."
You watched him quietly as he moved around the kitchen, filling the kettle and taking two mugs from the cabinet. You felt your heart flutter as he brought himself face-to-face with you, placing his hands on your waist and looking down at you with a smile. You tilted your head back to look up at him - waiting, anticipating - but instead of a hug, or a kiss, or a 'Quinn I was wrong, let's have sex right here, right now on this counter', you felt him gently move you aside.
"Sorry, you were in the way," he said as he reached for the tea and sugar canisters behind you.
You let out an unimpressed huff and folded your arms over your chest. But instead of rising to it, he simply began to whistle to himself, ignoring you with a smirk as he pulled a spoon from the drawer and glided past you to the fridge.
"Oh," he said, his disappointed face illuminated by the stark white light.
"What?"
"The milk's off."
You glanced into the fridge, sighing at how empty it was, the sad couple of jars sitting on shelves, the bottle of mustard and carton of definitely-curdled milk in the door.
"Are you okay having your tea black instead?" he asked as he closed it and walked back over to the kettle.
You paused, thinking for a moment before speaking quietly. "You were gone a long time."
"Eh, I've done longer stretches away from home. Tea? Black?"
"I meant you were gone for a long time." You looked up at him. "Y'know, absent, disconnected, done."
He glanced down to meet your gaze. "I was never any of those things."
"Well I really wish I'd known that. It would have saved me a lot of grief."
He poured the boiling water from the kettle into the two mugs and handed one to you. You held it close, letting the rising steam warm your cheeks as you watched the teabag floating near the surface, the water slowly turning a deep amber.
"Why weren't you?" you asked.
"Why wasn't I what?"
"Done. With me."
His brow twitched as he considered your question, shrugging slightly as he leaned back against the counter. "Because it just didn't feel done."
You let out a heavy exhale, a slight laugh.
"What?"
"I'd gotten myself so worked up about tonight," you said. "I was convinced it was going to be so awkward and sad and uncomfortable between us. I really thought this was the end. But instead I'm standing here in your kitchen, you've made me a cup of tea and we're talking like everything's fine."
"I'm sorry," he replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "We can argue if you really want to? I could shout, slam a few doors..."
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a soft laugh. "That'll just turn me on."
He scoffed in amusement, picking up his own mug and taking a sip. "You're weird."
"Weird… or charming?"
“Weird.”
~*~
There was a part of you that thought he'd created his 'no sex' rule just to punish you, to teach you a lesson. You thought maybe he would just refuse to sleep with you for a few days, tease you, turn you down, prove some kind of point about building 'healthy foundations' before inevitably giving in. But two weeks had passed since he'd put this new rule in place, and he still hadn't broken it.
You'd fallen into a routine that, with anyone else, would have bored you to tears. But with him, it was comfortable, wanted, so normal it was easy to forget that his life beyond your relationship was anything but. He would spend almost every free moment he had with you; you would eat together, watch television together, talk about everything and nothing all at once. You would cuddle, kiss, sleep in each other's arms, everything except that.
And you were really starting to miss doing that.
You were lying on your couch, flicking through channels on the TV when Ben wandered back in from the bathroom. He walked over and collapsed dramatically on top of you, his body draped over yours, face buried in the crook of your neck.
"You weigh a ton," you said breathlessly.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "It's all muscle."
"Oh is that right?" you laughed.
"Mhm."
You continued to channel surf as you ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the time near the bottom of the TV screen. "Hey, it's coming up to 7pm, shouldn't you be heading off?"
"Oh, I don't think I'm going to go."
You furrowed your brow in confusion. "But isn't the whole event like... in your honour or whatever?"
"Yeah, I'm just not in the mood."
"Ben." You sat up slightly beneath him. "You've been nominated for a bloody oscar, how can you not be in the mood to celebrate that?"
"I'm just tired," he groaned, lifting his head to look at you. "All the press and campaigning and flying back and forth I've been doing, I just need a night off from it all. Plus it's not an actual event, it's a dinner thing with my management. I'm sure they'll still have fun without me."
You stayed quiet for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek in thought. "Well, since you won't be going anywhere tonight... Do you want to stay over?"
He grinned slightly. "Yeah, sure, why not."
You smirked as he shifted his weight, propping himself up with his hands either side of your head until your faces were close enough to touch. You titled your chin, making him come down to you, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss.
You reached up to cup his face in your hands, deepening the kiss just enough to hear a sigh leave his parted lips, his body beginning to melt into yours. You smiled, letting your tongue sweep into his mouth, your hips rocking slightly beneath him, pushing your luck. But just as you expected, he broke away, quelling the fire that had been growing between you with a flurry of pecks on your cheek, a playful nudge of his nose against the side of your head.
"I suppose I better give them a call and let them know I won't be able to make it," he said as he began to get up.
You sighed at the absence of his body from yours, the lack of warmth and weight, like taking pressure off a wound. Yet instead of blood, it was frustration that began to seep out of you. You watched as he left the room, his voice turning to a murmur as he disappeared into the kitchen talking on the phone.
You wanted him. So badly that even the most mundane things had started turning you on; the way he looked when he wore glasses, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, how he hummed aloud while reading, twiddled a pen between elegant fingers. Even now as you sat on the couch, the television playing in the background, you couldn't seem to focus on anything besides how flustered he was able to make you, even as he stood in another room.
You got up and made your way to the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind you so he didn't hear it. You knew this was a ridiculous idea, yet still you went into your dresser and took out your nicest set of lingerie, laying it on the bed and taking your clothes off quickly.
There had been several times over the past two weeks where you thought he might give in, like the time you innocently undressed for bed and caught him eyeing you over the top of his book, or when you less-innocently climbed in the shower with him one morning, a growl leaving his throat as you ran your soapy hands over his naked body. But each time, he would only almost falter, almost forget, almost give you what you so clearly craved. Almost.
You slipped on the delicate underwear, hoping that this would be the night you finally surpassed 'almost' as you examined yourself in the mirror. It was a beautiful set, all lace and satin and intricate embroidery, so revealing you'd actually chickened out of wearing it when you first bought it over a year ago, leaving it to sit untouched in a drawer ever since, like a weapon you were saving for the right battle. You made your way towards the door, stopping as your fingers grazed the handle to take a deep breath. Confidence, Quinn, you thought. He's just a man.
He was still in the kitchen when you stepped out of the room, you could hear him talking on the phone, using his professional voice and doing his professional laugh. You wondered what your professional voice sounded like, or if you had one at all. Maybe you should get one, you thought.
There was a draught in the hallway, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin as you hurried back into the living room.
"Fuck sake," you muttered quietly, rubbing your hands vigorously over your body. "No goosebumps. Goosebumps aren't sexy."
You sat down on the couch, shifting positions until you finally settled on one, just in time to hear his footsteps slowly approaching. The sound making your breath shake, stomach fluttering gently.
Just a man.
"They're still going ahead with the dinner," he began from the hall. "I told you they wouldn't c-"
He stopped in the doorway, eyes falling on you immediately.
"I could've sworn you were wearing clothes when I left," he said.
"Yeah." You breathed out a laugh, holding your pose on the couch. "They… fell off."
"Ah, I see. That's unfortunate."
"Is it?"
"Well, not for me. I imagine you must be cold though."
Another soft laugh escaped you as you extended your arm, beckoning him over. He obliged, making his way across the room until he was able to place his hand in yours. You tried to pull him down, but instead he pulled you up onto your feet, shaking his head with a slight smirk as his eyes trailed your body.
"What?" you asked, feigning naivety.
"Nothing," he replied. "You look very nice."
"Nice…"
"Mhm."
You rolled your eyes and placed a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. He accepted it with a quiet hum, the sound was warm, rich, resonant, igniting something deep inside you, like your body was remembering every single time he had ever made that sound.
You took one of his hands and placed it on your waist, encouraging him to touch you, to let his fingers explore the places that had been so starved of him. He was restrained at first, only letting his fingernails lightly graze your bare skin as he continued to kiss you. But he slowly closed the gap between your bodies, his touch growing more eager as his composure began to wane. You could feel his palms roaming your back, your waist, your hips, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against him.
"Quinn," he whispered against your lips.
"Mm?"
"You know we're not going to have sex..."
You pulled back slightly and looked up at him, staring at him in silence as the heat drained from your body. "You're a fucker."
He exhaled a laugh through his nose. "It's not that I don't find this... incredibly sexy. Because trust me, I do. It's just better if we wait a while, take things slow, be s-"
"Sensible," you interrupted, mocking his voice as you walked away.
"Hey, you agreed to this too."
"Yeah, before I realised how unbelievably fucking horny I was going to be!"
He followed you into the bedroom, standing in the doorway and watching you in amusement as you picked your clothes up off the floor.
"I mean, at this point I feel like you're just punishing me for what happened at Christmas," you said. "You're using sex as a weapon and that's not fair because I use sex as a weapon and we can't both use sex as a weapon because that's like a double negative and besides, it's my thing and I'm notoriously bad at getting a taste of my own medicine-"
"Okay, first of all, I'm not punishing you," he said, calmly interrupting your rant with a slight smile in the corner of his mouth. "This is killing me too. But we needed to step back, to get on the same page before reintroducing… that."
You pulled on your t-shirt and let out a huff, turning to face him.
"Secondly," he continued. "I don’t know what you mean by 'using sex as a weapon', but it stops now, because that’s not going to fly with me."
"Clearly." You lifted the hem of your t-shirt and gestured to the lingerie beneath it.
He rolled his eyes, pivoting on his heels to leave the room.
"You know I'm getting a lot of mixed signals here," you said as you followed behind. "You won't fuck me, but you'll happily kiss me and touch me and tease me and press your dick against my back when we spoon at night-”
"Okay," he said simply. "That's a fair point. I'll stop."
"I didn't say I wanted it to stop…"
"But you said it was giving you mixed signals."
"Yes because I’m obviously clutching at straws."
He let out a throaty laugh, walking back into the living room and throwing himself down on the couch. "It's been a little under two months, Quinn. Try two years. Now that was torture."
"But the difference is you chose to abstain. You could've gone and got sex whenever you wanted."
"So can you." He shrugged.
You narrowed your eyes at him, standing with your arms folded in the middle of the room. "So you're saying if I really wanted it, I could just go out tonight, pull a guy and sleep with him…"
"Yeah. But I know you won't do that."
"Why?"
"Because you said it yourself, they're not me," he said with a smug smile, purposely teasing you.
You gritted your teeth to hide your irritation, but it was unmistakeable.
Just a man, you'd told yourself. God, how wrong you were. This man had never been just anything.
Chapter 19: XIX
Chapter Text
The media always made dating a celebrity seem so appealing; the red carpets and designer gowns, romantic getaways in private jets and secret rendezvous' shrouded in luxury and mystique. But you were failing to see the glamour in hauling your overnight bag on a train to Kent in the middle of a rainstorm. Sitting in a cramped carriage that smelled of stale coffee and wet dog, surrounded by screaming toddlers and men with the inability to keep their legs together.
You stared out of the window as the countryside passed in a blur of greens and greys, wondering when exactly the sparkle of being involved with an A-list actor would reveal itself. Would you find it in the dodgy train station sandwiches or the spotty phone signal? In the pockets of your rain-sodden parka or the man asking for spare change as he roamed the aisle?
You hadn't seen Ben in weeks since he'd began filming a new movie. And though he'd only been an hour outside of London the whole time, the long hours and his demanding schedule meant that he might as well have been on the other side of the world. You'd talked when you could; brief texts and quick calls that barely skimmed the surface of what you both really wanted to say. So when he invited you to visit him on location, you'd taken little persuading. Though boarding a busy train to Kent wasn't exactly akin to jetting off to some secluded beach resort.
The train rolled to a stop at the station. You waited as the carriage emptied, passengers practically climbing over one another to get off, a new person blocking your way every time you attempted to slip out from your seat. When you finally saw an opening, you muscled your way into the aisle and reached for your bag in the overhead luggage rack. But it was caught on something, refusing to budge, even as you hung from the handle with your entire body weight like a child dangling from a monkey bar. You looked up at the extremely tall man waiting to get off behind you, glaring at him as he watched on impatiently without ever offering you a hand.
You finally got it free, hoisting it over your shoulder and stepping off the train onto a bleak platform; cracked pavement, a single lamppost flickering against the dusky sky, and an inexplicably large puddle that stretched across the entire exit. You tried to hop over it, but it was too wide, rainwater flooding your trainers and soaking the ankles of your jeans.
"Fabulous," you muttered sarcastically to yourself.
The rain hadn't yielded. If anything, it seemed to grow heavier as you stood beneath the shelter of the station, looking down at your phone and trying to make sense of the directions Ben sent you earlier.
Take a left out of the station, follow the main road and look for signs to The Mocketts. It's not too far.
Easy enough, you thought. Or at least it would have been if your feet weren't squelching in your shoes, if the main road didn't turn into a complex maze of winding lanes and hedgerows that all looked the same in the bad weather and diminishing daylight. You pulled up your hood, though it was an entirely futile act; the rain already bleeding through your coat, your hair clinging to your face as you squinted up at the faded road signs, none of which seemed to match the directions Ben had given you.
As you trudged down the narrow, muddy road, you wondered why you'd agreed to this at all; why you hadn't just told him to make the drive back to London to visit you, why going to him seemed like such a good idea when all it had gotten you was a runny nose, ruined shoes and a spot on the missing persons' register when you inevitably disappeared down a ditch somewhere.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You took it out, wiping the rain away from the screen to read the message.
Are you close? It read.
Depends, you replied with wet, numb fingers. If by 'close' you mean standing in the middle of nowhere with no clue where I am then yes, I'm very close.
The phone began to ring a few seconds later.
"Why didn't you call a cab?" he asked.
"Because you said it wasn't far so I assumed I could walk," you replied, sniffing and wiping away the rain dripping off the end of your nose. "Now I'm so lost I wouldn't even know where to ask a cab to pick me up."
"Right, just... stay where you are. I'll come and find you."
You looked around, trying to find some kind of landmark. But all you saw were puddles, hedges and a single cow in a distant field. "I refuse to die in fucking Kent, Ben."
He chuckled down the phone, the sound providing you a slight comfort. "Did you make any turns off the main road?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay, don't move, I'll be as quick as I can."
You stood on the side of the road for what felt like an eternity, teeth chattering, body tensing against the cold. Whenever a car would zoom past, you would hold your breath for a moment, letting it out again in a deflated sigh when it carried on past you.
Eventually, a set of bright headlights appeared around the bend, a big 4x4 splashing through puddles with its huge tyres as it rolled to a stop beside you. The passenger window lowered, revealing Ben's concerned face peering out at you.
"Get in!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the white noise of the storm.
You yanked open the door and climbed in, soiling the pristine interior in mud and rain as you heaved your bag over your shoulder into the back seat. Ben leaned over to kiss you, but you were too busy peeling off your coat to respond, the warm air blowing from the grates in the dashboard onto your freezing skin.
He watched you battle with the wet fabric, a blend of amusement and pity on his face. "Rough journey?" he asked, unable to hold back a smirk.
You glared at him as you finally freed yourself from the coat and threw it into the back with your bag, waiting for him to make a joke about your appearance, your lack of navigation skills. But instead he simply reached out, gently stroking the hair out of your face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should've just come and picked you up from the station."
You sighed, sinking back into the heated leather seat. "It's fine. I shouldn't have thought I could walk it."
He smiled, tilting his head slightly to look at you.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing. Just... Hi."
"Hi," you replied softly, finally allowing a smile of your own.
He leaned in again, and this time you accepted his kiss; the warmth of his lips a stark contrast to the dreary, miserable day you'd endured.
~*~
He was staying in a cottage on a stretch of vast, green farmland, and you couldn't help but frown as the Jeep rolled over the uneven ground towards it; more mud, wonderful. You looked around as he drove, searching for the set; the studio, trailers, cameras, crew. But there was nothing besides fields and trees, barns and cottages.
"I'm not staying on the set," he said with a laugh, as though he'd read your mind.
"Just thought it'd all be a bit less... rural," you replied with a shrug.
"I like the privacy. Plus, we're only filming about ten minutes that way. You can come with me tomorrow if you'd like, I'll give you a little tour."
He parked up and you climbed out, grimacing at the smell of manure and damp earth, wondering why he couldn't have taken a job somewhere like Fiji or The Seychelles instead. He grabbed your bag and coat from the back seat, ushering you out of the rain towards to the cottage. When he let you inside, you breathed a sigh of relief, the dry, warm house like a safe haven.
He put your things down near the door and switched on a light, turning to look down at you with his hands on his hips. You'd somehow failed to properly take in his appearance until now, as though the chaos and discomfort of your journey had clouded your perception.
"Nice pornstache," you teased, reaching up and running a finger over the hair adorning his top lip.
He rolled his eyes. "Thanks. No, that's great, cheers."
You giggled as he walked away from you. "What? I like you with facial hair."
He gave a cynical hum, making his way towards the stairs.
"Where are you going?" you asked.
"To run you a bath."
"Oh, you don't have to do that."
He turned to look at you, his eyes slowly trailing you from head to toe.
You looked down at yourself, at the clothes sticking to your body like a second skin and trainers caked in mud, the puddle that had formed on the wooden floor beneath you. "Okay, fair enough."
He breathed a soft laugh. "Come on."
"Will you get in it with me?" you asked as he climbed a few steps.
He turned, looking down at you with a smirk. "Nice try."
You huffed, bending down to take off your shoes and socks and leaving them by the door before following him upstairs.
The cottage was bigger than it seemed from the outside, yet still cozy, with thick carpets and charming olde worlde features. You walked towards the sound of running water, a steamy warmth and clean, soapy aroma. You pushed the bathroom door open to find him leaning over a deep, clawfoot tub, pouring bubblebath into the stream as it flowed from the tap. And for the first time all day, you felt your muscles relax.
He glanced up at you as you began to undress, letting your jeans fall to the floor and peeling your top over your head. His eyes lingered on your body, his gaze darkening as you unclipped your bra to reveal your breasts, hooked your thumbs into the elastic of your underwear and slid it down over your hips. It was satisfying to know that his desire still existed; that while he was staying strong in his refusal to go further than a kiss, the hunger remained.
You stood naked in the doorway, watching as he rose to his full height and cleared his throat.
"I'll leave a towel out for you," he said.
"You sure you don't want to join me?" you replied.
He inhaled a deep breath, letting it out slowly with a slight smile. "I'm sure."
"Because I've really missed you." You crossed the small bathroom, taking his wrists in your hands and sliding them around your waist.
"I've missed you too."
You reached up, weaving your fingers into the back of his hair and pressing your lips to his neck. "Don't you want to show me how much you've missed me?"
"Quinn..." he warned, a soft growl in his voice.
"What harm would it do?" You raised up onto your toes, moving your kisses to his jaw, his mouth. "To just do it... Once?"
He was losing his resolve, you could feel it in the firmness of his grasp, how his fingers pressed into your skin as he began to return your kisses between heavy breaths.
"It doesn't have to be purely... physical," you pressed, keeping your voice soft and enticing. "It can be slow, tender, intimate-"
"Quinn," he finally whispered against your lips. "Stop it."
You huffed, letting go of him and dropping down off your tiptoes. "Fine."
You turned and walked back out onto the landing without bothering to redress, making your way towards the stairs.
"Where are you going?" he called out to you.
"To get my vibrator out of my bag," you called back, hearing his quiet chuckle echo from the bathroom.
~*~
You had never felt better; washed hair and warm, dry clothes, the musky scent of earth replaced by the clean, masculine scent of Ben's body wash. Your limbs buzzed from the wine you'd been sipping as you stood at the stove in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta and listening to music from a small speaker on the counter.
The night sky was black as ink, the quiet countryside making the world outside seem nonexistent, as though the small cottage was the only place left on earth. And you were sure you wouldn't have minded if it was. Ben came up behind you, snaking his hand around your stomach to hold you close as he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. You smiled, feeling your skin tingle beneath his lips, a slight tickle from his moustache.
He picked up the bottle of wine from the counter beside you and topped up your glass.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"A little bit."
You exhaled a soft laugh, picking it up and taking a sip.
"I'm really glad you could come down," he said, filling his own glass and sitting at the dining table behind you. "It's been weird not talking to you every day."
"I know, I'm great."
He chuckled. "You are."
You turned around, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand. "Did you ever think after our first meeting you'd be saying that about me?"
"After our first meeting? I knew I’d be saying something about you, though I assumed it would be to a lawyer."
Your lip curled with a smirk as you sipped your wine. "Now look at us, making dinner together in a little cottage in the countryside. Not a lawyer in sight."
"Exactly. See, the no sex thing is working."
"Oh, you think that's why we're getting along so well?" You raised an eyebrow, your smirk spreading.
He leaned back in his chair, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, it certainly hasn’t hurt. We’ve actually gotten to know each other. I mean, look at you - no knives in hand, no threats of bodily harm..."
"Mm. I wouldn't completely credit the abstinence. Maybe I'm just too tired from all this non-sexual bonding to argue with you."
"Or maybe you just enjoy my company."
You paused, biting your lip as you looked down at him, before turning to save the pot from bubbling over on the stove.
"Why's it so hard for you to just admit I was right about taking it slow?" he asked.
"I got a train to Kent for you. I think it's already quite clear."
He laughed, and you listened as the legs of his chair scraped the floor, his footsteps approaching as you drained the pasta over the sink.
"You've really never done this before, have you," he said. "Dating, courting."
"Courting?" you scoffed. "Okay, granddad."
He slid his arms around your waist, pressing his chest against your back as he spoke slow, quiet, his voice deep and intimate. "Just imagine, Quinn. All the waiting; the frustration, anticipation. Imagine how... incredible it's going to be when we finally do it."
You felt a shiver run down your spine, desire bubbling deep in your stomach. He pressed his lips to the side of your head, the heat of his body making you melt against him.
"I know I seem cruel," he continued. "Turning you down, making you feel like I don't want you. But trust me, I do. And I've been thinking about it a lot, how good it's going to feel."
You inhaled through your nose in an attempt to compose yourself, to quell the growing ache between your legs. You continued what you were doing, tipping the steaming pasta into an empty pot.
"I want to take my time with you," he murmured. "Reacquaint myself with every inch of your body."
You felt his arms tighten around you, his hands gripping you more firmly.
"When I finally touch you, really touch you, it's going to be slow, intense; I want to make sure you feel every brush of my fingertips, every kiss, every..." He trailed off, but you knew the picture he was painting. His voice like a dark, seductive promise, pouring his intentions directly into your ear. "I want to watch your face as I make you fall apart beneath me. Hear the sounds you make as I push you to the edge and pull you back, just so I can do it all over again."
Your legs felt weak, and you were grateful for his arms around you, holding you steady. It was impossible not to get lost in his words, in the way your stomach coiled, your core throbbing with need.
"And when we finally come together," he continued, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "I'm certain I will never be able to keep my hands off you again."
You let out a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper. "You’re really not making it easy to be patient, you know."
He exhaled a laugh. "I just thought you might like to know I'm not finding this easy either. But there's reason behind it."
"I know," you replied with a sigh, turning in his arms to face him. "I know I've been giving you a hard time about it but it's only because you're right - I don't date, I don't... court."
"You don't court?" he teased.
"No, old man, I don't court." You laughed. "I've never wanted to. So I always just... skip to the physical stuff, ignore the rest."
He stroked a stray lock of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. "But you're not ignoring it with me. Look, you're here, you're trying."
"Mm. I suppose I just never liked someone enough to make dinner and drink wine with them before. Never cared enough to nearly die in the Kent countryside for them."
He gave a deep laugh in his throat. "You didn't nearly die."
"We'll agree to disagree."
He smiled, tilting your chin up with his fingers and kissing you softly. "I guess I should consider myself lucky then," he said. "That you're here, even though it’s not your usual thing.”
“I don’t know if it’s luck, Ben. Maybe it’s just... you.”
His eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth curving into a gentle smile. “I’ll take that.”
You both stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s embrace, the flames licking in your core now dwindling to a comfortable smoulder.
“You know,” he said after a moment. “We could make this our thing.”
"Make what our thing?" You raised an eyebrow.
"This." He gestured to the space around you. "Every time I’m on location, you can brave the wilderness-"
“And risk my life,” you interjected.
"And risk your life,” he agreed with a grin. “Just to come cook dinner and drink wine with me. It’ll be like a... tradition."
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it, before giving him a slow, teasing smile. “Throw in a few tropical countries and I might consider it."
“I'll see what I can do."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, pressing you gently against the edge of the sink before pulling back, resting his forehead on yours for a brief moment. You stood there as you watched him finish off the dinner, taking in the comfortable sight of him moving around the kitchen in domestic ease. He hummed to himself contently as he chopped and stirred, stopping every now and then to take a sip from his glass, twirling utensils between his fingers.
It was strange, how this easy, unremarkable moment was something you’d never quite known before. How you'd never taken heed of the quiet, subtler parts of another person. Yet here, in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the clatter of pots and the aroma of garlic and basil, you felt a kind of intimacy you hadn’t expected to find.
It wasn’t the grand gestures or passionate moments you'd come to crave, but rather the simple act of sharing space, of being present together. The quiet companionship that came with just being in his company. It was a different kind of closeness; genuine, chaste, something you hadn’t even realised you’d been missing.
Chapter 20: XX
Chapter Text
You had been cleaning your flat for most of the morning, and at first it felt good, productive, freeing. But now you were just getting bored; too lazy to pick things up off the floor before rolling over them with the hoover, kicking a sock under the fridge when it fell out of the washing machine and shoving things into drawers or cupboards when you couldn't find a place for them. On the surface, the flat looked neat, organised; curtains open to let the light in, a candle filling the air with the scent of vanilla and tobacco leaf.
You heard a thudding over the sound of the vacuum, switching it off and waiting a moment before you realised it was a knock at the door. You looked up at the clock on the wall before rolling your eyes with a groan. They were early, and you hadn't even gotten dressed yet.
You walked down the hall, wiping your hands on your jogging bottoms before opening the door, your breath catching in your throat when you saw the person waiting on the other side. Ben, tousled from travel, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a charming crooked smile on his face.
"Surprise," he said, his voice tired yet soft.
You stared up at him, your mouth slightly agape.
He raised an eyebrow and let out a nervous laugh. "Not the reaction I was expecting..."
"Wh- No, no I'm... Sorry, I just, I didn't even realise you were... I thought you were still in America."
"I was, but I caught an early flight so I thought I'd come and surprise you. Why? Are you not happy to see me?"
You let out a breath you didn't even realise you were holding, your stupefied expression melting into a smile. "Of course I'm happy to see you. I'm just shocked, I wasn't expecting you."
"That was the point," he replied with a boyish grin.
You stepped aside to let him in, closing the door and turning to look at him, still in disbelief. He dropped his bag and reached for you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His presence was so comforting; the familiar scent of his aftershave, the placement of his hands on your back, the warmth of his breath against the top of your head.
You stayed in his arms as you looked up at him, taking in his ever-changing appearance - the moustache had gone, replaced with a slight stubble, a tan across his nose and cheekbones.
He stooped his head, giving you a quick peck on the lips. "How've you been?"
"Fine. Bored. Just working, mostly." You peeled yourself away from him and made your way towards the kitchen. "What about you? Are you not insanely jet lagged right now?"
"Not yet. That'll probably kick in tomorrow," he replied as he followed you.
You filled the kettle and put it on to boil, dropping a teabag into a mug and looking over at him. "Is tea okay? Or I mean, there's gin in the cupboard..."
He laughed, sitting on a stool at the small breakfast bar at the end of the counter. "Tea's great, thank you."
The air fell quiet as you listened to the water bubbling in the kettle. You crossed your arms over your chest and looked at him again.
"So come on then," you said. "Are we going to keep ignoring the elephant in the room?"
He furrowed his brow, tilting his head in confusion. "What? What elephant? Is something... Have I done something—"
"The slap, Ben. The slap. You were there. You saw it. Up close."
His eyes widened in realisation, a relieved laugh escaping him in a breath. "Oh, that," he said, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, that." Your excitement was palpable as you stared at him with curiosity. "I mean, what the fuck happened? What was it like being there?"
"It was... surreal. One minute, everyone's laughing, having a good time, and the next... Will's on stage and then - bam. It was definitely a shock."
"I'm sure Chris Rock thought it was a shock too." You filled the mug with hot water, opening the fridge to take out the milk. "What was the room like? What did people do?"
He blew out a breath through puckered lips. "It was like the air got sucked out of the room. You could see everyone's brain trying to catch up with what just happened. For a second, I thought it was a skit or something. But then... it wasn't."
"My god. Watching it on telly the other night was crazy enough. I can't imagine actually being there in the theatre."
"Yeah. Everyone just sat there, stunned, and then it was like this wave of tension hit the whole room. You could see people looking around, trying to figure out how to react. And then it was like everyone collectively decided to just... move on."
"Then he went on to win your Oscar."
"It wasn't my Oscar," he laughed.
"It should've been."
He smirked, giving a teasing tut. "Aww, look at you being all sweet and supportive."
You rolled your eyes, handing him the cup of tea and standing opposite him on the other side of the counter, resting your elbows on it as you looked at him. "You looked sexy in your suit. The little dickie bow."
"Bow tie," he corrected.
"Dickie bow."
You stood upright, making your way around the kitchen to tidy away the last few things, wiping down the counters and opening the window to let in the brisk March air. He sat quietly, nursing his tea as he watched you, the fatigue of his journey seemingly starting to catch up with him.
"So where are you going after this?" you asked.
"Nowhere. I actually thought I'd stick around..." He seemed to notice the apprehension in your face, narrowing his eyes at you as he continued to speak. "What? Is that not okay? Sh- should I go?"
You sighed. "It's not that I don't want you to stay, it's just... My parents are coming."
"Ah."
"Yeah. I still haven't seen them since they got back from their cruise. And they actually called me in advance this time so I can't cancel on them..."
"Say no more," he said with an understanding smile. "How long do I have before I need to disappear?"
"They'll be here in about an hour."
"Plenty of time to make myself scarce."
Your gaze softened appreciatively. "I'm just going to run and get dressed," you said, kissing him on the cheek before hurrying out of the room.
~*~
You stepped out of your bedroom in jeans and a soft cashmere jumper; the one you'd bought yourself in celebration of Ben's feature, the one that was so expensive you'd never actually worn it outside for fear of spilling something on it.
Ben was in the living room plumping the cushions on your couch. You looked around to see he'd also folded the blanket on the armchair, wrapped up the cord of the hoover and put it away, neatened the small stack of books on the coffee table. You exhaled a soft breath as you stepped into the room.
"Ben, you didn't have to do that, I was coming in to finish-"
"I don't mind," he said. "Anything else I can do before I go?"
You smiled, brows curving upwards in adoration. "Yeah," you said, walking across the room to meet him, reaching up to slide your hands around the back of his neck. "You can kiss me and tell me about your trip."
You pulled him into a deep, reverent kiss. He sighed against your lips, as though he'd been craving the intimacy, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close to him.
"It was nothing special," he whispered between kisses. "Just spent the whole time thinking about you."
"Nothing special?" You giggled. "SAG, Oscars, BAFTAs, Vanguard, AFI, interviews, photoshoots... Nothing special?"
The corner of his mouth curled with a smirk. "Totally mundane."
You scoffed, taking him by the hand and pulling him to the couch.
"Fuck sake, I just fixed these cushions," he said as you flopped down, dragging him with you.
"Sorry," you replied, turning to straddle his lap, your chest against his, arms draped around his shoulders. "But really, tell me about your trip."
He let his hands rest on your backside, tilting his chin up to kiss you. "It was fun. Exhausting, but fun. It's the first time in a long time I've done a big awards season without..."
"Faye."
"Mm. It was hard doing it on my own. No one to turn to for support, take the pressure off, y'know? But I also couldn't stop thinking about you the whole time, which just made it even worse."
You stroked his hair with your fingers. "Well if it makes you feel any better, I have been losing my mind waiting for you to come back."
"Really?"
"Mhm. You're really going to have to look into a change of career, Ben, because I'm not cut out for these long leaves of absence."
He laughed, covering your face in a flurry of quick kisses.
A knock at the door made your stomach drop. You furrowed your brow as you looked up at the clock.
"They're early," you sighed, hiding your face in the crook of his neck and letting out a frustrated growl.
"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "I'll hide and then slip out like last time."
You looked at him for a moment before nodding and climbing off his lap. You rushed out into the hall and picked up his bag, handing it to him as he followed behind you. There was another knock, and you rolled your eyes.
"I'll be one minute!" you shouted, loud enough for them to hear through the thick wooden door.
Ben leaned down and kissed the side of your head, before making his way towards your bedroom, bag in hand. You watched him open the door and disappear into the room. But instead of turning to let your parents in, you stood there a moment longer. Maybe it was the memories of last time making you hesitate; the guilt you felt at hiding him away like a secret, the way your heart sank a little at the sound of him sneaking out without a goodbye.
You shook it away and walked to the front door, brushing your hair out of your face with your hand as you opened it with feigned excitement. They stood on the other side in their zipped-up coats, the glow from their long trip still visible on their skin.
"Hi," you sang in a high-pitched voice.
Your mother was the first to step forward, opening her arms and pulling you into a hug.
Your father placed a hand on your back, giving it a loving pat. "Sorry we're a bit early. Traffic wasn't as bad as we thought it'd be."
"That's alright," you replied. "Come in."
They took off their coats and hung them in the hall, before following you through to the living room.
"Can I get either of you a drink?" you asked.
"No we're okay for now," your mother answered for both of them, making you share a quiet laugh with your father as he sat himself in the armchair.
You sneakily shut the living room door behind you, leaving it slightly ajar, a small sliver just visible from your spot on the couch.
"So come on," you said. "I want to hear all about your cruise."
"Oh gosh, Quinnie it was fantastic," your mother replied. "The ship was huge. You walk up and you can see from the dock all of the-"
A loud clatter from the hall made her stop, all three of your heads snapping in unison towards the door.
"What was that?" she asked.
You cleared your throat, giving a dismissive shrug. "I've got no idea. Anyway, go on, you were saying about the boat...?"
"Oh yes, well there were water slides at the big pool and you could see them-"
Another noise. You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling a sigh.
"Is someone else here?" asked your father as he rose from his seat.
"No, just me," you replied quickly. "Dad, honestly it's fine. It must just be the neighbours or something."
He continued towards the door anyway, pulling it open and peering out into the hall.
"Dad..."
You watched his back stiffen in fright at the sight of a man in your hallway. You stood up quickly, rushing to his side to find Ben holding shards of glass from your broken candle, the walls and floor covered in splashes of hardened wax.
"Sorry," he said, keeping his head stooped, turned slightly away from your father. "Knocked it with my bag."
"Who are you and what are you doing in here?" your father asked sternly, his voice laced with a protective rumble as he eyed the duffle bag, the dark clothes that only added to the burglar aesthetic.
You saw the blue of Ben's eyes flit up to meet yours, as though silently asking you to save him. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, before placing a hand on your father's arm to calm him.
"Dad, this... This is Ben. Benedict," you corrected yourself quickly. "I was trying to sneak him out but clearly he decided now would be the perfect time to become clumsy."
Ben laughed awkwardly, meeting his gaze properly for the first time.
You watched your father tilt his head, his brow furrowing in recognition. He was trying to place him, to figure out why he was so familiar, as your mother joined you in the doorway, peering over your shoulder to get a glimpse of him.
"You're that actor," she said instantly.
"The one from Quinn's magazine," your father added as it finally clicked.
There was a short silence, though it felt like an eternity. Ben - usually so confident and imposing in stature - looking more like a teenage boy caught sneaking out after curfew. You didn't know what to say, no lie seeming convincing enough, no excuse that would satisfy their intrigue.
"We've been.... seeing each other," you finally said.
You suddenly felt eyes on you; your parents turning to you in shock, Ben staring at you in disbelief, like he couldn't believe you'd actually said the words out loud.
"You have?" your mother breathed.
"Yeah." You cleared your throat. "Ben- Benedict, these are my parents, Ralph and Nancy. Mum, Dad, this is Benedict. The guy you have framed on your wall."
The corner of Ben's mouth twitched with a smile. He seemed to stand straighter all of a sudden, reaching out his hand to shake theirs.
"I apologise for sneaking around," he said with a laugh. "Your daughter was very adamant about me not being here when you arrived."
They seemed starstruck, their eyes turning wide and glassy as they each shook his hand, lips parted in awe.
"Why wouldn't you want us to meet him?" your mother asked you.
"Well because it's- We're not... I don't know."
"I've never met a film star before," your father said. "I'm honoured."
You covered your face. "Oh god, Dad, please."
"The honour's mine," Ben replied charmingly. "Anyway, I'll get out of your way-"
"Don't be ridiculous! Come and sit, join us," said your mother, waving him into the living room with excitement, your father making his way back to the armchair.
Ben glanced at you, as if seeking approval. You rolled your eyes, letting your face break with a subtle smile before nodding.
He put his bag down and you made your way over to him, taking the glass out of his hand.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"You can buy me a new one."
"I don't mean the candle."
You looked up at him through your lashes. "It's fine, just prepare yourself for an interrogation."
A low, quiet chuckle rattled in his throat as you took the last few shards from him, carrying them to the kitchen as he took a deep breath and joined your parents.
When you returned, you couldn't help but giggle to yourself; the sight of your mother talking so animatedly, gushing over him like a zealous fan with exaggerated hand gestures and flushed cheeks. While he sat there calmly, eyes creased with a kind smile as he listened to her every word.
"And that show you did on the telly," she continued as you made your way over to the couch. "The one with the little girl who went missing."
"The Child in Time?" he replied.
"Yes! That one! Oh my goodness I cried and cried. You were just brilliant."
Ben smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thank you. Gosh, that was so long ago now."
You settled in between your mother and Ben, feeling him casually drape his arm around the back of the couch behind you. It wasn't a possessive act, but an automatic, comfortable gesture. As though having you within his breadth was the most natural thing in the world.
Your father was squinting slightly as he looked at him from the armchair, searching for a memory he couldn't quite locate. "There was another one," he began. "A film. With spies and that fella from The King's Speech..."
"Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy?" Ben replied.
He snapped his fingers. "That's it. Bloody great film."
"Oh," said your mother. "And what about the one with-"
"Guys you know he's a real, actual person," you interrupted with a laugh. "You can talk to him about other things besides his entire filmography."
"Sorry," she replied. "Just not every day you get to sit down with a famous actor."
"Yeah and it's not like we're going to meet another one anytime soon," your father added.
Your lip curled with derision, but Ben simply chuckled, taking it all in his stride. It made you soften, giving them grace and relaxing slightly into the couch.
"Quinn said you went on a cruise," said Ben.
"We did, yes," your mother replied. "For 40 days."
"How did you find it?"
"Long," said your father.
"Yes, it was a bit long. I think we'll only do a week or two next time."
"Next time?" you asked.
"She's been keeping an eye on the deals and discounts," your dad said. "Gets them all emailed... to me."
You and Ben laughed as your mother rolled her eyes.
"We did South America and the Caribbean," she said. "Next I want to do Europe. The glaciers, the northern lights, all that."
"Did you have a favourite place you visited?" asked Ben.
"Oh, St Vincent. It was gorgeous."
"We got lost in the rainforest," said your father. "Missed dinner."
You laughed again, picturing them trekking through bushes and trees like explorers in the 1800s.
"I wouldn't go over Christmas again though," she said, looking at you. "Didn't like leaving you on your own."
"Oh don't worry, she wasn't on her own," Ben replied. "I came to keep her company."
Your stomach turned with the thoughts of that night; the watch, the fight, the sex, the sound of his footsteps as he walked out of your flat for the last time.
"So you've been going out for a while then?" asked your father.
"We've been... getting to know each other," you replied with a shrug.
Your mother shook her head. "I can't believe you didn't say anything."
"Have I ever told you about who I'm seeing?"
"Well, no." She paused, thinking for a moment. Then suddenly her brows raised, her mouth curling into a hopeful smile. "So that means this must be serious then?"
You wanted to disappear, to morph into a TV remote and sink between the cushions of the couch. You always knew you got your lack of tact from your mum; though while yours manifested itself in abrasiveness, hers was rooted in innocence, in the complete inability to read a room.
"Mum..."
"Am I going to be getting those grandchildren-?"
"Right," you interrupted, standing up quickly. "Would anyone like a drink?"
~*~
You stood with your arms crossed over your chest, watching as your parents shrugged on their coats and zipped them up next to the front door. Ben stood beside you, cupping the back of your neck with his large hand.
They'd stayed until early evening, telling you all about their cruise; the beautiful places they visited and the nice people they made friends with onboard. Your mother asked you about work while Ben and your father lost themselves in conversations about vintage cars and engine specs you didn't understand.
It was so strange inviting outsiders into the world you'd created with Ben; like it somehow felt more real now that they'd laid eyes on him. He'd been so charming, so laidback yet attentive. He'd entertained every question about films and fame, and shown just as much interest in their lives too.
"Now I'm holding you to that invite, Benedict," said your father. "I need to see these cars you've been talking about."
"Absolutely. I'm looking forward to it, Ralph," he replied, shaking his outstretched hand.
Your mother pulled you into a hug, whispering in your ear. "He adores you. Be good to him."
You leaned back, looking at her with a smirk. "Aren't you supposed to be telling him to be good to me?"
"You're forgetting I know you."
You scoffed a laugh, shaking your head as they moved towards the front door.
"And you both know," you said apprehensively. "Not to go telling people about..."
She mimed zipping her lips and you nodded appreciatively, watching as she and Ben shared a kiss on each cheek.
Your father opened the door before turning around to give you a hug. "See you soon, Quinnie."
"Bye. Text me when you're both home."
"Will do."
They left down the hall and you closed the door slowly until it clicked, turning around and leaning back against it with a long exhale. The weight of their presence still hung in the air, the flat still buzzing with the energy of excited questions, loud laughter and their unrelenting curiosity.
Ben took a step towards you, placing his hands on your upper arms. "You okay?"
"Yeah." You let out a dry laugh. "That was... intense."
"I like them a lot," he said, gently rubbing your arms. "And I can see where you get your sense of humour from now."
You snorted, wrapping your hands around his waist and letting your forehead fall to his chest. "I can't believe I introduced you to them."
"I don't think you had much of a choice."
"Yeah. My dad nearly had a heart attack when he saw you."
"I have that effect on people," he replied, jokingly smug.
You gave a breathy giggle.
"Is it true what your mum said? That you've never introduced anyone to them before?" he asked.
You looked up at him. "Don't get big headed."
"I'm not!" He laughed. "I just... I'm proud to be the first."
"The first of many."
He rolled his eyes, holding you tighter in his arms. "And you know what this means, don't you?"
"No...?" you replied, narrowing your eyes sceptically.
"Now you have to meet mine."
Your face fell into an expression of pure horror, making him smirk. He dipped his head to kiss you lightly, letting his lips linger against yours before pulling back, just enough to speak.
"They'll love you," he said.
"Yeah, okay," you replied sarcastically.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands dropping to your hips, holding you firmly against him. You moved your hands to the back of his head, weaving your fingers into his hair as you arched your body closer.
His breath was warm, his lips soft as they trailed down to your neck, making your skin tingle as you clung to him, your mind fogging. His hands roamed, just enough to ignite something within you, and before you could realise what you were doing, your hands slipped beneath the hem of his t shirt.
"Quinn," he murmured, his voice low and ragged against your throat.
You stopped, pulling your hands away and tugging the t shirt back down. "Sorry. Habit."
He exhaled a laugh and lifted his head to look at you; his eyes filled with desire, yet his gaze was steady, a familiar flicker of restraint. You felt his thumbs brush against your hips, his hands gliding up to the curve of your waist.
You sighed, leaning back against the door again, his hands still on you. "I don't really have to meet your parents, do I?"
"No," he laughed. "Not until you're ready, anyway."
You appreciated how he never pushed, always happy to go at whatever pace you set for him. It made you feel guilty for all the times you tried to make him overturn the abstinence rule, made you realise that his arm around you on the couch while you chatted with your parents was enough, for now.
You pulled him down into a kiss. "You know my dad's going to be pestering me about this car thing now..."
He smiled. "I'll speak to the guys from the car show this week and set something up."
"You don't have to-"
"I want to. I like him. I like your mum too."
"And they liked you."
"I hope so."
"I think they like you more than they like me."
He laughed and kissed you again, planting a palm on the door beside your head to brace himself, the other coming up to cup your face. You couldn't help but melt into him, your body flushing with warmth, responding to him whether you wanted it to or not.
"Ben..." you whispered.
"Mm?" he hummed against your lips, kissing you softly, slowly.
"You owe me a new candle."
Chapter 21: XXI
Chapter Text
Julia would bounce her knee when she sat at her desk; one leg crossed over the other, the heel of her Louboutin slingback clinking against the table leg with an irritating rhythm. You were sitting across from her as she read your final draft, your gaze focused on the blood red sole of her shoe, the remnants of the discount sticker she hadn’t fully peeled off.
She placed the papers on the desk and cleared her throat. You looked up at her, only then realising you’d been making a face; eyes narrowed, lip curled disdainfully. It wasn’t intentional, your face just settled that way sometimes. So you softened your edges, rounding your eyes and relaxing your jaw as you waited for her to speak.
“Quinn…” she sighed.
Your thorns quickly returned; lids turning heavy with indignation as you rolled your shoulders and pressed your back into the chair.
“You know what I’m going to say,” she continued with a patronising smile. “It’s well written, there’s no denying that, but it’s not going in the mag.”
“Why not?” you asked bluntly.
She picked up the papers and licked her thumb, using it to flick to the second page where she began to read aloud. “ I just wanted those men to stop looking at me. I wanted to erase myself, piece by piece, I imagined my face sloughing away, then my arms, my breasts, until there was nothing left but a pool of flesh and marrow where I’d once stood. But then, I thought, would they even care? Or would they still find pleasure in my remains; dig their hands into the slurry and let it slip between their fingers. And that scared me more than disappearing altogether.. .”
You blinked at her, waiting for her to explain the problem. But the way she was looking at you made it seem like you should have already known.
“It’s quite graphic,” she said.
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Yes, obviously I understand that. But it’s not the most pleasant of visuals, is it? Really, the topic of the op ed on a whole, it’s- It’s dark, heavy-”
“It’s about gender, sex, inequality, how I’ve learned to navigate society as a woman, it’s not meant to be all bubblegum and rainbows. And it’s not like the magazine hasn’t shed light on these kinds of topics before.” You shrugged.
“Yes but not this… Brutally.”
You furrowed your brow.
She sighed, flicking to another page. “ I thought sex was supposed to make me human, make me whole. But in the end, he was just a prop, an object. They all were. I could always tell they wanted me to love them, and they thought I might if they gave me everything. But nothing ever seemed worth taking. ” She looked at me. “You can’t seriously think Draft would publish this?”
“It’s an op ed ,” you said, your tone growing snippy. “It’s supposed to be personal, subjective, opinionated-”
“But there’s a fine line, Quinn, between sharing your views and experiences on important topics and oversharing to the point where it becomes disturbing and completely indigestible for readers.”
“ Disturbing ?” You breathed out a laugh. “So this , a woman’s real, lived experience of men and sexuality and emotional connection is ‘disturbing’, but the piece we let that dick head comedian write back in August where he said Hitler ‘wasn’t such a bad guy’ was okay?”
“It was a joke he made in poor taste and a retraction was published almost immediately.”
“Still made it to print though.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. “Look, I’m not saying this isn’t a good piece of writing. Because it is. I know you’ve been working on it for months and it shows. It’s important and it’s relevant, I get that. But we have to give readers balance; some escapism, y’know. And that’s the job of our staff writers, to uplift the magazine with stories about celebrities and fashion and lifestyle and-” She sighed. “We have the hard hitting stuff covered. What we need from you is-”
“Fluff.” You inhaled sharply through your nose and crossed your arms over your chest. “I just thought after the Benedict Cumberbatch interview and how well it was received I might finally get to write something with more… substance.”
She let out a single, clipped laugh, shaking her head at you condescendingly. “Quinn, one feature on a big name celeb doesn’t fast track you to serious journalism. You wrote about his films, his love life, what he does in his spare time. It wasn’t exactly an exposé.”
You bit back a retort, crossing one leg over the other and glancing out at the office through the glass wall. “What did Ellen Ford say about it? The op ed.”
“I haven’t shown her. And I’m not going to.”
“Julia-”
“I’m not having this conversation anymore, Quinn. I was given this position permanently because I know what I’m doing. Ellen trusts my judgement and my judgement is that this piece is a no go. If you want to write something for the next issue then you can cover the London Arts and Culture Gala tonight. Kate was supposed to be going but she just called to say she’s sick.”
You groaned, pressing your fingers into your eyes. “Why do you keep sending me to fucking galas?”
She tutted sarcastically, pushing out her bottom lip. “Getting dressed up to have free food and drink while rubbing shoulders with celebrities all night, how evil of me.”
You glared at her.
“I hear Benedict Cumberbatch is on the guest list,” she said, a slight snarkiness in her tone. “Maybe you can cosy up to him, get yourself a follow up interview. Not exactly Pullitzer material but hey, it’s another step towards those doors you’re so desperate to open.”
You already knew Ben was going to be there. You wanted to tell her that you knew; that he’d told you about it as you lay together in bed last night - still not having sex, to your utter dismay - and that you’d scoffed when he asked if you were covering it for the magazine. You wanted to punch her for suggesting you cosy up to him , as though he was nothing more than a rung in the ladder of your career.
“The last editorial assistant that suggested I get ‘cosy’ for a story ended up escorted out of here by security,” you said with a cold, flat smile.
She held your gaze, her foot bouncing more quickly now. “I know you like to think the world’s against you, Quinn. But I actually think you’re a good journalist. Hence why I keep sending you to fucking galas…”
You paused a moment before finally giving in and standing up with a huff. “Can I get another dress?”
“I’m sure you have something at the back of your wardrobe you could wear.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning over and snatching your papers off the desk before turning to leave her office.
~*~
The back of your wardrobe had provided you two options: the first was a short, bright chartreuse dress with a boned bodice and sparkly straps. It was awful. So awful that you grimaced when you pulled it out, wondering what kind of fugue state you’d been in when you bought it. But then you noticed the tag was still attached, realising you must have come to your senses and decided to never let it touch your body or see the light of day again.
The second option was plain, black, high neck and sleeveless. It hugged your figure like a second skin, skimming just above your ankles as you stood on your tiptoes in front of the mirror. You wondered why you’d never worn it before. Then you remembered you’d bought it for a funeral, only to get it home and realise your dead uncle’s family probably wouldn’t appreciate being able to see the outline of your arse at his wake.
You put your hair up and did your makeup, feeling pangs of excitement in your stomach at the thought of seeing Ben’s face when you arrived. You hadn’t told him you were coming, much preferring the idea of him spotting you from across a crowded room, having to hide his surprise and keep his cool, to pretend he barely remembered your name. You slipped into a pair of heels, stuffing your ticket and press pass into your bag alongside a notepad and pen, your fully charged phone and the perfume he always complimented.
When you arrived at the Claridge’s hotel, you stepped out of the cab to a mob of flashing cameras lining the carpeted entrance. There was something humbling about being unimportant, being able to weave through a sea of celebrities and influential figures like a ghost as paparazzi screamed for them to stop and pose for photos. It was comforting, almost, to be overlooked.
You made your way inside, the grand hall warmly lit with ornate chandeliers, large round tables covered in pristine tablecloths and floral centrepieces. The room buzzed with the sound of clinking glasses and reserved conversation, servers weaving between guests with trays of champagne and dainty canapés. You took a glass from a waiter with the most dazzling smile you’d ever seen, unable to resist a glance at his backside as he walked away.
The press table was at the other end of the hall. You took a large swig of champagne and began the long walk, meandering through tables and crowds of famous faces you never got used to seeing in person. Olivia Colman was at a table to your left, close enough for you to reach out and touch her - and you thought about it, just for a moment - but you resisted.
You hadn’t been watching where you were going, an elbow almost knocking the drink from your hand as you walked right into it. You looked up to see an actor you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of, his surprise softening to a friendly laugh as he placed his hands on your arms to steady you.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sorry,” you said. “I was distracted by Olivia Colman.”
“Ah, we’ve all been there,” he replied.
He was tall, smartly dressed, with a crooked smile and reddish hair. He’d been in a TV show you watched. Or was it a movie? God, what the hell was his name?
You gave an awkward laugh. “Sorry again.”
He waved his hand, as if telling you not to worry. You smiled appreciatively and turned to walk away, but his voice suddenly made you halt.
“Benedict! How’ve you been, man?”
You glanced back over your shoulder to see him pulling another tall, suited man into a hug, the pair smacking each other hard on the back in that weird way only men ever seemed to do. The corner of your mouth curled, threatening a smirk when you saw the side of Ben’s face.
You tilted your head, waiting for him to notice you. And when he did, it was as delicious as you’d imagined it would be. It began with a flicker of recognition, followed by the slow widening of realisation, his expression changing so subtly that only someone who knew him as well as you did would notice.
He composed himself quickly, giving the man he’d been hugging a final, firm pat on the back before stepping away with a slight smile. You kept your face neutral as you stood in his eyeline, as if seeing him was no big deal, as if you hadn’t spent the majority of your evening fantasising about this very moment; the way his eyes travelled down your body, his jaw clenching as he lingered on your curves. You brought the glass to your lips, taking a slow sip of champagne, never looking away from him as he tried to engage in polite conversation.
It didn’t take long for him to excuse himself, squeezing the man’s shoulder as he stepped around him and made his way towards you, his long strides closing the distance far too quickly. You’d wanted to make the moment last, to savour it, make him sweat a little while longer.
“Quinn,” he said, his voice low and warm as he came to a stop in front of you.
“Benedict,” you replied coolly, giving a slight nod.
He glanced around before returning his gaze to you. “You said you weren’t coming.”
You smiled, giving a casual shrug. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
He gave you a look, one that told you he wasn’t buying it. Then his eyes flitted down again, taking you in once more. “You…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to your face, and for a second you thought he might lose his composure. “You look… Nice.”
“ Nice ?” you repeated, feigning offence.
His mouth twitched, his voice darkening. “ Very nice.”
You could feel his restraint, the effort it was taking for him not to touch you, to close the distance between you.
“So.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’re here for the magazine?”
You rolled your eyes dramatically, taking another sip of champagne. “Mhm. Julia, the editorial assistant, completely shat all over my piece, decided I was more useful rubbing shoulders than writing anything of actual substance.”
His brows came together for a moment with a sympathetic smile. “Well clearly she’s an idiot.”
“Tell her that.”
He leaned in slightly. “I’ll tell her, if you want.”
You laughed and rolled your eyes again. “Yeah, that’ll go down well; getting the guy I’m fucking- sorry, not fucking, to pull strings for me at work.”
He smirked, dropping his head and fixing the cuff of his blazer. “Just say the word.”
“Stop it,” you laughed, holding back the urge to push him playfully in the chest.
“Well I suppose there’s worse assignments you could’ve ended up with.”
“Yeah.” You looked around at the glitzy hall, the man he’d been talking to finding his seat at a table. “Oh my god, what’s his name by the way? It’s been driving me mad.”
He looked over to where you’d pointed before turning back and opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, a sudden presence appeared at his side.
“Benedict, good to see you again!”
You recognised Leo McGrath immediately. He was a documentary filmmaker, award winner, known philanthropist. Yet it was his recent appearance at the Oscars that had shot him to sudden, unexpected internet fame. You wondered what it must feel like, to be so unbelievably attractive that just standing there on a red carpet could send the whole world into a frenzy. To have millions of people suddenly know you, not because of your work, but because they fancied you.
It was true, he was undeniably stunning; green eyes framed by masses of dark lashes, full lips and thick wavy hair long enough to tuck behind his ears. When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled, his imperfect teeth giving him a charm that made it hard not to swoon, even just for a second.
“Ah, Leo,” said Ben as he shook his hand. “It’s good to see you too. How’ve you been?”
“Good, yeah, it’s been… intense.” He breathed out a laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“I can imagine.”
“Well I suppose you don’t need to imagine, you’ve been there too. What did they call you? The Internet’s Boyfriend?”
Ben rolled his eyes, nodding with a laugh.
Leo’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes lighting up as if he hadn’t noticed you until now. “Sorry, I’m so rude!” he said, reaching out to shake your hand.
“Oh, of course, sorry. Leo, this is Quinn Armitage. She’s a writer for Draft.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Quinn,” he said, looking you up and down, far less subtly than Ben had.
You shook his hand with a smile, catching a fleck of irritation on Ben’s face. “Likewise. And congratulations on your Oscar win.”
“Ah, thank you very much.” He took a step back, his eyes bouncing between the two of you. “So are you here together, or?”
“No,” Ben replied, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the speed of his response. “Quinn wrote a piece on me at the end of last year. We were just catching up.”
“Oh right.” He seemed pleased to learn you were there alone, his interest in you piquing, attention lingering on your face. “So you’re here for work then?”
You nodded, watching Ben’s jaw tighten from the corner of your eye, like he was grinding his teeth. You held back a grin; the sight of him ruffled was a rarity, and you couldn’t help but take some pleasure in it.
“Well you should join me at my table,” said Leo. “It’s near the front, a much better spot for you to get some good material.”
You glanced up at Ben, the slight flush in his cheeks, how hard he was having to work to stay calm. He was jealous. You liked it.
“Yeah,” you said with a smile. “That sounds good, I’ll take you up on that offer.”
He gestured for you to follow him, and you did, meeting Ben’s gaze as you stepped aside and began to walk away. You couldn’t hold back the smirk as you watched his eyes darken, a silent warning etched on his stony, unamused face.
You followed Leo to his table, the weight of Ben’s eyes heavy on the back of your neck. You couldn’t help but feel excited, perhaps even satisfied; Leo’s sudden interest in you was undeniably flattering, and Ben’s barely contained jealousy made it all the more enjoyable.
He pulled out a chair for you and you thanked him as you sat down. The view was indeed better from here; the stage only feet away, every guest visible with the turn of your head. He took a seat beside you, getting comfortable as he chatted casually to the other people around the table.
Then he turned to you, snatching you out of a daze.
“So is this what you do for Draft then?” he asked. “Report on parties and events and stuff?”
“Well I’m a staff writer, so I pretty much just do what I’m told,” you said, your voice laced with cynicism.
He smiled. “I sense some… unrest.”
“You could say that.” You drank down the dregs of your champagne, twirling the stem of the flute between your fingers.
He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head as he looked at you with narrowed eyes, an amused smirk creating a deep dimple in his cheek. “Let me guess, you’re trying to work your way into serious journalism, but all they’re giving you is celebrity gossip and… listicles.”
You pressed your lips together, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “I wrote this piece - it’s my best work to date - put it forward for an op ed but they weren’t interested. Sent me here instead.”
“Y’know, this industry is… brutal. You fight to be heard, to have your work taken seriously, amplified, given the platform you know it deserves. Then you finally get recognised for that work after years and years of graft, and yet somehow it still ends up overshadowed by how fuckable women on the internet think you are.”
“You are quite fuckable though, to be fair,” you replied bluntly.
He dropped his head to disguise a laugh, before composing himself again, lifting his head to meet your gaze. He stretched his arm along the back of your chair to lean in closer, speaking quietly. “What I’m saying is that no one in this industry gets anything without going over heads and stepping on toes. It’s a fight. And even when you get to the top, you have to claw at it if you want to stay there. It’s like… the Hunger Games but for losers who watched the news too much as kids.”
You gave a slight smile, allowing a quick glance over your shoulder to Ben’s table where he sat fidgeting with his hands, watching you beneath a heavy brow. You looked down at Leo’s arm draped behind you, your smile quickly turning into a smirk.
You leaned in closer to Leo, mirroring the intensity of his gaze. “So you’re saying the only way I’m going to transition to serious journalism is if I… play dirty?”
“Exactly,” he replied in a low, husky voice.
“How do you suggest I do that?”
He thought for a moment, running his tongue across his top teeth. “When I first started making docs, I got turned down by every production company, every channel and network. No one would give me a penny, wouldn’t even agree to broadcast. So I said fuck it, went out there with my camera, whatever money I had in my account and I made them anyway. Then when these companies saw that people actually gave a shit about the things I was documenting, they came running to me .”
“So you’re saying I just go rogue?”
“Potentially.”
“Hm. There’s just one problem with that; there’s this thing called rent, and erm… needing to eat…” you said sarcastically.
He laughed. “I’m not saying you go and quit Draft and start a fucking blog or something. I’m saying… check out. Quietly quit , as they say. Attend the fancy events, write the fluffy articles, do whatever you need to do to keep your affiliation with the magazine and use it to your advantage.” He reached up and took your chin between his finger and thumb, turning your head towards the sea of tables behind you. “See all of these people? Actors, producers, investors. You have direct access to them all right now. You could charm and persuade and get numbers in your phone and your name on people’s radars. And all you have to do in exchange is write a silly little article about their clothes and how they spend their evening.”
You turned your head back to him slowly; his insight like an epiphany, turning the banality of your surroundings to an abundance of possibility. Ten minutes ago this man was a stranger, yet now here he was with his face inches from yours, giving you the best advice you’d ever heard.
“Let me interview you,” you said.
He leaned back, brow furrowed in curiosity.
“What? I’ve made a connection and I’m using it to my advantage.” You shrugged. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
The corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Fair play. Though, an interview… with Draft …” He scrunched his nose with scepticism.
“I won’t write anything about your looks. Won’t ask a single question about anything other than your work.”
“It’s tempting,” he replied with a hum.
The lights of the hall dimmed as a single, bright spotlight illuminated the stage. A woman stepped up to the microphone holding a stack of cue cards and clearing her throat. Leo turned away from you to listen, and you felt your chest heave with a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. He was intense. Beguiling, even.
“Welcome everybody,” said the woman, her voice creating a screech of feedback through the speaker. She took a step away from the mic with an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you so much for coming…”
Your phone buzzed inside the clutch bag on your lap as the woman continued to speak. You dug it out and opened the message waiting on the screen.
I know what you’re doing.
You subtly turned your head, giving Ben a mischievous wink from across the dark hall.
What am I doing? you replied.
Flirting. Stop it. Now.
Your stomach fluttered as you pictured the tension in his fingers as he typed each word, the firmness of his jaw as he grit his teeth.
Flirting???
Quinn. I’m serious.
Not my fault he fancies me. I’m actually quite enjoying the attention.
As if on cue, Leo turned his attention back to you, leaning in to speak directly into your ear. “What’s so interesting on your phone?” His breath was warm against your skin, his hushed tone filled with playful curiosity.
You looked over at Ben again, smiling as you put the phone face down on the table, turning your attention back to Leo. “Nothing.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I was losing your attention so soon.”
The woman on stage continued her speech, her words fading to a muffled hum as you lost yourself in the game you couldn’t resist playing.
“You haven’t lost my attention,” you said, keeping your voice low. “I still want that interview.”
He chuckled. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” He leaned in again, his lips almost brushing your ear. “But I don’t think a formal interview is what you really want from me…”
Your heart began to race, his proximity sending shivers down your spine. You could sense the shift in his demeanour, the hunger in his eyes. If this had been a year earlier, you were sure you’d have ended up in Leo’s bed by the end of the night. But instead, you found yourself more thrilled by the idea of Ben watching you; the power you wielded to make his blood boil from across a crowded room.
“What else could I possibly want?” you murmured, tilting your head slightly towards Leo, your lips nearly grazing his cheek.
He let out a low, throaty laugh, his hand sliding from the back of your chair to your thigh. You wondered how far you could take things before your actions became indefensible, before the flirting verged beyond a game and evolved into something less playful.
“I have a feeling there’s a lot of things you want.” His touch was soft yet bold, his fingers tracing swirls that tickled, even through the material of your dress. “Some I might be able to… help you with.”
You bit your lip, unable to hold back a smirk, before leaning in close. “And here I was, thinking you invited me to sit at your table because you wanted to do a good deed for a struggling journalist.” You pressed your lips to his ear. “Turns out you just wanted to fuck me.”
He turned his head to look at you, his face so close you could feel his breath. “Can I not want both?”
“You can,” you replied simply. “Doesn’t mean you’re going to get it though.”
The room erupted with applause, quelling the tension between you as you turned your attention to the stage. A young woman made her way to the microphone with a guitar in hand. She smiled shyly as she waited for the clapping to fade, before pressing her fingers to the strings and beginning to play.
~*~
Your palms were beginning to itch; every speech and performance receiving a lengthier round of applause than the last. You had no choice but to join in with it, no matter how boring or mediocre you thought it was, putting down your little notebook and pen with a quiet groan to bring your hands together in feigned appreciation.
You’d been nursing your second glass of champagne for most of the evening, knowing it was your last and taking small sips to savour it. Julia warned you not to get drunk, and you’d taken offence to the insinuation that you couldn’t be trusted to stay professional. But when you realised Leo’s arm was still draped along the back of your chair, you thought perhaps she’d had a point.
The last wave of applause rippled across the room as the host made her way offstage; the spotlight dimming, chandeliers regaining their warm glow as the atmosphere began to relax, the hum of conversation drifting through the air like a sigh of relief. You skimmed over the pages in your book, trying to decipher the chaotic notes you’d scrawled in the dark when Leo turned to look at you.
“Get everything you need?” he asked, nodding to your notebook.
“Eh, I’ll probably have to employ some creative writing here and there,” you replied as you looked up at him.
He smirked. “You weren’t paying attention to any of it, were you.”
“More than I would have if I were back there at the press table.”
“Well it’s a good job I had a spare seat.”
“Mm.” You allowed your gaze to flit from his eyes to his lips and back again, just enough to keep him interested. “I better do a few rounds, get some quotes from people before they start to leave.”
Mingling had never been your thing, the idea of approaching strangers or interrupting conversations creating a pit of dread in your stomach that made your skin clammy and your mouth dry. Usually you came with someone else; dragged Nick along or found yourself on assignment with another writer who would do most of the talking. This time, you had no choice. .
You moved around the hall, weaving through a maze of tables as you searched for targets. And with each interaction, it became easier. You took quotes from a table of theatre directors, had surreal conversations with celebrities, and when you finally plucked up the courage to speak to Olivia Colman, the only thing you managed to write down was ‘aaahhhh’.
You took a moment to breathe, scanning the room to see Ben still at his table, deep in conversation with another actor you vaguely recognised. You watched him for a moment, noticing how his usually easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, how he kept brushing the tips of his fingers over his bottom lip. To anyone else, he seemed happy, comfortable. But to you, it was clear he wasn’t nearly as composed as he appeared.
You made your way over, navigating the scattered chairs and waiters topping up champagne until you were close enough to hear their voices.
“...and everyone I’ve spoken to about it has said I should do it,” the other man was saying. “But it’s just such a big commitment.”
Ben nodded, his eyes flickering in your direction for just a moment. “It is a lot. But you’ve just got to weigh up the pros and cons…”
He trailed off as you finally made it to their table, turning his attention to you as though he hadn’t known you were coming.
“Sorry for interrupting,” you said as you cleared your throat and held up your notebook. “My name’s Quinn, I’m a writer for Draft Magazine. I was hoping I could steal you for a second to ask a few questions?”
His eyes stayed on you for a moment before returning to the actor beside him. “Sorry.”
“Ah no worries, duty calls.”
“But if you want my honest opinion, I think you should go for it.”
The man smiled appreciatively as he rose to his feet, raising his glass in a mock salute before walking away.
You quickly sat in his place; the seat was still warm, turned towards Ben at an awkward angle. You shifted it further to face him, leaning back with the notebook in your lap.
“Hi,” you finally said, holding back a smile.
“Hi,” he replied, his face calm, tone unreadable.
“So, the question I have for you is…” you flicked to another page. “Do you have any thoughts on how we as a society, and as individuals, can foster the arts in ways that don’t involve funding or monetary-”
“What the fuck was that?” he interrupted quietly, gesturing subtly towards Leo’s table across the hall.
“What was what?” you replied casually, defiantly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he mirrored your posture, leaning back in his chair and lowering his chin slightly, his eyes darkening beneath the shadow of his brow. “His hands were all over you…”
“So?”
“ So you knew exactly what you were doing.”
Your stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. You cocked your head, widening your eyes to feign innocence. “What was I doing?”
“Trying to piss me off.”
You pushed out your bottom lip. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous-?” He exhaled a laugh through his nose. But there was no amusement in it. Then he lowered his voice. “I was jealous when I saw him eyeing you up. I was jealous when he invited you to sit at his table. But now? I’m not jealous, I’m furious .”
You regarded him for a moment, taking undeniable pleasure in his silent rage. But when you finally opened your mouth to speak, a hand on your shoulder made you still.
You looked up to see Leo standing at your side, glancing down at both of you with a charming smile.
“Sorry for interrupting,” he said. “Quinn, my team and I are heading to an afterparty at the Edition. I wondered if you wanted to join me?”
“Oh, I…” you looked at Ben, then back up to Leo. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’m still working.”
“Your boss doesn’t have to know…”
You breathed out a laugh. “No really, I think I’m going to be good for once and actually do my job.”
“Or you could come with me to the afterparty and start being good tomorrow…”
“She said no,” Ben interjected firmly.
It caught you off guard, raising the hairs on your arms and sending a shiver down your spine. It was his unexpected harshness paired with a friendly smile, the restraint it was clearly taking him to keep his cool.
Leo seemed taken aback too, turning to him with raised brows and parted lips, like he wanted to speak but had no idea what to say. He eventually gave up with an understanding nod, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card.
“Give me a call some time,” he said as he handed it to you. “If you want, of course.”
You took it with a smile, waiting for him to walk away before turning your attention back to Ben.
“That was rude of you,” you said.
“Sorry… Rude of me ?”
You rolled your eyes and slid the card between the pages of your notebook.
“Are you really keeping that?” Ben asked.
“He’s a documentary maker, I’m a journalist. It might come in handy.”
He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he continued to glare at you.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you weren’t joking when you said you were furious…”
“No. I wasn’t. I told you the mind games and manipulation wouldn’t fly with me. I told you that.”
“You are taking this way too seriously.”
He leaned forward suddenly, his movement sharp, teeth clenched. “Too-” But he stopped himself, pressing his lips together and looking around the bustling hall as he slowly reclined again. “We’re leaving.”
You furrowed your brow as you watched him stand up. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’m working, I can’t leave yet.”
“I said we’re going.”
You hadn’t seen him like this since the first night you met. You’d almost forgotten he was capable of it; the hard angles and stern tone, the dominance of his demand sending a flutter through your core. The thrill of it was undeniable, but his anger was palpable, making you stutter as you tried to speak.
“Ben, I’m- I’m not-”
“Now.”
You yielded with a sigh, shoving everything into your bag and tucking it under your arm as you rose to your feet. Your heart was pounding as you began to follow him, almost tripping over the leg of your chair as you went. He didn’t speak as he made his way to the exit of the hall, his fist opening and closing at his side in a steady rhythm, face brightening with a polite smile whenever someone greeted him as he passed.
He gripped your wrist as you neared the exit, leading you out into the large, echoing foyer. The indelicacy of his touch surprised you, flooding you with a fleeting rush of panic, like a child preparing to be scolded once their parents got them home.
Your heels clicked against the marble floor, your quick, uneven footsteps struggling to keep up with his long strides as he walked you towards a quiet, hidden corner.
“Don’t you need to tell people you’re leaving?” you asked. “Like your publicist or whoever you came with?”
“I came alone,” he replied, stopping once you were out of sight.
“Really? Why?”
“Because I drove here.” He glanced over his shoulder, assessing the paparazzi as they waited outside. “You’re going to go and wait for me by the car. I’ll follow in a couple of minutes.”
You did as you were told, emerging into the mild spring night and slipping through the chaos with ease. When you got to Ben’s car, you waited with your arms folded over your chest, watching from a distance as an explosion of camera flashes illuminated the darkness like fireworks.
You pressed your lips into a straight lined smile when he finally reached you, hurrying around to the driver’s side without a word. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been followed. You raised onto your tiptoes to look at him over the top of the car, breathing out a laugh when he almost scowled back.
“Are you seriously still annoyed with me?” you asked.
“Of course I am,” he replied. “I can barely look at you right now.”
He slipped into the car and pulled the door closed. You paused for a moment before deciding to climb into the back seat instead.
He looked at you in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“You said you didn’t want to look at me,” you replied brattishly. “You don’t have to if I’m back here.”
He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated breath. “Get in the front.”
You thought about defying his demand, but you quickly gave in; choosing to clamber arduously over the centre console instead of getting out, purely to annoy him that little bit more. You settled into the front passenger seat, turning to look at him as you dragged the seatbelt across your chest.
He drove in silence at first, the journey ebbing and flowing between heavy traffic and dark, deserted streets. You’d been waiting for him to speak, but with each silent wait at a red light, you found yourself growing impatient. He turned his head towards you, and you glanced back at him hopefully, only to realise he was looking past you, checking the road was clear before driving across it.
You huffed. “Fine, you win, I apologise for flirting with the sexy man, alright? Can you stop acting like I slapped your mum now?”
“You really don’t get why I’m pissed off, do you.”
“He was just giving me career advice-”
“ Career advice ? What career advice requires him to touch you like that? To whisper in your ear, run his hand up your thigh?”
You couldn’t resist; the old Quinn taking over with a shrug and a surly glare. “I was just having a bit of fun-”
A deep growl rumbled in his throat, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. “Nothing about that was fun .”
“Maybe not for you …”
“Quinn. I swear to god.”
You threw your head back and let out a groan. “It was flirting, Ben. He clearly fancied me and I took the opportunity to tease you, wind you up-”
“Oh yeah, and I’m sure you got no pleasure out of it whatsoever,” he quipped cynically.
“Oh I’m so sorry,” you said sarcastically. “Y’know, it’s almost like I haven’t gone the past four months without sex because the man I’m seeing refuses to touch me anywhere below the fucking neck. I mean, Jesus, I’ve been masturbating so much I could give a teenage boy a run for his money; forgive me for indulging in a bit of physical affection for one night.”
“So you did like him then...”
“No, Ben-” You stopped yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting out an exasperated breath. But when you composed yourself again, your brows came together in sudden realisation. “Actually, what if I did?”
He took his eyes off the road for a second, glancing at you in confusion.
“What right would you have to tell me I couldn’t flirt with him? Couldn’t let him touch me?” You sat up straighter, turning your body towards him. “What if I wanted him to do that? What if I enjoyed sitting with him and decided I wanted to go to that afterparty? What authority would you have to tell me I couldn’t?”
He rolled his eyes.
“What if I went with him? Danced, drank, let him take me home, undress me, kiss me…”
Your words were getting to him; crawling under his skin, making him roll his shoulders like he was trying to shrug the image away.
“I mean, you said it yourself to whatshisface back at the gala; I’m just Quinn, the journalist you met once back in November. Why would you care who else I fuck?”
He turned the wheel sharply, pulling the car into a layby with a sudden stop. It was dark, void of streetlights, thick trees lining both sides of the road. You jerked forward as he broke, the seatbelt pressing firmly against your chest.
“Jesus Christ, Ben.”
He shut off the engine and turned in his seat to face you. “You know full well that neither of us want people to know about this. You don’t get to use it against me to justify flirting with someone else.”
“I flirted with him to annoy you. Clearly it worked… A bit too well.”
“But why? Why would you think I’d find that amusing?” His voice was raised, his hands moving in time with his words.
“I didn’t. I thought I’d find it amusing.”
He growled, letting out a hot angry breath through his nose. “You are the most infuriating fucking person.”
“Then why have you stuck around for this long?”
“Why have you ? If taking it slow and doing things right has been such a fucking chore for you then why are you still bothering?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he didn’t give you the chance, unclipping his seatbelt to lean in closer.
“I’ll tell you why. It’s because you know I’m the only man who’s ever been able to handle you. Who sees you for who you really are and likes it.”
Your heart began to race, your back pressing against the passenger door. He was right, and you hated it.
“Because even though I haven’t touched you in four months , you still aren’t bored of me.” His voice was dangerously soft now, his eyes fixed on yours. “Because even as another man threw himself at you tonight, you still found yourself looking for me .”
“So if that’s what you think, why do you care that I let him touch me?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Because I don’t like watching someone else touch what’s mine.”
You swallowed hard, your defiance faltering as his words sank in. He was so close now, one arm outstretched along the back of your seat, the other holding back the urge to reach out and touch you.
Your eyes flitted from his face to his crotch then back again. “You want to fuck me right now, don’t you…”
His gaze flickered with something dark, primal. He exhaled slowly, the angles of his face sharp with anger, partly with you, but mostly with himself.
A rush of excitement flooded through you as he reached out to cup your face, pulling you into a sudden, intense kiss. You could feel his possessiveness; the way his lips moved with a firm pressure, tongue sweeping impatiently into your mouth.
You fumbled for your seatbelt, unfastening it quickly and letting it snap back against the door, your hands immediately snaking around the back of his neck, pulling yourself into him. His hand dropped to your side, his touch rough, almost painful as he pressed and squeezed his fingertips into your waist. You felt him pulling you closer, his body radiating a heat that almost made it hard to breathe. His hand travelled lower, pushing up the material of your dress and allowing his fingers to graze the bare skin of your thighs. He ran his palm over the place Leo had touched, as though he was cleansing you of it, wiping it away and replacing it with his own.
You’d been starved for so long that even his hand on your thigh made you tremble, a soft moan escaping your parted lips as he kissed you. The sound stirred something in him, and in moments you found yourself straddling his lap in the driver’s seat.
He was hard. You could feel it straining beneath his trousers, pressing against your centre as you tangled your fingers in his hair, your breaths hot and heavy, anger and lust fogging the windows like steam. You rolled your hips, the steering wheel letting out a short, loud beep as your backside knocked against it. But neither of you paid it any attention, giving in to the fevered, passionate release you’d been denying yourselves for so long.
His hands settled on your hips, gripping you firmly as he pushed himself against you, the friction drawing a satisfied groan from his throat. You’d missed those sounds, the way it felt to have him desperate to fill you. But you knew he was losing himself, intoxicated by his own frustration. You were in a car, parked on the side of a quiet, winding road. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be, and you weren’t sure it was how you wanted it to be either.
You broke away, letting your head fall back as he began traipsing hot, hungry kisses down your neck. “Ben,” you whispered breathlessly. “If we go any further I won’t be able to stop.”
You felt him pause, his lips still, breath tickling your skin.
“This isn’t how you wanted it to be,” you said softly, masking your disappointment. “We need to stop.”
He lowered his forehead to rest on your collarbone, letting out a quiet sigh. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with lust.
He pulled away from you, his hand lingering on your waist for a second longer before finally letting go. He sat back, his head tilting against the headrest as he closed his eyes, trying to compose himself.
You slid off his lap, climbing back into the passenger seat and fixing your dress. You looked over at him, watching him in silence, fearful of what awaited you when he finally opened his eyes. You’d spent four months wanting nothing more than to see him break, to give in to you, and if it were anyone else, you would have taken full advantage of this lapse in judgement. But you couldn’t.
The silence was awkward, moonlight casting a soft glow through the steamy windows, your slowing breaths providing the only sound. When he finally looked at you, there was a clarity in his expression; his jaw softening, eyes rounding.
“Thank you,” he said.
There was something about the way he said it, like your restraint had renewed his faith in you, shifted something inside him.
You nodded slightly, reaching behind you for your seatbelt.
He nodded back, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer before finally starting the car again. The engine rumbled and he leaned forward to wipe the windshield, using his sleeve to clear it.
The tension remained as he drove, but it was different now. He was no longer angry, and you no longer cared to push his buttons. After a while, you gathered he was taking you to his house, and it filled you with a sense of relief you couldn’t quite explain.
The road was empty, quiet, yet still the traffic light turned red. He slowed to a stop, resting his hand on the gearstick as he waited for it to change.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “About Leo. I really was just teasing you. I never would have-”
He reached out and took your hand in his without a word, giving it a gentle squeeze. You relaxed back into your seat, looking down at your intertwined fingers as they rested in your lap.
Chapter 22: XXII
Chapter Text
It had been a while since you’d seen him smoke, and you assumed it was because he’d finally managed to quit. So when you saw him heading for the back door before you’d even taken off your heels, you felt guilty. Like the stress you’d put him through had driven him to take up the habit again.
You stood in the kitchen, elbows resting on the island as you looked down at your notes from the evening. The faint smell of cigarette smoke drifted in through the crack in the sliding glass door, but you didn’t mind it; coming to take comfort in the aroma whenever it came from him.
You rolled the balls of your bare feet over the tiles, rising onto your tiptoes and down again in a lazy rhythm, relieving the dull ache your shoes had left behind. The notes were messy, jumbled and incoherent at points. You stood there, armed with your pen, deciphering the pages like a secret code, writing annotations in the margins and circling anything remotely salvageable.
The door slid open and Ben stepped into the kitchen, shaking off the late night cold as he locked it behind him. He was still in his suit, the heels of his shoes clicking across the floor as he made his way towards you. You watched as he shrugged off his blazer and lay it on the edge of the island before unbuttoning his collar and loosening his tie.
“You write like a doctor,” he said as he glanced at your notebook over your shoulder.
You laughed softly. “It was dark in there.”
His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers gently pressing into knots of tension you didn’t realise were there. You sighed, closing your eyes and letting your head roll from side to side. He sensed your relief, bringing his other hand up to massage your shoulders more firmly.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said quietly.
“Hm?” you replied, too preoccupied with the satisfying pressure of his hands.
“You were right, I overreacted. I got jealous and I took it out on you.”
“It was my fault for making you jealous in the first place though…”
“Yeah but the way I responded… It was… I don’t like how I behaved.”
“I found it quite sexy.”
He chuckled, letting go of you and moving to lean against the island beside you. “How did I know you were going to say something like that?”
You looked up at him with a slight smirk.
“But really,” he continued earnestly. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to get so… possessive of you.”
Your smile remained.
He shook his head with a breathy laugh. “Don’t say you liked it.”
“Okay,” you said simply, turning your attention back to your notes.
He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at your book. “Do you want me to answer that question now?”
You looked back up at him. “Really?”
“Sure.” He walked around the island towards the sink. “Go for it.”
You flicked to a blank page, pen poised between finger and thumb. “Okay… So, do you have any thoughts on how we as a society, and as individuals, can foster the arts in ways that don’t involve funding or monetary contributions?”
He hummed in thought as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, running the hot tap and beginning to wash the small pile of dishes he’d left in the sink. “It’s hard isn’t it; the arts are so reliant on investment. Even at school level, art, drama, music, they’re viewed as luxuries, superfluous even...”
He continued to speak, his voice so engaging, his words so eloquent and insightful. But you found yourself more focused on what he was doing; the way he looked as he stood at the sink, so relaxed, domesticated, real. You never thought you could find a man washing dishes attractive, but there was something about the scene before you that made your stomach flutter. It was the intimacy of it, the undone collar and rolled up sleeves, the comfort he felt in your presence, the beautiful mundanity of it all.
He turned around, shaking the water off his hands and reaching for a tea towel. You glanced up, meeting his gaze and watching as a smile crept across his face.
“You weren’t listening to a word of that, were you,” he said.
“Sorry,” you replied with a shy laugh. “Got distracted.”
He paused for a moment as he looked at you; watching you watch him, a curious glint in his eye. “What?”
You shook your head, reaching for your bag. “Nothing. Tell me your answer again. I’ll just record it this time.”
“What distracted you?” he laughed.
“Just you,” you replied. “Doing… regular things.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s nice.” You shrugged. “Makes it feel like we’re…”
He waited for you to finish. But you didn’t. So instead he spoke for you. “A couple…?”
“Well I don’t know. Do couples interview each other for magazines while doing the dishes?”
He chuckled, eyes crinkling, cheeks creasing with the smile lines you loved so much.
You picked up your pen, twirling it between your fingers for a moment before beginning to write, aimlessly scrawling the date across the top of the page, going over it multiple times until the paper began to tear.
“Quinn,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
“Mhm?” you replied without looking up.
He made his way back over to you, stopping at your side and placing a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head up to him.
“We are sort of a couple,” he said, like he was breaking bad news to you. Yet there was a slight amusement in his tone, finding humour in your sudden unease.
You licked your lips, pressing them together firmly as you gazed up at him. “How do you figure?”
He breathed out a laugh. “Because what’s the phrase? If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it’s probably a duck.”
“Are you saying I waddle when I walk?”
He laughed again, more heartily this time, the sound rumbling in the base of his throat. “You know full well that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying this …” He gestured between you. “Coming home together at the end of a night out, fighting in the car, making up in the kitchen, knowing how you like your coffee, what days you have off work, what side of the bed you prefer to sleep on… There’s only one person I have that with, and I hate to break it to you, but it’s you .”
You rolled your eyes at the hint of sarcasm in his tone, how he whispered the last few words. But you couldn’t help the slight smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“And honestly,” he continued, tilting his head to catch your gaze again. “There’s no one else I want to have that with.”
You looked up at him, searching his eyes for a moment before shaking your head, a rare fleck of vulnerability in your voice. “Why me?”
He shifted closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with his fingers. You felt your heartbeat quicken in response; the softness of his touch and sudden sincerity in his expression flooding you with a sense of anticipation.
He swallowed. “Because… I love-”
“Don’t you dare.”
He breathed out a laugh. “Wh-”
You held up your finger to silence him, taking a step back like an animal preparing to scarper.
“Quinn,” he chuckled.
“Ben.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
You made your way slowly around the kitchen, putting the island between you like a barrier. He raised his brow with a laugh, shaking his head at you.
“Okay,” he finally said, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay fine. I won’t say it.”
You glared at him, watching as he let out a quiet sigh of defeat, though his eyes sparkled with humour as you continued to shuffle around the island. He took a small step in your direction, arms still raised. But you knew better than to trust it; the smirk on his face giving him away.
“Then why are you coming closer?” you replied.
“God, you really know how to make a man feel wanted,” he said sarcastically, continuing to move towards you with slow, fluid steps.
“I just don’t want you to say anything you’ll regret.”
“Mm.” He stilled for a moment, pretending to ponder, before darting around the counter.
You yelped in surprise and turned to run away, but he was too swift, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you back against him.
“Fucking hell you’re fast,” you laughed breathlessly.
He leaned down, bringing his lips close to your ear. “I always get what I want.”
You squirmed in his arms and he tightened his grip, just enough to still you. You let your head fall back against his chest in defeat, blowing out an exaggerated huff. His laugh was deep and warm beside your ear as he slid his hands down to rest on your hips, sending a sudden nervous thrill to your core. Then he turned you around, bringing his hands up to cup your face, thumbs tracing soft circles over your cheeks as he leaned down to kiss you.
You welcomed it eagerly, sliding your arms around his waist and gripping the material of his shirt in your fists to pull him flush against you. His mouth moved over yours slowly, deeply, the pressure of his kiss flooding you with a warmth that made every touch feel like fire, every breath like steam as it escaped between your parted lips. But you could feel him holding back, as though he was testing each movement, waiting for a sign to let go.
He pulled back, breathing heavily as his forehead rested against yours, the same look of admiration on his flushed face.
“Don’t say it,” you whispered, emphasising each word.
He exhaled a long, slow huff through his nose, the slightest smirk at the corner of his mouth. His hands drifted down from your face, fingers tracing lightly over your neck, along your shoulders and down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
“Alright then, I won’t say it,” he murmured, his voice deep and hoarse. Then he paused, drawing out the silence between you until it was almost unbearable. “What I will say is that I think we should go upstairs…”
You felt a ripple of excitement in your stomach, his tone laced with a hunger that made it impossible to misinterpret. He stepped back and took your hand in his, watching you, waiting for you to respond, his thumb idly grazing over your knuckles.
“Unless you’re too tired?” he added, tilting his head slightly.
You swallowed, the tension between you so heavy that the only response you could muster was a shake of your head.
He smiled, gently tugging you towards him, sending a sudden wave of nerves to the pit of your stomach. Your heartbeat quickened as he led you upstairs, as though you’d forgotten what this part felt like; how exciting yet terrifying it could be. Thrilling and intimidating, all at once.
He kept his hands on you the entire time, refusing to break the connection, even as he opened and closed the bedroom door. You kissed him eagerly as he walked you backwards to the bed, his lips warm and firm against yours, fingers digging into your waist to keep you close.
Your hands moved up his arms and over his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles under the fabric of his shirt. It made you hesitate for a moment, trying to speak against his lips.
“Are y- sure- about this?” The words came out broken and breathless, punctuated by his continuous, fervent kisses.
“Certain,” he whispered impatiently, falling with you onto the bed, the weight of his body sinking you into the mattress.
He slid a hand to your neck, his thumb pressing against the base of your throat as he continued to kiss you. You moaned as the pressure stifled your breath, making you buck your hips in a desperate search for friction.
A groan escaped him, but instead of holding back like you’d come to expect, he gave in to it; parting your legs with his thighs and settling between them, allowing you to grind against the erection straining beneath his trousers.
“You don’t know how hard it’s been to resist you,” he mumbled, traipsing kisses from your cheek to your jaw.
“So what’s changed now?” you replied, voice barely audible over the sound of your heavy breaths.
His lips moved from your jaw to your ear. “Now we’re a couple.”
You let out a soft laugh. “I never actually agreed to that…”
“I’m sure I’ll have you agreeing soon.”
He took his time, fingers gently caressing your body over the material of your dress. His movements were slow, lingering, deliberate and unhurried as he traced the outline of your curves, letting each touch build and settle before moving onto the next.
You reached up to unbutton his shirt as he unravelled his tie, whipping it from around his neck and throwing it to the ground. You pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, hands moving to roam his bare chest as he shrugged it off completely.
It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen him shirtless over the last four months; you were all too familiar with the feeling of his chest beneath your palms, how your fingers moved over the dips and rivets of his torso. But tonight it felt different, somehow, like your touch was charged. You could feel his heartbeat through his chest, the flex of his muscles with even the slightest movement.
He was softer than when you’d first met, no strict movie routine keeping him lean and toned. But that softness made you want him even more; his body a testimony of the comfort and security he felt with you. There was still a firmness to him, his frame a perfect mixture of hard and yielding; thick arms and a broad chest that caged you beneath him, soft stomach that moulded to your body as he held you close.
You both knew you liked it when he took control. And he liked it too; his generosity and commitment to your pleasure so allconsuming that he would gladly lose himself in it completely. You knew the moment he delved beneath your dress, it would be almost impossible to pull him back, to make him pause long enough for you to indulge in him. You wanted to show him what he’d missed, make him feel how much you’d yearned for this intimacy.
And so you pushed gently on his chest, silently instructing him to sit up. His brows came together in a moment of confusion, but he didn’t resist, allowing you to direct him until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands working to unbutton his trousers. He shifted, helping you slip them down, freeing him from his underwear and giving a quiet sigh of relief.
You wrapped a hand around his cock, glancing up to see his face tense with anticipation. It didn’t seem to matter how light your touch was, how slow or vigorous you stroked, it all had the same effect; turning his breath shallow, the angles of his face sharp in the dim light. Licking your lips, you brushed the stray pieces of hair out of your face, before leaning forward and finally taking him in your mouth.
His eyes rolled, head falling back in bliss as he let out a deep, gratified groan. You’d missed those sounds; always delighting in his willingness to make noise, and longing for it in your abstinence. You worked your mouth over him, lips and tongue drawing the most delicious sounds from the base of his chest, and whenever your hair fell back into your face, you would brush it away quickly, trying to keep a steady rhythm as your hand and mouth moved together along the length of his cock.
The next time your hair fell, he noticed before you could fix it, gathering the loose strands in his fists and holding them back for you. His grip tightened as he began to guide your head, but he remained gentle, reserved, letting you stay in control. The feeling of his fingers tangled in your hair made you ache for the power you knew he was capable of, desire pooling between your legs as he silently directed you, swearing under his breath and gazing down at you in awe.
His composure waned, just for a moment, hips thrusting his full length to the back of your throat. You choked slightly and he gave a low growl in response, his voice resonating deep in your core. And though you hadn’t planned to stop, you didn’t protest when he drew back, pulling you up into a deep, ravenous kiss.
Your body hummed with desire, skin tingling, stomach coiling as he guided you to straddle his lap. His hands slid up your thighs beneath your dress, fingers digging into the flesh of your backside with a firm, eager pressure. You shifted your weight, grinding against his bare erection, but the barrier of your underwear stifled the friction, leaving you hot and frustrated,forced to bear down harder in a desperate search for relief.
He continued to kiss you as his fingers reached for the zip of your dress. You felt it coming undone slowly, the smooth journey from the back of your neck to the base of your spine making you shiver in anticipation. The material loosened and you slipped it off your shoulders, letting it fall down your arms and pool at your waist. He moved his lips to the newly exposed skin of your chest, planting hot kisses along your collarbones as he quickly unclasped your bra and tossed it to the ground.
He took a moment to take in the sight of you, your soft, untouched breasts like a delicacy he’d been craving but never let himself indulge in. You let out a quiet hiss when he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking on it roughly as he massaged your other breast with a firm hand. You couldn’t help but arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as you surrendered to the delicious ache, the arousal pooling between your legs.
You moaned as he moved between each breast; biting, licking, sucking, kissing, leaving no inch of you unmarred, no sensation unexplored. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pressing crescents into his skin, each sharp indentation drawing a growl from his throat, only spurring his fervour.
He rose to his feet, lifting you with him and turning around to lay you on the bed. You dragged your dress down and kicked it away, your eyes never breaking contact with him as he shed the last of his clothes and returned to you quickly. His hands caressed your bare body as you lay beneath him, his lips chasing every light, gentle stroke with a kiss.
He let out a slow, heavy breath as he ran his fingers over your underwear, the extent of your desire clear in the soaking wet cotton between your legs. You shivered when you felt him press his mouth to it, dragging his tongue along the outline of your pussy, like a hot, torturous promise of pleasure.
You whimpered softly, hips rocking, pushing yourself against his mouth with desperation.
“Please,” you whispered.
He didn’t tease, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and peeling it from you quickly. You watched as he seemed to admire your body, hands gliding over the most intimate parts of you in unashamed worship.
“Mine,” he muttered as he began pressing kisses to your inner thighs.
There was no space in this moment for you to deny his claim; no quip or sarcastic remark worthy of disrupting the intimacy between you. So instead you stayed quiet, letting him speak the word into your skin as he made his way to your centre. Your back arched when you felt his thumb along the seam of your pussy, the wet slick making it easy for him to glide through, every brush over your clit sending a jolt to your core.
His eyes were on you, watching your every reaction as he played with his speed, adjusting the pressure and rhythm of his touch until he found the spot that made you gasp. He pressed the pad of his thumb to your clit and began to massage it firmly, nipping his teeth at the inside of your thigh as you squirmed beneath him.
“I want you to tell me when you’re close,” he said, his tone dark and commanding.
You didn’t answer, too busy writhing against his touch to speak.
His thumb stilled as he stared up at you, waiting for a response.
You gasped at the sudden loss of stimulation, forcing yourself to look down at him. “Yes,” you said breathlessly. “Yes, I’ll tell you.”
He seemed satisfied, returning to circling your clit with his thumb as he began stroking himself with his other hand. You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows, watching him, taking pleasure in the way he looked as he touched himself, aroused by the mere sight of you spread beneath him.
He leaned down, his tongue making contact with your pussy for the first time, dragging through your folds as he let a satisfied hum vibrate against you. He drew your clit into his mouth, sucking on it gently and sending a deep shudder up your spine.
“Fuck,” you whispered, the word coming out broken and breathless.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, pressing yourself harder against his mouth with a heavy moan. He seemed to like it, burying his face deeper between your legs as he began to devour you, eating you out like he’d missed it, craved it.
You let your head fall back, eyes closing as you lost yourself in the feeling of his sweeping tongue and puckered lips, the way he swirled and sucked, flicked and dragged with expert precision. Your hands searched for something to anchor you; his hair, his shoulders, the duvet, even your own chest, your body rolling and shivering under his tireless rhythm.
You’d never forgotten the first time he did this; how mind blowing it had been, how he’d left you shaking, mewling, crying out as you came. And it never stopped surprising you, every time afterwards, the depths of pleasure his mouth was capable of. But even still, this time somehow surpassed it all.
You felt the familiar heat beginning to build, the trembling in your legs, the tightening in your muscles.
“I’m close,” you forced yourself to speak. “Fuck, I’m so close.”
He didn’t relent, but you could feel him adjusting his pace, softening the pressure of his ministrations just enough to keep you hanging on the edge, but careful to not push you over.
You whimpered, rolling your hips in a desperate search for release. But he was too controlled.
“Oh god, Ben please- Please don’t tease me, I can’t-”
He pulled his head back, returning his thumb to rub lazy circles over your clit. “Ssh, I’m not teasing,” he said softly. “I’m going to let you come. I just want to be inside you when you do.”
A wave of electricity coursed through you, his words alone almost unravelling you completely. He dipped his head down, granting himself a final taste of you before pulling back again. You watched as he let a string of saliva fall carefully from his pursed lips, dripping down over the entrance of your aching pussy.
“Oh, god,” you groaned, falling back against the mattress, unsure if you’d ever witnessed a more arousing sight.
He crawled up your body, positioning himself between your legs as he kissed your neck with an unexpected tenderness. You felt him reach down to line the head of his cock with your entrance, gliding it through the slick of saliva he’d left there before finally pushing into you.
The feeling of the first slide was still as breathtaking as you remembered; the fullness, the stretch, the pressure deep in your pelvis. He felt bigger than you remembered, or maybe you’d just gotten used to the size of your vibrator. But still, he sank into you with ease, your wetness drawing him in like he belonged there, making you gasp and reach out to grip his arms.
He groaned as he buried his entire length inside you, the sound a warm blend of rapture and relief. His voice was orgasmic as it poured into your ear, so delicious you were sure you could climax from the sound of it alone.
You bent your knees back, hooking your arms around the backs of his shoulders as he began to move. His thrusts were deep and steady, making you feel so full you thought he might break you. He turned his head to kiss you, adjusting his position slightly to reach your lips with more ease.
The shift in angle grazed your g-spot, stealing the breath from your lungs, your mouth falling open against his in shock.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, hands reaching for his backside to keep him exactly where you needed. “Keep doing that.”
“Fuck,” he growled as you tightened around him.
He dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck and you clung to him as he moved, hips drawing back and snapping forward repeatedly, staying right where you wanted him.
Something came over you; a sudden, overwhelming urge to give yourself to him. All of you, every thought, every cell, every word. You cupped his face, guiding him to look at you.
“I am yours,” you said between soft moans. “I am.”
He let out a heavy sigh, his control faltering for a moment as he looked down at you. He pressed his lips to yours again, kissing you as his thrusts grew harder, more intense, staying at the angle that sent ripples of pleasure through your belly. Your eyelids fluttered as the sensation grew stronger, a climax rising from your core like a wave until it overflowed, crashing through you before you even realised it was coming.
He continued to move, watching your face in awe as you came apart beneath him, drawing it out of you with long, firm strokes. Your legs shook, your bottom lip quivering as your walls tightened, your core throbbing with the echoes of your orgasm.
His pace slowed, the atmosphere between you shifting into something softer, more intimate, as though your bodies had transcended sex, melting into one another in a symbiotic, otherworldly connection. He kissed you tenderly as he rocked his hips, moaning quietly into your mouth as your hands curled around the back of his neck. And when he looked into your eyes again, his gaze held a depth that you couldn’t ignore.
You shook your head, gently pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it.”
He breathed out a soft laugh, gripping your wrist and kissing the side of your hand.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, urging him to get up. He moved you both smoothly, sitting up and pulling you to straddle his lap. You reached down, guiding him back inside you and sinking down on it, luxuriating in the groan that escaped him.
He felt different in this position - even bigger, somehow - the head of his cock kissing the very depths of you, almost taking your breath away. His hands found your hips, rocking you gently back and forth to control your speed. You held him close, arms draped over his shoulders as you kissed him passionately.
“I missed this,” you whispered.
He shivered slightly beneath you, and you could sense his composure slipping as he held you tighter, his forehead resting against yours.
“Don’t ever hold back from me again,” you added.
“I’m not sure I could if I wanted to,” he replied, breathing heavily.
You rocked forward, his cock sending a shockwave through your sensitive core. A moan fell from your open mouth, eyes closing tightly. He noticed your reaction, brushing your hair away from your face.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you replied, your voice quiet and breathless. “I can take it,” you added with a slight smirk, rolling your hips with an intentional roughness that elicited a deep growl in his chest.
His eyes glimmered with something hungrier, more primal, his body moving to meet the rhythm of your hips. He trailed a hand up to your neck as he kissed you, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your throat as he added more power to his thrusts, taking back the control.
You tore your lips from him, head falling back in utter bliss as you placed your hands over his, holding onto him as he bracketed your throat, fucking you hard as he sat beneath you. You choked out a moan, your insides coiling, pelvis flooding with hot, tingling pressure.
You felt yourself falling onto your back, and he moved with you, resting his elbows either side of your head as he continued the intense, forceful snap of his hips. He lay kisses along your neck, your jaw, before you felt his breath hot against your ear.
“Tell me again that you’re mine,” he said, his voice almost a growl.
You clutched at his back, nails dragging scratches down his soft, smooth skin. “I’m yours.”
The words seemed to push him over the edge, his rhythm quickening until another orgasm tore through you. He groaned as you tensed around him, willing himself to hold on, to coax every last drop of pleasure from you before allowing himself to falter. It was only when your limbs turned heavy, your breaths coming in short, gasping whimpers, that he finally let himself go, sinking his full length into you with a moan and filling you with his own release.
You clung to him. His back was hot, coated in a layer of sweat and veins of scratches from your nails. He lay panting in your arms, face buried in the crook of your neck as he let his full weight drape over your body. You liked the heaviness of him, the feeling of his chest rising and falling against yours, the span of his arms as they curved either side of your head.
The room settled into a comfortable silence, your breaths slowly returning to normal, the cloud of lust dissipating, making room for clarity. He shifted to pull out of you but you tightened your hold on him, keeping him in place between your legs.
“No not yet,” you muttered. “Just stay here for a minute.”
He chuckled, yielding to you and relaxing back down. But after a moment, he moved again.
“I’m getting cramp in my leg,” he grumbled.
You rolled your eyes with a smile and released your hold on him, letting him pull out of you carefully and sit at your feet. You sat up slightly, watching as he stretched his leg, wincing as he massaged his calf.
He breathed out a sigh when the pain subsided, looking at you with an almost shy smile. His face was flushed, you could tell even in the dim light of the room, making it hard to connect this version of him to the one who’d left you feeling so sore and spent just minutes ago.
He crawled over to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before flopping down beside you. You giggled and lay down next to him, nestling against his side as he wrapped an arm around you.
“So, that had nothing to do with seeing another guy try it on with me tonight?” you teased.
“Nothing at all,” he replied with a smirk.
You laughed sleepily, letting your heavy lids settle closed, listening to the sound of his breaths as he played with a loose tendril of your hair. You felt so content, so deeply at ease that even your mind couldn’t bring itself to form a thought.
Neither of you had spoken in a while. His body so still you assumed he’d dozed off. So when you heard him suck in a breath, preparing to speak, the sound almost startled you.
“I am so in love with you,” he said.
It cut through the silence like a blade, his voice so clear and certain that there was no mistaking what he’d said, or if he’d meant to say it. Your eyes sprung open, your head whipping up to look at him in disbelief.
Chapter 23: XXIII
Chapter Text
The sun sat low behind the skyline, making the clouds blush, drenching everything in a gleaming golden hue. You sat with your legs crossed under the long table, laptop open in front of you as the conference room slowly filled with people, the murmur of conversation and scent of coffee drifting in with them.
The chair beside you creaked and a hand quickly reached over to mash on your keyboard, forming a line of gibberish across the blank word document. You rolled your eyes, smacking the top of Nick’s hand before turning to him with an unamused glare.
He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Not like you to be the first one at a meeting.”
“Mm, well I’ve been coming into the office to write. Been here all day,” you replied, sighing as you glanced back to the empty page on the screen. “Can’t focus at home. Too many distractions.”
“Tall, rich, handsome distractions…”
“No,” you said bluntly, though there was a part of you that secretly agreed with him. “I just… If I try to write at home I just end up watching TV or falling asleep or… suddenly realising I haven’t seen my passport in a year and turning the place upside down to look for it.”
“How’s it going?”
“I found it, it was in an old makeup bag in my bathroom cabinet.”
“Not the passport, dick head, the writing.”
“Oh.” You sighed. “Well I had a few edits I needed to do for the gala article, then I wrote a listicle about moisturisers. Thrilling stuff.”
He nodded. “You’re still fuming about your op ed, aren’t you.”
“Yep.”
Julia stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and making her way to the large windows. You watched as she lowered the blinds, shielding the room from the bright evening sun as she began to speak.
“Hello everyone,” she began, her tone cheerful yet commanding. “Thank you all for coming in. Just a quick one today to delegate some coverage pieces.”
You placed your fingers on the keys of your laptop, eyes fixed on her as she moved to the head of the table, Leo McGrath’s advice still ringing in your ears.
“Let’s see,” she said, licking her thumb and flicking through a folder in front of her. “I need someone to cover an exhibition at the London Fashion and Textile museum this Friday-”
“I’ll do it,” you said.
She arched her brow sceptically, before shaking it away and scrawling your name down with her pen. “Okay great. Then we also have a launch party for Roe - some influencer’s new makeup brand apparently-”
“I’ll do that too,” you said.
A few of the other writers glanced at you in confusion, your willingness to volunteer so surprising that they couldn’t help but stare.
“Okay…” said Julia suspiciously. “And Draft’s been invited to a Q&A for-”
“I’ll do it.”
“Quinn, you haven’t even heard what it is yet,” she said, holding back the urge to snap at you.
You heard Nick chuckling quietly to himself. You ignored it and gave a shrug.
“Just… feel like taking on more work, that’s all,” you said.
“Right, well the beauty launch and the Q&A are on the same night,” she replied. “One in Chelsea and one in Mayfair. So are you planning to teleport between them?”
A murmur of reserved laughter rippled around the table.
“Fine, well someone else can do the Q&A,” you said. “Or, y’know, I’ll figure out the teleportation thing.”
Julia rolled her eyes, turning her attention to someone else.
“You’re going to send her into early retirement,” Nick whispered to you.
You breathed out a laugh. “I’m an editorial assistant’s worst nightmare.”
~*~
You returned to your desk after the meeting, scrolling through pages of reviews to figure out which moisturiser would take the number one spot on your listicle. It was mind numbing, pointless, filling you with the temptation to find the worst rated cream and give it a glowing write up, just to mess with readers, see how many complaints you could rack up.
Your phone buzzed on the desk. You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the glare of the computer screen before looking down at it, your mood immediately shifting to something less weary.
Are you still in work? It read.
I am, you replied, catching a smile before it spread across your face.
Are you almost done?
I can be done whenever I want. Why?
I’m outside the building.
Your heartbeat quickened, and you grimaced to yourself in embarrassment. Yet still you packed up quickly, shoving everything into your bag and rushing to the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift.
You stepped out onto the street, the air cold as it brushed across your skin, despite the glorious sky. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you glanced up and down the busy street, brow furrowed as you searched for him amongst the sea of pedestrians.
A familiar black car sat idled further up the road, wheels bumped up on the kerb, tinted windows shrouding the driver in darkness. You made your way over to it, peering down as the passenger window lowered, just enough to reveal Ben smiling at you from the driver’s seat.
“What’s this about?” you asked.
“I fly out tomorrow morning, wanted to see you before I go,” he replied.
You felt your cheeks warm as you stepped closer to the car, glancing around at the bustling street. “This was risky of you.”
“Only if you don’t hurry up and get in.”
You slipped into the car and closed the door quickly, throwing your bag into the backseat as he began to drive.
“I didn’t think you were leaving until Wednesday,” you said.
He shook his head. “I got my days mixed up, it’s tomorrow.”
Your lips curled into a pout, like a disappointed child. He glanced over at you and gave a soft laugh, reaching over to place a hand on your thigh.
“You know, there’s still time for you to change your mind and come with me,” he said.
You exhaled a cynical laugh through your nose. “Yeah, I’ll just drop everything to follow you on your press tour.”
He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze. “It would be nice to have you with me. Think about it; fancy hotels, big beds, deep bathtubs, me, completely at your disposal…”
“Hm, tempting. But I have to work. Not all of us can just jet off whenever we feel like it.”
He let out an exaggerated puff of air. “Who needs work? You don’t need to work. I’ll take care of you.”
“Shut up.” You scoffed, giving him a playful shove. “You don’t mean that.”
He chuckled. “I know I don’t. But in all seriousness though, it would be nice to have you with me. You could write on the plane.”
“Stop it,” you laughed. “I’m not coming.”
He pulled into the carpark of a hotel you’d always admired but never been inside. It was breathtaking, a blend of grand architecture and modern details; glass and stone, steel and marble. It was a place celebrities went for drinks or a private brunch without having to worry about mere mortals and prying eyes, a threshold you’d never held the status to cross.
It felt bizarre to walk with him so openly, to stroll through the foyer side by side without fear of being spotted; no flashing cameras, no screaming fans, no nosy reporters. An employee led you into a lift, and you couldn’t help but flash a suspicious glare at Ben as you passed each floor, wondering how long he’d had all of this planned.
You stepped out on the top floor, following behind Ben as he made polite smalltalk with the employee on the way to your room. You found yourself fixing your hair and straightening your clothes as you went, as though the building itself was judging you; offended that you could walk its carpets in a pair of trainers, grace its corridors in some well-worn jeans and an old cardigan.
When Ben opened the door to the suite, you felt your breath still for a moment. It was bigger than your entire flat; bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchenette and large, open living area. Beyond a set of glass doors was a private terrace. You stepped out into the fresh, cool air, taking in the London skyline as it wrapped around the entire balcony.
The terrace was framed with warm, glowing lights and draping greenery, the city like a glittering tapestry as the sun began to disappear below the horizon. A table stood in the centre, a bottle of champagne resting inside an ice bucket beside it.
You turned to Ben. “This is… subtle.”
He smirked, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of one of the chairs. "You like it."
“Says who?” you teased, brushing past him to lean your elbows on the railing, taking in the view.
He followed, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently back against him. “Me.”
Your mouth twitched with a smile. “If this is all a ploy to make me say it back…”
“You think I brought you here to trick you into saying you love me?” he asked, his tone soft yet playful, lips brushing against your ear. “I don’t need to hear it, Quinn, I already know you do.”
The words made your stomach flutter, but you refused to let it show. “Bullshit.”
He chuckled, spinning you around to face him. “You’re a terrible liar.”
You found yourself staring up at him in awe. He was so confident, so certain. It had been a week since he’d said those words, yet he didn’t seem to care that you still hadn’t said it back; his ego unbruised, like he knew you too well, understood you better than anyone ever had.
Your protest died in your throat when his lips grazed your temple, lingering there as he pressed his body against yours, hands sliding down to your backside.
“This isn’t fair,” you murmured, your fingers dancing over the buttons of his shirt.
“What’s not fair?” he asked, lips trailing down to your cheek, your jaw, before pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck.
“You. Being so… smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, though the glint in his eye contradicted him. “Can’t a man treat his girlfriend to a nice evening without being accused of ulterior motives?”
You shook your head, suppressing a laugh. “There you go again, saying we’re a couple.”
“Because we are.” His grip on you tightened, his voice deepening. “If I asked you outright, you’d make me beg. And I’m not above begging, but I’d rather save that for… other things.”
You felt yourself growing hot as his lips found yours, forcing yourself to break away to mutter. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are,” he countered softly, tilting your chin up with his finger and kissing you again. “If you weren’t mine, you wouldn’t keep coming back to me.”
He deepened the kiss, wrapping an arm around your waist, the other gripping the railing behind you. You slid your hands up to his face, feeling yourself melting into him, excitement and anticipation rippling in your core.
For a man who’d been so strict in his abstinence, the past week had completely unravelled him. He was insatiable, his touch lingering even in the most innocent moments, his kisses turning deeper and hungrier with little provocation. He’d taken every opportunity to make up for the time you’d lost, and you’d welcomed it gladly, savouring the ache that would follow you in the aftermath.
He broke away, pressing his forehead to yours. “Dinner will be here soon,” he whispered.
You exhaled a laugh. “You ordered for me?”
“I know what you like.”
You slipped away to one of several bathrooms, taking off your cardigan and zhuzhing your hair until it sat just right. It was easy sometimes to forget who he was; the money he had, the power he wielded, the status he held that didn’t just surpass yours, but eclipsed it altogether. Whenever it hit you, it would make you feel uneasy; the imbalance throwing you off kilter, making you wonder what he saw in you, why a man who had the world at his fingertips would let himself fall for a single grain of sand.
When you returned to the terrace, you found him sitting at the table as a waiter lay out a spread of food in front of him; steaming plates and pretty side dishes, a basket of your favourite bread and the dessert you’d been craving for weeks. The smell drifted through the air towards you, making your stomach rumble, your mouth water with hunger.
You hovered in the doorway as the waiter placed down the last few plates, tucking a tray under his arm when he was done and pushing a large trolley back towards the suite. You stepped aside to let him pass, allowing yourself a moment to take in his face, the name on his badge. Perhaps it was cynical of you to assume he’d go running to the papers, narcissistic even, to think he’d care to.
Ben stood up as you made your way over to him, pulling out your chair for you with a charming smile.
“This looks amazing,” you said as you sat down, admiring the food in front of you.
He kissed the side of your head and returned to his seat. “Champagne?”
“Sure.”
“So,” he began, popping the cork in his fist. “Guess what happened today…”
You narrowed your eyes, cocking your head slightly.
“I am officially divorced,” he said, almost beaming at you as he filled your glass. “I got the final order this afternoon. Decree Absolute. It’s done .”
“Oh wow, congratulations.”
“ Congratulations? ” he replied, jokingly mocking your voice. “I’m free, Quinn. No more contractual obligations, no more interviews pretending my marriage was anything other than a glorified business transaction. I can finally move forward. With you .”
You stifled a smile, instead tapping your finger against your lips with a contemplative hum. “I don’t know. Now that you’re a single man, the excitement’s sort of gone.“
“Oh is that so?”
“Mhm. I mean, where’s the thrill in sneaking around if it’s not with a married man?”
He smirked, his eyes flitting to your mouth as you took a sip of champagne. “You need the thrill, hm?”
You nodded.
“Well you know what would be thrilling?”
“What?”
“Coming to America with me tomorrow.”
You threw your head back and let out an exaggerated groan, making him chuckle as he began to eat.
“Was worth a try,” he mumbled.
~*~
You talked and ate until the sun went down, until the cold puckered the flesh of your bare arms and numbed the tip of your nose. You sat with your legs outstretched beneath the table, resting comfortably between Ben’s as you listened to him speak - not about work, or divorce, or the two of you - but about his family, his childhood, the things that made him happy and the last time he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.
In the moments you were reminded of his fame, it was easy to feel starcrossed; like there was an entire ocean between you and no way to common ground. But then the moment would pass, giving way to a warm laugh or a tender touch, and suddenly in that ocean would be an island, where you both resided as equals; your own private paradise.
His hand had found yours across the table, his thumb gently stroking your knuckles as he continued a sweet anecdote about his mother. You’d never been very tactile, finding the hand-holding and arms around shoulders completely embarrassing, the chaste kisses and legs brushing under tables far too soppy. But here you were, chin resting on your fist, the other hand in his, gazing at him as he spoke, without a speck of desire to pull away.
You laughed softly as you watched him bring a glass to his lips, somehow missing his mouth and spilling champagne down his shirt.
“I’m not drunk, I swear,” he laughed, releasing your hand to pick up a napkin and dab at his chest.
“What’s that, like a tenner’s worth of champagne you just spilled?” you teased.
He laughed again, picking up the bottle and looking at it with a hum. “About… forty quid?”
Your smile dropped. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“What?” He shrugged.
“You’re saying we’ve been drinking a £2000 bottle of champagne?”
“I think it’s closer to three,” he said casually.
“Oh my god! Wh- I- Well then how fucking expensive was all of this!?” you gestured to the terrace, the food, the suite beyond the doors. “Jesus this is like the watch fiasco all over again.”
“Which I notice you still haven’t worn…”
You glared at him.
“Quinn, it’s fine,” he said softly, taking your hand in his again. “I wouldn’t spend it if I didn’t want to.”
“But why on earth-”
“Why do you feel like you’re not worth it? Like money spent on you is somehow a waste?”
“Because…” You settled back slightly in your chair, eyes flitting around in thought. “Because it is.”
His smile faded, his eyes creasing at the corners as he gazed across the table at you. “Do you really believe that?”
You shrugged, a defensive edge sharpening your posture. “I do.”
“Well you’re wrong,” he countered bluntly.
You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued quickly.
“I know this imbalance between us bothers you. I know you’re independent, and you don’t want to feel like I’m trying to buy you or show off or make you feel indebted to me. But that's not what this is." He gestured to your surroundings, the city lights twinkling in the distance. "If anything, this is me showing you that you’re not a waste - not of my money, or my time, or my affection - none of it’s wasted on you.”
His sincerity was disarming, how quickly the evening had gone from joking and banter to complete seriousness. You tried to remain neutral, but your eyes betrayed you with a vulnerable glaze, making his face soften, his hand squeezing yours more firmly.
“You are so deeply rooted in my life now that I don’t see any of this as frivolous,” he said. “I just see it as… being with you. No different than sitting on the couch in front of the TV.”
You sighed.
“What?” he asked quietly.
“I just… I don’t think I can get away with denying this is a relationship anymore, can I.”
He laughed. “No. No, you can’t.”
You laughed too, rolling your eyes when you saw a smile creeping across his face.
“This- us-” he said. “It’s far beyond the secrets and the sneaking around and worrying what strangers might say about me in the fucking papers. I’m not saying I’m ready to go dragging you down red carpets with me, but I like to think that you see it… getting there, maybe, one day…”
You drew in a deep, cleansing breath through your nose, trying to soothe the nerves creeping into your chest.
“I love you,” he said. “Whether you say it back or not, it doesn’t make it any less true. I love you, Quinn.”
You gazed across at him for a moment, at the warmth in his expression, the vulnerability in his voice. You swallowed past a lump in your throat. “That’s… unfortunate for you,” you said.
He dropped his head with a deep, throaty chuckle. “I don’t know,” he replied, eyes meeting yours again. “I feel quite fortunate… Most of the time.”
You scoffed, taking a sip of your - extremely expensive - champagne.
He gestured with his head for you to come to him. You stood up and walked around the table, settling in his lap and draping an arm around his shoulders. He held you close with a hand on the small of your back, the other reaching up to brush a stray hair from your face as you leaned down to him, lips meeting in a deep, slow kiss.
“You’re cold,” he whispered, running his hand up and down your bare arm.
“I’m fine,” you replied.
He shook his head. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
~*~
You stood in the living area, staring up at a painting on the wall, head cocked to one side as you wondered if anyone would notice if you stole it. You shook the thought away as the sound of voices and rattling dishes emerged from the terrace, glancing over your shoulder to see the waiter from earlier wheeling away the remnants of your dinner.
Ben thanked him as he left, shutting the door behind him and sliding the chain lock in place. He spun on his heels to look at you from across the vast suite, though his large strides carried him over to you in moments.
You ran your fingers over the pale yellow stain on his shirt as he wrapped his arms around your waist, and you wondered if you’d ever tire of his embrace, if he would ever tire of embracing you. You hoped not.
“I have the suite for the night,” he said. “But if you’d rather go home, I can take you. I know you don’t have anything with you so I understand if you wouldn’t want to stay.”
“Hm, my tiny, messy flat or this stunning hotel with you,” you replied, pretending to deliberate with yourself. “What a difficult decision.”
He laughed, kissing you on the cheek before stepping past you.
“Where are you going?” you asked.
“Bed,” he replied simply. “Are you coming?”
“Bed? It’s only half nine…”
He raised an eyebrow as he backed up slowly towards the master bedroom, waiting for the penny to drop.
“Oh,” you finally said.
“Yeah,” he replied, reaching out his hand in a gesture for you to join him.
~*~
The car idled quietly on the road outside your flat building, the blue morning sky clear and bright, promising a warm day. You knew you had to leave, to climb out and get ready for work, but every time your hand so much as brushed the door handle, Ben’s lips found yours again.
Your laugh came breathlessly as you finally pulled back, lips blushed and swollen from his endless kisses. “You’re going to miss your flight.”
His smile was lazy and unapologetic as he yielded, dropping his head slightly with a gentle sigh. “Can I call you when I get to my hotel?”
“Yeah, I suppose I’ll allow it.”
He leaned in, and you couldn’t help but kiss him again, feeling his smile against your lips.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he muttered, his hand sliding through your hair.
You laughed softly. “I’m sure I’ll manage. I took on a ton of work to keep myself busy.”
He chuckled, but you quickly swallowed the sound with another kiss, leaning into him with more fervour.
His hand dropped to the side of your face, the other firmly gripping your thigh; his touch making your stomach coil, the orgasms he’d given you last night still echoing in your core. So many orgasms you were sure you’d still be reeling for the next few days.
You forced yourself to break away again, shaking away the fluster warming your cheeks. “Okay, you really are going to miss your flight if you don’t go.”
He leaned back in the driver’s seat, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. His touch lingered, stroking your temple before trailing down to your jaw.
“Last chance,” he said. “You sure you don’t want to come with me?”
You hesitated as you looked at him. There had been no pressure in his voice, no coercion in his expression, only a gentle invitation, and you could see in his eyes that he already knew your answer.
“Not this time,” you said, the corner of your mouth curving into a small smile.
He gave a smile that matched yours, like the subtle shift in your answer hadn’t gone unnoticed. No longer a flat refusal or a guarded deflection, but something warmer, an unspoken ‘someday’.
“Okay,” he said, leaning in for one last kiss. “I’m going to miss you.”
You smiled faintly, your usual sarcasm faltering as you replied. “I’m going to miss you too.”
“Two weeks,” he reassured, though you were uncertain which one of you needed it more. “Just two weeks and I’ll be back.”
“Yeah, for three days,” you countered. “Before you have to go again.”
“Well, we better be sure to make the most of those three days.”
You nodded, finally reaching for your bag and opening the door.
You climbed out and closed it behind you, turning around to lean down and meet his gaze through the open window.
There was a mournfulness to his expression as he looked at you, like it was physically paining him to let you go. And you understood, because you felt it too; already longing for his return before he’d even left.
The back of your tongue felt heavy with the words you’d refused to utter, almost like they belonged there, ready to pour out of you like an impulse, as natural as a ‘goodbye’. But something made you swallow them, forcing them back down your throat with a sad smile.
“Have a safe flight,” you said.
His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving yours. “Bye, darling,” he said, his voice carrying the same forlorn weight as yours.
“Bye.”
You stood on the pavement as he pulled away, watching the car until it disappeared down the street. Only then did you suck in a deep breath, letting it out in a long, slow sigh. You remained there a moment longer, staring at the quiet, empty road before finally turning to go inside.
~*~
You stared up at the distinctive orange building of the London Fashion and Textiles museum, accents of bright blue, vivid yellow and hot pink decorating its exterior. You pulled out your phone to snap a picture of the large poster hanging near the entrance - Ornamented: The Art of Embellishment in Fashion - as a healthy crowd filtered inside.
You meandered leisurely through the opening of the exhibition, taking pictures and scrawling quick notes in your book, the extra weight on your wrist catching you off guard whenever you raised your pen to the paper.
The watch face gleamed beneath the soft lights of the museum, the gold bracelet strap shimmering every time you moved. It had sat safely in its box, tucked away in your underwear drawer since Christmas. Every now and again you would take it out just to look at it, perhaps even put it on, but you would always stow it away soon after, like a child secretly trying on her mother’s expensive clothes.
But you were Ben’s girlfriend now. A fact that made your stomach turn with fear and excitement whenever you thought about it for too long. And as his girlfriend, it somehow felt right to wear a piece of him when he wasn’t with you.
You walked up to a display encased inside a large glass cabinet; an array of intricately beaded flapper dresses from the 1920’s. Time had discoloured some of them, loosened some seams and lost their sparkle. But still, you found yourself almost pressing your nose to the glass, admiring the meticulous patterns and letting your mind wander to the women who might have worn them.
You crouched down to the ground, resting on your haunches to steady your notebook on your knee as you scribbled your thoughts. You were making a note of the designer’s name from a nearby placard when footsteps approached you, heels clicking on the concrete floor and stopping at your side.
“Quinn, isn’t it?”
You glanced up to find Faye Dennehy glaring down at you, her tall stature even more imposing from your hunched position below her. You felt your lungs empty, your heart thumping in a hollow chest as you rose to your feet, blinking at her a few times before snapping out of your stupor.
“Yes, it is. And you’re… Faye, right?” you replied.
It was clear that you both very much knew the other’s name. But if she was going to pretend otherwise, then so were you.
“It’s nice to see you with your clothes on this time,” she said, her light, airy tone masking the sharpness of her words.
She didn’t know you could be mean. Extremely mean. Brutally, mercilessly, remorselessly cruel. She also didn’t know that you were currently pressing your lips together as a courtesy to her, holding back the venom trying to force its way out.
You gave a weak, obviously fake chuckle. “Yeah that was… quite the morning, for all of us.”
She nodded with a wry smile before turning her attention to the dresses. You let your eyes trail the length of her; the long a-line skirt and perfectly tailored blouse, the pointed toe heels and long, bouncy blonde hair. You couldn’t deny how chic she looked. She always looked chic.
Bitch .
You shook the thought away and looked down at your notebook.
“So you’re here for your magazine?” she asked.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead looking back up at her and clearing your throat. “Yep.”
“Mm. Well I’m sure you’ll give the exhibition a glowing review. You seem very good at painting things in a favourable light.”
You smiled. “Ben already told me you didn’t like the feature I wrote about him.”
“Oh he did?” She nodded, peering through the glass at one of the dresses as she spoke. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t like it. It just came across a bit… disingenuous.”
“Disingenuous. Sort of like… PR relationships…”
You noticed the muscles in her neck flex, but she remained calm, returning her gaze to you. “Sort of like that, yeah.”
You closed your notebook and hugged it to your chest before moving towards the next exhibit.
“Is that a Jaeger-LeCoultre?” Faye asked as you stepped around her.
You spun on your heels to look at her, a blank expression on your face.
“The watch,” she said.
“Oh.” You glanced down at your wrist, then back to her. “Yeah, it is.”
She allowed a slight smile, letting out a short, contemptuous hum. “Expensive.”
You feigned a clueless expression, doe-eyed and innocent as you shrugged at her. “Is it? I wouldn’t know, it was a gift.”
“How thoughtful of him,” she replied bluntly, emotionlessly.
“I never said who it was from…”
“Well,” she laughed. “I doubt anyone else you know could afford something like that.”
You found yourself holding back again, biting the inside of your bottom lip until it tasted of iron. “Enjoy the exhibition,” you said, feigning kindness as you gestured around you. “I’m sure this theme’s right up your street. We both know how much you love embellishments. ”
You walked away without waiting for a response, blowing out a puff of hot breath and fanning yourself with your book until you reached the next display. On a small platform stood a row of mannequins, each one draped in a stunning jewelled sari. You squinted to read the placard beside them; the history, the significance, the craftsmanship that went into them.
But you were soon disturbed again, letting out a huff before turning to Faye again.
“Are you following me?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eye.
“I don’t know what you think you know about my marriage,” she began, speaking quietly, her tone curt. “But when he inevitably gets bored of messing around with you, I hope you have enough integrity to keep it to yourself.”
“I have no intention of ever exposing you, Faye.” You shook your head. “But I’ll be sure to let Ben know you think our relationship is doomed to fail.”
“Relationship,” she giggled.
You narrowed your eyes at her.
“Is that what you’re calling it? A relationship?” she scoffed.
“What else would it be?”
“You’re the fun, Quinn. The wild oats he sews before he decides he’s ready to settle down.” She gestured to your watch. “You’re the one he spoils, keeps sweet, flies out to whatever country he’s in because he feels like a quick fuck.”
Her voice was so quiet, so soft, but the words were bitter and torturous. It made the back of your neck tingle, your ears burn, stomach twist.
“And I don’t blame you,” she shrugged. “He’s a celebrity. Who’s going to turn down the opportunity to have a fling with a handsome, charming actor? But what happens when that novelty wears off? When you realise how… wrong for him you are?”
People were passing back and forth around the exhibition, buzzing with conversation, brushing shoulders, gathering at displays and moving on to the next. But the place might as well have been silent, bare, just the two of you in an empty room.
You gave a clipped laugh, though no smile accompanied it. “How on earth would you know if I’m right or wrong for him? You don’t know me.“
“No but I know him ,” she countered assuredly. “I know that he wants children, and he wants them soon . That’s one of the main reasons our marriage ended. Are you willing to give him that?”
“Well actually, I’m three months pregnant right now, we’re very excited,” you replied dryly.
She narrowed her eyes. “No you’re not.”
“Of course I’m fucking not,” you said quietly, rolling your eyes.
“And when he wants you to be, what then? When he comes to you a year from now and says ‘Quinn, I really want to be a father, and I’m not getting any younger’. Is that going to fill you with excitement, or dread?”
You kept your face expressionless, but your heart was beginning to race, her words travelling right to the place where they stung the most.
“He wants to live equally between here and America, did he tell you that?” she continued. “Are you willing to pack up your whole life and follow him back and forth? Give up your career? Live in houses you have no equity in? Drive around in a nice car you didn’t pay for?”
She straightened her posture, chin raised with indignation. “Quinn the kept woman,” she taunted. “The trophy wife that the media never actually cares to learn the name of because she’s unimportant, insignificant when compared to him .”
You swallowed past a lump in your throat, though you couldn’t tell if it was made of sadness or pure rage. But still, you found a way to compose yourself, checking over your shoulders before stepping closer to her.
“I know it must hurt,” you eventually said. “To be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. To be married to him, to convince yourself that ‘maybe with time he’ll see we’re meant to be’.” You lowered your voice, leaning in to speak slowly. “Yet still, after two years, the only time he’d willingly touch you was when there was a camera there to catch it.”
Her face hardened, her eyes never leaving yours.
“And I don’t blame you either, Faye. If I were you, I’d want to hurt the woman he actually loves too.”
She forced a smile, blinking away what seemed to be tears forming in her waterline. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m warning you.”
She turned away, beginning to walk off before stopping and looking back at you.
“I may not have liked what you wrote in that feature,” she said. “But the way you wrote it wasn’t half bad. I just think it’d be a shame, for someone with so much potential to end up known only as the one that came after me. ”
You held her gaze until she finally turned around, disappearing into the crowd with a flick of her hair.
You stood there for a moment, frozen, staring down at the spot where Faye had stood. The buzz of the exhibition faded back in, a cacophony of excited voices, camera shutters and footsteps. But it was still muffled, like there was a bubble around you, separating you from the rest of the world. Faye’s words echoed in your mind, breaking through the armour you’d built around yourself and burrowing down to the quietest corners of your soul, the places you didn’t like to visit.
Quinn the kept woman. The one that came after me.
You wondered if she was right, if you could ever be satisfied living a life that always had to bend to the shape of Ben’s. He had never denied the pitfalls of his fame, never sugar coated the demand of his work or hidden his desire for a family, for children. Were you really holding him back from finding someone to share all of that with?
You took a shaky breath, closing your eyes to soothe the itch behind your lids, and with trembling hands, you opened your notebook and forced yourself to carry on to the next display. A collection of gowns embroidered with floral motifs, their petals moulded from delicate beads and sequins that seemed to bloom beneath the soft light. You traced the edges of one with your eyes, jotting down notes with uneven, messy handwriting.
Your watch caught the light again, the gold surface glinting like a mocking wink. You almost wanted to take it off, but instead you fiddled with it for a moment, recentering the face in the middle of your wrist.
By the time you finished your tour of the exhibition, your notebook was full, but you could barely remember anything you’d written in it. You slipped it into your bag, hoisting it over your shoulder as you walked toward the exit and out into the late evening air.
The sun was still shining, but there was a bite to the breeze that made you shudder. You pulled a cardigan from your bag and shrugged it on before taking off down the street towards your car. You pulled your phone from your trouser pocket, looking up Ben’s name, thumb hovering over the call button as you walked. But you never pressed it, unsure what you would even say, where you would start.
Chapter 24: XIV
Chapter Text
There was a lot you could have done with the last twelve days. You could have picked up a new language, or sailed to New York and back. You could have fermented your own vodka, learned piano or guitar, watched the entire Lord of the Rings series sixteen-and-a-half times over. But you hadn’t done any of those things. In fact, for twelve days you’d barely done anything at all.
Since the moment you’d left that museum, Faye’s words had followed you like a dark cloud, looming over you wherever you went, casting a shadow no matter how hard you tried to escape it. Your lips bore the evidence of your bad mood, bitten and raw from your relentless, anxious gnawing, and sleep had become an elusive companion, only claiming you once your body finally gave in to exhaustion.
It angered you, the power she somehow managed to wield; how she’d so easily found a way through your hard exterior, slithering right down to the place where words could still hurt you. It felt as though you’d let her win, like your insecurity was her victory, each day you spent stewing in uncertainty just another triumph to add to her list.
Ben’s absence had only made it worse; the thought of his return like a buoy and a burden all at once. For almost two weeks, you’d felt a knot form in your stomach whenever he called; feeling guilt and dread where excitement should have been. You’d adorned a smile, feigned a light, warm voice, and pretended not to notice how unnatural it felt.
Social media only seemed to make it worse; what was once a harmless distraction had morphed into a minefield of footage from his premieres and press junkets. You would lose yourself in his easy charm and handsome smile, scroll endlessly through clips of him in his tailored suits and tinted sunglasses as he walked carpets and stopped for interviews. But as quickly as the pride and longing came, the doubt would soon follow.
You were caught in a relentless cycle of grief and self-criticism. The life Faye claimed you couldn’t give to him taunting you whenever you tried to picture yourself by his side. Yet, beneath the turmoil, there was an ember of stubbornness that refused to be extinguished; a flicker of determination, to spite her, to prove her wrong, to not let go of the man who’d given you no reason to doubt him.
The café in the Draft foyer was rarely busy; a pocket of quiet amidst the chaos of a bustling building. You stood at the counter, basking in the warm, comforting aroma of coffee, the only sounds coming from the hiss of steaming milk and the quiet chatter of baristas as they worked. You scrolled idly on your phone as you waited for your drink, thumb pausing on an image of Ben from his latest premiere. He was smiling, arm raised as he waved to the crowd of fans swarming the barriers. You instinctively found yourself zooming in on his wrist; the way your gold nameplate bracelet caught the light with a subtle glint. Then you moved to his face, the glowing tan and dark facial hair making a welcomed return.
“You’re obsessed.” Nick’s voice startled you.
You turned around to find him looking down at your phone with a teasing smile, a lanyard around his neck and a backpack on his shoulder.
“Shut up,” you said, pushing your phone into your back pocket.
“It’s sweet,” he said. “Don’t be embarrassed for having a fit boyfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest and shifting your weight from side to side. “What are you doing here? I barely ever see you in the office anymore.”
“Just heading out to an interview, needed to come and pick up my press pass from Julia.”
You let out a half-hearted hum in response, taking your coffee as the barista placed it on the counter.
Nick followed as you made your way to a table, shifting his bag further up his shoulder. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted as you sat down.
He deliberated for a moment, like he was weighing up whether to press you or leave you be. By the time he’d sat down beside you, he’d seemingly decided to drop it, clearing his throat and excitedly shuffling his chair closer to you.
“I’m actually glad I caught you,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”
“Oh no, what have I done?”
Nothing,” he laughed. “I need your advice- opinion- help, all of it really.”
Your ears pricked, eyes fixed on him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled in silence for a moment before finally turning the screen towards you with a nervous smile.
“Which one?” he asked.
You leaned in, lips parting in shock when you laid your eyes on a photo; five open boxes laid out on a glass counter, each one holding a sparkling diamond ring.
“You’re proposing!?” you shouted, voice echoing across the quiet space.
He shushed you before lowering his tone to a whisper. “Yeah. I’ve been saving for a while, but I haven’t got a clue which one she’d like best.”
You practically snatched the phone from his hand, bringing it close to your face and examining each ring carefully. “None of them.”
“What?”
“Well first of all, they’re all white gold. Lacey’s clearly a yellow gold person.”
“Oh.”
“Secondly, you should go for a coloured stone. Maybe morganite, emerald, sapphire, something different, unique.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Right.” He sighed, taking his phone back. “Back to the drawing board then.”
You couldn’t help the smile beginning to spread across your face, brows curving upward as you looked at him with pride.
“I’m so happy for you,” you said.
“She hasn’t said yes yet.”
“She will. How are you going to do it?”
“I was thinking when the next issue of Draft comes out, I’ll show her my Divine Timing piece, let her read it, and when she’s done, she’ll look up and I’ll be on one knee.”
You didn’t reply.
“What?” he asked. “Is that not good either?”
“No, no… It’s perfect.”
He smiled appreciatively before rising from his seat and hoisting his bag back onto his shoulder. “Yellow gold, coloured stone.”
“Definitely.”
He nodded and began to walk away, repeating it to himself over and over again until he vanished from your sight.
~*~
You paced the hall as you waited for a knock at the door, biting your already raw bottom lip until you began to taste iron on your tongue. The flat was immaculate. You weren’t sure why you’d bothered cleaning it so thoroughly; it wasn’t as if Ben would care, wasn’t like he’d come in and run his fingers along the skirting boards for dust, eye the windows for smudges. But maybe it was just the distraction it provided; the mundanity of housework allowing brief moments of relief from your whirring mind.
He'd been gone for three weeks. And you’d spent the majority of that time wrought with uncertainty; playing over every possible scenario, talking aloud to practice what you would say to him when you finally came face to face again. You’d buzzed him in just seconds ago, and as you paced back and forth you could almost picture him rushing up the stairwell, growing closer with every tick of the watch on your wrist.
When the knock finally came, you felt your heart leap into your throat, an undeniable wave of excitement flooding your stomach. You hurried to the door and swung it open, unable to hold back a smile when you saw him standing there; bearded and sun kissed, an almost mirror image of the Ben you’d first met.
“Hi,” he said, his voice rough and tired, yet still warm. And before you could reply, he dropped his bag to the ground, taking a step forward and pulling you into a tight embrace. He groaned with relief as he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured.
You couldn’t help but melt into him, taking in his scent that, even after hours of travel, was still so familiar and comforting, the rhythmic thudding of his heart as you pressed your ear to his chest.
“I missed you too,” you replied.
“I’m never going that long without you again. Next time you’re coming, no arguments.”
A soft chuckle bubbled up your throat, the sound muffled by his shirt. You lifted your head to look at him. “Next time is three days from now.”
“Yeah, and you’re coming.”
You laughed again as he leaned back slightly to look down at you, bringing his hands up to cup your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks. His gaze glittered with affection, flitting between your eyes and lips with such longing that any insecurities you’d had almost seemed to vanish. You lifted your chin slightly, welcoming the inevitable kiss. And when it finally came, you gave in to it completely.
His lips were soft as they moved slowly over yours, savouring the connection like he’d thought of nothing else for the past three weeks. You slid your arms up to wrap around the back of his neck, leaning into him as he weaved his fingers through your hair.
“You need to come in so I can shut the door,” you mumbled. “Someone could walk past.”
He responded by reaching back and pushing the front door closed, keeping his focus on you the entire time as his lips trailed softly over your cheeks, your jaw, the outer corners of your eyes and the crinkle between your brows, kissing every small detail of your face.
You smiled. “Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Mhm.”
“You must be exhausted.”
He responded with another lazy hum as he began walking you backwards down the hall.
“I put a towel out for you in the bathroom,” you said. “Even bought you your own shower gel.”
“Really?”
“Mm,” you replied as he continued to kiss you. “And I’ve got dinner on in the kitchen.”
He stopped, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously.
“I’m the real Quinn I swear,” you said sarcastically.
He gave a deep chuckle, stroking your hair away from your face and placing one last kiss on your lips. “A shower does sound quite appealing right now. Do you want to join me?”
You tilted your head, giving a soft smile and running your fingertip over his bottom lip. “I’ve got stuff on the hob, need to keep an eye on it so the flat doesn’t burn down.”
There was a split second when you could have sworn you saw him pause, like he was going to question you but quickly changed his mind. Instead, he let you go, making his way to the bathroom as you wandered into the kitchen, pressing your cool palms to your flushed cheeks and exhaling a nervous breath.
~*~
Your knees buckled when you saw him in the doorway; towel wrapped low around his waist, droplets of water speckled over his bare chest and shoulders. A clean, masculine scent drifted towards you, heady and intoxicating, making your mind turn foggy as you stared at him in awe.
He made his way into the kitchen, padding leisurely towards you as you stood at the stove. You felt his hands snake around your waist, resting on your hips as his chest pressed against your back.
“You’re getting me wet,” you said with a slight giggle.
“Hm,” he replied flirtatiously, leaning down to press his lips to your neck. “I haven’t even gotten started yet.”
“No, wet like wet.” You laughed, gesturing to the water he’d soaked into the back of your t-shirt.
“I’m just teasing,” he replied, lips moving slowly to the back of your shoulder.
You lifted the lid off a saucepan, waiting for the steam to evaporate before stirring the bubbling liquid inside. You could feel him, hot and hard against your back, tilting your head to one side to grant him easier access to you. His large hands gripped your hips as he nipped and kissed your neck, lips and teeth grazing over your pulse as his wet hair brushed against your cheek.
You closed your eyes and let out a sigh, fighting to remain composed, to ignore the tingles travelling up your spine and the desire throbbing between your legs. You tried to busy yourself with dinner, reaching to the cupboard above you and peering inside.
“What are you looking for?” he asked between kisses.
“The erm…” You’d lost your train of thought, your mind hazy, struggling to focus on anything but the feeling of him behind you. “Er… Salt. Salt and…”
He reached over you, retrieving the salt and pepper shakers and placing them on the counter.
“Thank you,” you said, almost breathlessly.
His kisses slowed, like the tension in your body was becoming impossible for him to ignore. He pulled back, just enough to peer down at you, brow furrowed with concern.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Hm? Nothing.”
His hands moved up to your waist, turning you around to face him. “What’s wrong?”
You didn’t know why you were trying to deflect, why after all this time, when faced with the chance to communicate, your instincts still forced you to shut it down. “Why would something be wrong?”
“Because if nothing was wrong, you’d have dragged me into that bedroom the second I stepped through the door…”
You rolled your eyes.
“Quinn,” he pressed. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
He stared down at you for a moment, his expression completely unconvinced. You wriggled gently out of his grasp, walking over to the sink and grabbing a knife from the draining board.
“You don’t seem fine,” he said.
“Well, I am,” you replied bluntly, turning around with the knife firmly in your grasp.
He held his hands up in feigned surrender. “Alright, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s for garlic,” you replied with another eye roll, making your way back over to the counter beside him.
“Quinn,” he said with a slight laugh of disbelief. “Something’s clearly wrong. I don’t understand why you don’t feel like you can talk to me-”
“Ben.”
“I just want to know what happened-”
“Your ex-wife happened,” you snapped. “Alright?”
He looked confused, nose scrunched as his eyes glazed over, just for a moment. “What?”
You put down the knife, turning to face him with a hot sigh. “I ran into her at an event.”
“Faye?”
“Do you have more ex-wives?”
He huffed, gesturing for you to continue.
“I ran into her and she had some very… choice words for me. Some I don’t entirely disagree with.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re… not- Like this isn’t-” you huffed and turned to walk away. “Y’know what, it doesn’t matter-”
“Yes, it does,” he said firmly, grabbing your arm before you could leave the room. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously bothered you enough to make it hard to even look at me right now. So, you need to tell me. Now.”
You yielded, turning around and leaning back against the fridge, arms folded across your chest. You hadn’t even realised you’d been avoiding his gaze until you found yourself staring at the floor. So, you forced yourself to look up at him.
“She said we’re not equal. Me and you. And that we never will be.” You swallowed. “I bring nothing to the table financially, we’re not in the same place in life or career or aspirations. I’m just a bit of fun you’re messing around with instead of-”
“Instead of what?” he replied, anger darkening his tone. “Instead of staying in a PR marriage just to pacify everyone else except myself?”
“She insinuated that you’re just ‘getting things out of your system’ with me, and once the novelty wears off, you’ll realise I’m not right for you and you’ll move on to someone who is.”
His jaw sharpened, throat bobbing as he tried to swallow down his rage. He planted a hand on the counter beside him, grounding himself as he tried to process your words. “When was this?” he asked calmly. “Where?”
“An exhibition at the fashion museum, a couple of days after you left.”
He blinked a few times. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would it have achieved?” You shrugged. “You were on the other side of the world for work. It would have just bothered you, ruined your time out there.”
He exhaled heavily through his nose, the breath rattling like a growl as it left him. “You know this all stems from jealousy on her part, don’t you?”
You didn’t respond, making him look over at you with more intensity, his brows coming together as he took in the look on your face.
“Quinn… You know that, right?”
I don’t know. Some of the things she said, I… I haven’t been able to stop thinking that maybe she had somewhat of a point…”
“What else did she say?”
“Ben,” you sighed, closing your eyes and running your hands through your hair.
“Quinn,” he said sternly. “In this relationship, we communicate.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
He glared at you.
You threw your head back dramatically, letting out a groan before looking back over at him. “It’s just… It’s what I’ve already told you; we’re not compatible, economically or aspiration-wise or-”
“What does that even mean?”
“That you’re rich and I’m poor,” you replied curtly.
“Not that, for fuck sake, the aspiration thing.”
You could feel yourself clamming up, your mouth turning dry and cheeks flushing with discomfort. You shifted on your feet, biting another cut into your lip. “Well, she just- She made a good point that you are… Very certain of what you want. And if you continue to waste your time with me, if I continue to let you waste your time with me, I could be holding you back from getting it.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He was growing irate again, his voice deepening, turning hoarse and firm.
“Well, no, it’s not really, is it.”
“Yes. It is.”
“No, it’s not, Ben! It’s not irrational of me to be concerned that a year, two years, however long down the line, you could look back and realise you spent all that time with me when you could have been out there meeting your soulmate, your next wife, the mother of your children!”
He stared at you, open-mouthed for a moment, his face twisted in a mixture of ire and confusion. Eventually, it seemed to overwhelm him, making him drop his head with a frustrated huff, pressing the heels of his hands into closed eyes.
“Why…” he began slowly, controlling his words as they left him in a deep, gravelly voice. “Is it not at all possible that… that person could be you…?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Ben-”
“What!? Why can’t you consider the fact that maybe neither of us are wasting our time, because we’re supposed to be spending it with each other!?”
“Oh my god, it’s just so easy for you, isn’t it!” You threw your arms up dramatically. “Sometimes feelings just aren’t enough. You can’t enter into a relationship without at least considering where that relationship might end up.”
“This is never going to stop, is it?” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “No matter what I do, what I say, you are never going to believe that this could work.”
“I want to,” you replied, caught off guard by a crack in your voice. “But when Faye said that you want things I might not be able to give you, I couldn’t-”
“Quinn. The first night we slept together, you told me, plain as day, that you were undecided about having children. I’ve known that since the beginning, never forgotten it, and I still chose to pursue you. Because I love you more than I love some kids that we may or may not have.”
“It’s not just about having kids. It’s… She said I’d be dooming myself to a life as an extension of you. That I’d be a ‘kept woman’.”
His face broke with an unexpected smile, a laugh escaping him in a breath. “I can just about handle you as it is. Do you really think you’d ever let yourself be kept?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s just so simple for you, isn’t it.”
“Yes.” He turned his body to lean back against the counter, mirroring your crossed arms. “So, it’s me who buys the house.” He shrugged. “As long as I get to wake up next to you in it every morning, I’d consider us even.”
The charm of his suggestion made you melt, just for a moment, before quickly stiffening again. “But that’s not ‘even’, Ben. Not really. You deserve someone who fits seamlessly into your life, and I just can’t shake the fear that they’re out there, and they’re perfect for you. I would never forgive myself if I held you back from finding her.”
“And what does this ‘perfect woman’ consist of?”
“She’s certain she wants a family. She’s perfectly content with the two of you being known as ‘Benedict Cumberbatch and wife’. She comes from wealth, has the money to treat you to nice champagne and expensive gifts. She doesn’t pick fights or think it’s funny to make you jealous. She…” You halted, feeling a sudden, unexpected lump in your throat, a fizzing in your nose and welling in your eyes. “She doesn’t push you away when you’re always so lovely and patient with her. She’s a good person who really, truly deserves you.”
He remained quiet, mulling over your words, eyes fixed on the emotion you were so desperately trying to hold back.
“Can I tell you what I think this perfect woman consists of?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
“She’s open to maybe having a family one day. She may sometimes be ‘and wife’ to the media, but in reality, we both know it’s me who’s the ‘and husband’. She doesn’t care about money or whether she has it or not, and she always makes sure to tell me off when she thinks I’ve overspent. She’s… Impossible, infuriating, combative, but she knows I can take it. And that maybe I find it a bit sexy.”
You laughed softly.
“She’s a good person,” he continued, emphasising his words. “Who deserves whatever it is she desires. And if that’s me, then I consider myself lucky.”
You stared at him from across the small kitchen, glassy-eyed and entirely awestruck. It was quiet, the air between you so still that even your breath seemed out of place.
“I love you,” you whispered.
He paused, allowing the words to fully sink in before smiling softly. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked teasingly.
“I love you.”
His smile turned to a grin. “One more time, I didn’t quite catch it.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.
He made his way towards you, taking your face in his hands and tilting it back to look up at him. “I love you too,” he said, leaning down to kiss you. “And I can’t believe I just had that entire conversation with you in nothing but a towel.”
You chuckled.
His expression turned serious again as he stared down into your eyes. “I have doubts too. Sometimes I feel like I’ve come into your life and completely turned it upside down; put rules on you, restrictions, expectations. You never asked for any of that. But then… I think about how we got off to such a bad start when we met, yet still, we somehow ended up here. That’s got to mean something.”
“It means you’re too nice and I don’t take no for an answer.”
He laughed, running his fingers through your hair. “It means we’d be stupid to throw this away.”
You smiled, rising onto your toes to kiss him. He held you close, inhaling deeply as his lips moved slowly against yours.
He broke away, looking down at you with an amused smirk. “You know, for someone who doesn’t take shit from anybody, you really let my jealous ex-wife get into your head.”
“It’s not Faye that’s got into my head. It’s you.” You shook your head as you gazed up at him, your voice nothing but a whisper as you spoke again. “I’ve never let anyone get this close to me before…”
“Well, I’m honoured to be the one you decided to let in.”
This vulnerability was new for you. It made you feel fragile, exposed, like a knight without armour, a porcupine without its quills. Until Ben, you’d simply assumed it wasn’t in your nature to take this role; to be tender, maybe even soppy, softening yourself completely and trusting him to hold you without crushing you in his fists. You’d never let anyone take the lead, never allowed yourself to be coddled, doted on, handled with such reverence that you felt no desire to fight it.
Perhaps you’d been capable of it all along; could have opened yourself up to anyone who’d came before him and felt a connection just as strong. Or maybe this part of you had always been reserved especially for him; a locked door that only he had the key to. You would never know for sure. But you were okay with that.
Ben’s thumb gently caressed your cheek, his lips grazing the side of your head in a sequence of slow, loving kisses. You smiled and leaned back slightly to look up at him.
“Okay, this is getting sappy now,” you muttered teasingly as you pulled him down to kiss you.
He chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling in his throat and humming softly against your lips.
“Go and get dressed,” you said. “I’ll finish dinner.”
“Okay,” he replied with a smile.
You watched as he made his way towards the door, before turning back to look at you, the smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” you asked with a breathy laugh.
“That was a very grown-up fight we just had.”
You rolled your eyes and turned towards the stove. “It wasn’t a fight. It was a heated discussion.”
He laughed, the sound disappearing with him down the hall.
~*~
A quiz show played quietly on the TV, the sun casting a golden hue across the living room as you sat cross-legged on the couch. There was a cushion in your lap, shielding your legs from the piping hot bowl, and a glass of water on the coffee table just out of reach. Ben was sitting beside you, leaning forward as he ate, handing you your drink every time you asked without complaint.
You listened as he told you about his time away; the funny posters fans held up in the crowd, how he almost missed a premiere when his driver took a wrong turn, and the coffee he spilled on himself before his flight had even taken off. When he asked you how your time alone had been, you couldn’t help but feel boring in comparison; writing, grocery shopping, a few work meetings you barely paid attention to.
“Oh,” you said, swallowing a mouthful of food before continuing. “My friend Nick’s proposing to his girlfriend.”
“Ah how lovely. Tonight?”
“No. Soon, though. I helped him pick the ring.”
Ben eyed your smile, unable to hide his own amusement. “Have they been together long?”
“A few years, I think. Why?”
He gave a casual shrug, still smiling. “No reason.”
You paused, narrowing your eyes at him. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. It took a battle just to get you to wear that watch, can you imagine if I tried to give you a ring?”
You looked down at the watch and rolled your eyes before trying to reach for your water. He handed it to you with a chuckle, taking another bite of his food as he waited for you to take a sip and hand it back.
The TV continued to play in the background, the sound of audience applause and laughter like a gentle hum softening the silence.
“You know,” he mused. “I never thought I’d see the day when you actually wore it.”
You looked down at the watch again, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. “It seemed a shame to just leave it sitting there. I did contemplate taking it off after what happened with Faye. But I like the compliments too much.”
He laughed and went back to his dinner, the pair of you falling back into easy conversation. It was another moment where you found it easy to forget his fame, how absurd it was to have a celebrity sitting on your couch eating rice and dal from your mismatched dinnerware.
~*~
The sun was beginning to set, the living room glowing with a deep, golden hue like the promise of a warm evening. You were laying alone on the couch, speaking aloud your answers to another quiz show and swearing to yourself whenever you got them wrong. You could hear Ben singing in the other room, the sound of clinking ceramic and running water punctuating the dulcet tone of his voice.
You stretched lazily and rose to your feet, wandering out of the living room and through the doorway of the kitchen. He was standing at the sink with his back to you, broad shoulders moving slightly as he scrubbed at the pots and pans beneath the soapy water. You allowed yourself a moment to just watch him; comfortable clothes and bare feet, singing a song that was too high for his voice and not caring if you could hear him.
You wandered over to him, slipping your arms around his waist and resting your cheek against his back. He stilled for a moment at your unexpected touch, before relaxing quickly and continuing to wash up.
“Well, this is new,” he said. “Usually I’m the one ambushing you with affection.”
You sighed contentedly, tightening your hold on him. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Of course not.” He rinsed off a pot and placed it on the draining board, glancing over his shoulder as he reached for a tea towel to dry his hands. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just soaking up the fact that you’re actually here and not on FaceTime halfway across the world.”
He turned around with a smile and pulled you closer to him. “I missed you too, darling.”
Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, which you tried to disguise by biting your already cracked, tender bottom lip.
He brought his thumb up to it, gently releasing it from your teeth. “Stop biting,” he said softly.
“Sorry, it’s a nervous thing.”
“I make you nervous?” he teased.
You rolled your eyes, breathing out a laugh as you brought your arms up to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you. He reciprocated eagerly with a satisfied groan, letting his hands roam your body until his grip finally found your backside.
You leaned into him, pressing yourself flush against his body as you swept your tongue into his mouth. The energy between you began to pulse, turning hot and electric; making your skin tingle, the hairs on your arms stand on end. You reached back and grabbed one of his hands, taking a step back and leading him towards the door.
The air was cooler in the bedroom, the thick curtains shielding the space from the glowing sun. You pulled him towards the bed, turning him around and pushing him onto it with unabashed haste. He propped himself up on his elbows as you straddled him, his lips finding yours again in a quicker, hungrier kiss.
You gripped the hem of his t-shirt and dragged it over his head, tossing it aside as your lips moved to his neck, his collarbones and the bare, slightly paler skin of his chest. He smelled like the soap you’d bought him, the clean, masculine scent enveloping you as he held you in his arms. It smelled different on him than it had in the bottle; earthier, manlier, evoking something carnal inside you that made you want to dive in without coming up for air.
His hands dipped beneath your top, fingers grazing the ticklish spots over your ribs, nails raking gently down your sides. You shivered as your skin puckered with goosebumps, the sensation rolling down your body and settling between your legs with a tingling, insatiable need. It made you squirm, searching for friction as you continued to lay kisses across his chest.
He lifted the top over your head before brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen into your face, pausing for just a moment to look at you.
“You’re about to say something cheesy, aren’t you,” you said.
He smiled. “I was just going to say I love you.”
You leaned forward, kissing him slowly, deeply, rocking your hips over the hard bulge in his jogging bottoms. “I love you too,” you mumbled against his lips.
He let himself fall back completely, surrendering himself to you as you returned your mouth to his chest, trailing down his torso towards his waistband. You could feel him tense beneath your lips, muscles hardening, rolling beneath soft skin with even the slightest movement. But then he stopped.
“Hold on,” he said.
You lifted your head to see him reaching for something beneath your pillows, watching as he pulled out a small vibrator and turned to look at you with a raised eyebrow.
“What do you expect me to do when you’re gone?” you asked.
“Pine after me longingly, while awaiting my return in perfect chastity,” he replied sarcastically.
You scoffed and climbed off him. “Take off your pants.”
He did as you instructed, his eyes never leaving you as you stripped down to your underwear. You wished you’d thought ahead when you got dressed this morning and worn nicer lingerie, or at the very least, made sure your bra matched your knickers. But Ben didn’t seem to care, his gaze ravenous as it raked over you, following your every move until you were back on top of him.
You ran your finger over the tan line at the base of his throat, preparing to tease him for it. But before any words could leave you, he placed a hand on the back of your head and pulled you down to kiss him, his hot breath and skilled tongue turning your mind hazy, the desire to say something funny or sarcastic evaporating from you like steam. He was growing impatient, you could feel it in the way he rolled his hips beneath you, his erection pressing against your aching centre, begging to be released.
You reached back and unclasped your bra, letting the straps slide down your arms, the cups falling away from your chest. He wasted no time in taking your breasts in his large palms, kneading them gently, fingers pinching your hard, tight nipples until the sensation made you gasp. He shifted slightly, sitting up just enough to lean back against the headboard, bringing his mouth to each nipple as his hand caressed the other. It was electric, each flick of his tongue or squeeze of his fingers sending a jolt of lightning through your stomach.
You ran your fingers through his hair, rocking against his hard length as you tried to quell the throbbing in your clit, the deep, insatiable need in your core.
“Say you’ll come with me on the next press tour,” he whispered, hands travelling from your breasts over your stomach.
“It’s in three days, how can I just up and leave? I don’t even know where you’re going-”
“Los Angeles, then New York, then Los Angeles again,” he said, his voice seductively low, fingers making it to the waistline of your underwear. “But nothing’s stopping us from taking a detour or two; we could fly to Mexico for a few days, or maybe Argentina, Colombia, Brazil-”
“Okay I get the picture,” you said breathlessly as he slipped his hand into your underwear, fingertips finally making contact with your centre.
“Is that a yes?”
You let out a moan as he began to massage your clit, making you shudder and grip the headboard above him to steady yourself.
You’d gotten on top of him with the intention of being in charge, of taking the lead. But somehow here you were, straddling him yet still completely at his mercy. The extent of your arousal was undeniable as he slid his fingers along your hot, wet entrance, the discovery making him groan with a mixture of pride and desire. He bucked against you, and you responded by reaching down to release him from his underwear, as though the idea of foreplay hadn’t even crossed your mind, or you were simply too horny to care.
His cock sprung free against your stomach and you gripped it firmly in your hand. “If I agree to come, will you make it worth my while?”
His breath hitched, eyes darkening as he gazed up at you. “Anything you want,” he whispered. “It’s yours.”
You smiled, stroking him lazily as you spoke. “I want you.”
“Then you’ve got me.” He ran his hand slowly up your body, over your stomach and between your breasts, his palm finally settling at the base of your throat. “Every free moment.” He curled his fingers around your neck. “Every spare second.”
You paused for a moment, revelling in the depth of his voice, the pressure of his fingertips against your pulse and the way his hips rolled to meet the relaxed rhythm of your hand. When you leaned forward to kiss him, he responded with a soft growl against your lips, tightening his grip on your throat as you slid your underwear aside and positioned him at your entrance.
You slid him into you with a sigh, releasing every ounce of fear and uncertainty you’d been holding onto in his absence, the connection so beautiful it was hard to believe you’d ever doubted it at all.
“Fuck,” you whispered as your hand immediately found the headboard above him, holding onto it as you began to move, sinking down to the root of his length and grinding against him.
The friction was intense, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs as he filled you. He was motionless beneath you; letting you set the pace, the angle, the depth. But his hand remained on your neck, like an anchor, a reminder that he had you exactly where he wanted you.
You kept a grip of the headboard, your other hand planted on his chest as you rocked your hips, revelling in each wave of pleasure as it rippled through your core, the tingly, electric buzz coursing beneath your skin. He kept his eyes on you, watching your face closely, your fluttering lids and parted lips, undeniable evidence of your satisfaction.
“Tell me you love me again,” he groaned.
You lowered your gaze to meet his with a slight smile, and for a moment you thought about teasing him, denying his request and making him beg for it. But the feeling of him inside you was too pervading, disabling your sarcasm and stealing your wit, leaving you soft and agreeable, like putty in his hands.
“I love you,” you replied breathlessly.
Your words seemed to fuel him, making him bring his other hand up to double his grip of your throat. You whimpered as he began to move, every firm jolt sending a shudder through your stomach and a shiver up your spine. You began to bounce slightly, your moans growing louder as you met each hard thrust, ignoring the burning in your thighs and the creak of the bedframe beneath him.
Your voice echoed through the room, a cacophony of moans and swear words, gasps and increasingly enthusiastic yeses. You would no doubt be apologising to your downstairs neighbours tomorrow. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if the building across the street demanded one too.
There was a familiar swelling of heat in your core, your stomach coiling, driving you to move faster in search of release. But Ben got there first, his hips stuttering as he let out a deep, guttural groan, burying himself inside you as he came.
You slowed your movements to a lazy grind, leaning back slightly to catch your breath when a dull buzzing caught your attention. You looked down to see him holding your vibrator, clicking the button a few times before placing it gently on your clit. You gasped at the sudden sensation; the unexpected act that caught you completely off guard.
“Oh, god.” You could barely speak, stuttering out the words through a serrated breath.
He watched you closely, adjusting his placement until your mouth fell open, stomach muscles tensing as you grabbed his thighs for support. The device sucked and pulsed against your clit, making you squirm on his cock as your limbs began to shake. The world around you seemed to disappear, like nothing else existed beyond the pleasure dancing along your nerves, like the entire universe had somehow been condensed into the tiny bundle between your legs.
You shuddered; eyes screwed shut as you let out a deep, heavy groan. For a moment you couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, every last speck of energy spent on the orgasm ripping through you. And as quickly as the pleasure peaked, it instantly turned to pain, your clit so sensitive that all you could think to do was push Ben’s hand away.
He switched off the vibrator and tossed it aside, gazing up at you with a satisfied smirk as you shook uncontrollably on top of him. Your teeth were chattering, limbs gooey and barely functioning.
“You’re a fucker,” you said, breathing out a stunned laugh.
He chuckled softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair out of your face.
You tried to calm yourself, inhaling slowly through your nose and blowing it out in shaky, uneven breaths.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I can’t move.”
He laughed again before gently rolling you off him and turning on his side to face you.
You nestled yourself into him, eyelids heavy as you traced swirls over his bare chest with your fingertips.
“I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to compete with that thing,” he said, gesturing in the direction he’d thrown the vibrator.
You giggled. “Well, that thing can’t kiss me, or manhandle me, or tell me it loves me. So, I think you’re fine.”
He closed his eyes with a sleepy smile. “In that case, feel free to stick it in your suitcase and bring it with us.”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “If you’re expecting me to follow you around America for two weeks, then I expect youto make sure I don’t need a vibrator…”
He opened one eye. “Is that an ultimatum?”
“It’s more of a condition.”
“A condition?”
“Mhm. If I’m going to be sneaking around, cooped up in hotel rooms all on my own while you’re working, then there needs to be… perks.” You let your fingers run further down his chest and over his stomach, making him tense beneath you.
He chuckled and grabbed your wrist before your hand could dip any lower, bringing your knuckles to his lips and kissing them gently. “Darling, if you come with me, I’ll be certain to make sure you forget that thing even exists.”
You smiled, watching as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “How long before the jet lag sets in?”
“No idea. I’m just praying I can get through tomorrow before it does.”
“Why? What’s tomorrow?”
“I’m taking my parents to the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“Oh, that’s sweet.”
He shifted even closer to you, draping an arm over the top of your head and twirling your hair between his fingers. “I was actually meaning to speak to you about it… I’d really like it if you came too.”
You stilled for a moment, before forcing yourself to relax. “How could I possibly look them in the eye after what I just did with their son?”
He gave a soft, throaty laugh. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
The air between you fell silent, and you knew he could sense your apprehension, the same way you could tell he wasn’t going to drop it.
“It’s just a bit soon, don’t you think?” you finally said. “Shouldn’t we wait a while before meeting-”
“I met your parents. Ages ago.”
“Yeah, by accident.”
“Quinn.” He exhaled a laugh, brushing his nose against the side of your head before placing a kiss there. “I’d really like you to come. No pressure, no expectations, I just want them to meet the woman I’ve been telling them about.”
“You’ve been telling them about me?”
He nodded. “I left out a lot.”
Chapter 25: XXV
Chapter Text
“So, what exactly does one wear to the Chelsea Flower Show?”
You’d been speaking in a theatrically posh accent for most of the morning, talking about the royal family as though you knew them personally, offering Ben a ‘spot of tea’ and excusing yourself to the ‘lavatory’. He found it amusing; accepting your subtle jibes with a smirk and a shake of his head.
You were standing in your bra and knickers, eyes skimming back and forth over your open wardrobe as Ben sat on the bed behind you. You waited a moment for him to respond before glancing over your shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow.
He glanced up from his phone at you with a shrug. “What?”
“When one is asked a question, one must respond with haste,” you replied.
He rolled his eyes with a laugh and put his phone down, shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know, something… floral?”
You turned back to the wardrobe and let out a quiet huff, sifting through the rail of clothes and pulling out a long, daisy-print jumpsuit.
“Like this?” you asked, holding it up to your body and turning to him.
He cocked his head as he eyed you up and down. “How do you go to the toilet in that?”
“You just take the whole thing down.”
“In a public loo?”
“Right, no all-in-ones, got it,” you said with a sigh as you slotted the hanger back on the rail.
“What about that little dress I like?” he asked. ‘The one with the frills.”
You shot him a look, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “I’m not dressing for you .”
“Aren’t you?” he replied with a hint of playful sarcasm, a flirtatious glimmer in his eye.
“So let me get this straight,” you began, rummaging through your wardrobe and pulling out the dress he’d suggested. “You want me in this… ” You slid the soft material off the hanger and stepped into it, pulling it up your body with a deliberately slow wiggle. “The first time I meet your parents…?” You slipped your arms into the delicately frilled straps and adjusted your breasts to sit just right, before turning to face him with your hands on your hips.
It was wholly inappropriate for the event; short, tight and just sheer enough for your flesh to peek through the pale pink fabric. If it wasn’t for your bra, you were sure your nipples would be on full display.
“Well it would certainly make an impression,” he replied, his voice low, eyes trailing you slowly.
You rolled your eyes and made your way towards him. “I think you just wanted to see me in something you’d enjoy taking off,” you said, standing between his legs and looking down at him. “So, take it off me.”
He gazed up at you beneath heavy lids, his jaw tight with self restraint. You allowed a slight smile as you stood there, watching triumphantly as his hands grazed slowly up your thighs, traveling over the frills, the thin material covering your hips, waist and breasts. Your stomach coiled at his touch, the look of hunger in his eyes eliciting a deep throb of desire between your legs.
But you remained still as his fingers finally found the straps at your shoulders, your skin prickling as he carefully peeled them away and dragged the dress down your body. When it pooled at your feet, you stepped out of it and smiled down at him.
“Thank you,” you said quietly, before turning away and walking back to the wardrobe.
“You’re evil,” he said.
“You love it.”
“Sometimes.”
You chuckled as you pulled out another dress, holding it up to yourself before deciding to put it on. It was tea-length, white, with a print of small blue flowers. You hadn’t worn it for a couple of years, and you silently prayed it still fit as you slipped it over your head.
“Can you zip me up?” you asked.
Ben stood up and walked over to you without a word. You placed your hands on your stomach, holding the dress in place as he began to zip it up. But he stopped halfway.
You glanced back at him. “What? Is it too small?”
His lips suddenly made contact with your shoulder, making you gasp slightly at the unexpected sensation. He trailed a line of slow, deliberate kisses to your neck, the heat of his breath eventually making it to your ear.
“It’s a perfect fit,” he muttered softly, before fully zipping up the dress.
His hands lingered, fingertips tickling the exposed skin of your upper back as they travelled to the nape of your neck. You shuddered, pressing your lips together firmly to silence another gasp.
“Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that,” he said, teeth nipping at your earlobe. “You’re going to be on your best behaviour today, do you hear me? You’re going to be warm and cordial and polite.”
You closed your eyes as his voice poured into your ear, deep and rich.
“But I’ll know the woman underneath,” he continued. “And I want you to know I’ll be spending the entire day picturing what I’m going to do to her when we get home.”
The warmth of his body disappeared from behind you. You turned around to see him picking his phone up off the bed and heading towards the bedroom door.
“That was a disproportionate response,” you said.
He smiled. “One has twenty minutes before the chauffeur arrives,” he replied, mimicking your posh voice.
~*~
You were sitting in the back of a large, sleek car, the tinted windows shielding you from the bright afternoon sun as you waited outside Ben’s house. The engine rumbled softly, providing the only sound besides your tapping nails and the occasional cough of the driver.
Ben finally re-emerged from the house, his casual t-shirt and jeans replaced with a pale blue suit jacket and matching trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar beneath it. You wondered if he’d chosen blue on purpose, the shade almost a perfect match to the flowers on your dress.
He climbed into the car with a smile, leaning forward to speak to the driver before settling back, his hand instinctively reaching for yours. You took it, giving it a hard squeeze as the car began to move.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” said Ben.
“I’ve managed to go my whole life without ever having to meet anyone’s parents,” you replied. “Then when I do, it’s my famous boyfriend’s famous parents.”
He exhaled a quiet laugh. “You don’t do things by halves, do you.”
You rolled your eyes and turned to the window, talking quietly to yourself. “I didn’t do any research on them. I should have researched.”
“Why on earth would you need to research my mum and dad?”
“So I could ask them questions, know what to talk to them about.”
“Quinn, take off your journalist’s hat and just relax.”
You huffed and the car soon fell silent again, weaving smoothly through the London traffic. You propped your elbow on the edge of the window, resting your cheek in your hand as you watched the narrow, urban roads gradually turn to neat, quiet streets, the houses getting taller and wider, with whiter bricks and greener gardens.
“I thought you said we were picking them up,” you said.
“We are.”
“But they live further down south, don’t they?”
“They’re staying in their flat for a few days. Just means they don’t have to travel so far for the show.”
“Oh to have a choice of homes to stay in,” you replied sarcastically, the posh accent returning again.
He scoffed out a laugh. “That’s fine, go ahead and get it all out of your system now.”
The car pulled up outside a large townhouse and Ben immediately hopped out, leaving you alone with the driver once again. You cleared your throat and took a deep, cleansing breath, meeting his eyes for a brief moment in the wing mirror. You wondered if he could sense your nerves, if he’d heard your conversation and couldn’t resist a peek.
You pressed your lips into a brief, halfhearted smile and turned your attention back to the window, catching a glimpse of pink through the slats of the front gate, a flash of grey hair bobbing over the top of the hedge.
Ben was guiding his mother towards the car with his arm linked in her’s, while his father followed closely behind, a suit jacket draped in the crease of his elbow. You instinctively leaned back in your seat, like you were hiding from them, savouring every last second of solitude.
You glanced up when the door opened, doe-eyed with fear, your body unable to tell the difference between an imminent threat and the sweet-looking woman climbing into the car. She smiled, greeting you with a sing-song hello as she struggled to shuffle herself in.
“You okay, mum?” Ben called from outside. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine, love,” she replied, before settling into her seat and smiling at you again. “Honestly, you’d think I was a hundred years old with the way he fusses.”
You exhaled a quiet laugh.
She placed a hand on your knee, just for a moment. “Nice to meet you, I’m Wanda.”
She was so casual, so easy and relaxed in her greeting. You weren’t sure what you’d expected; maybe some kind of interrogation, judgemental glares or a cold, rigid introduction. But instead she was warm, informal, like she already knew you.
“Quinn, it’s nice to meet you too,” you replied.
There was another row of seats opposite you, and you watched as Ben and his father climbed in, sitting back with almost the exact same mannerisms as one another; fingers clasped in their laps, long legs taking up what little floor space the car had.
“Quinn, this is my mum and dad. Mum and dad, Quinn,” said Ben breathlessly as he settled into his seat.
“Hi,” you said meekly.
It seemed to amuse him greatly to see you so uncharacteristically shy. He smirked to himself as he watched you greet them, his eyes never leaving you as the car began to move again.
His father leaned over with an outstretched hand. “Tim,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” you replied as you shook it gently.
“We hear you’re a journalist.”
“I am, yes, I write for Draft.”
“And that’s how you met?” Wanda asked.
Was this it? The interrogation? Their way of vetting you, sniffing out any poor intentions or ulterior motives?
“Yeah, I interviewed him,” you said, turning to look at Ben with a slight smile. “Though it felt more like he was interviewing me at times.”
They both laughed and a small sense of relief washed over you.
“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” Tim chuckled.
“She’s far more interesting than me,” said Ben.
“Well from everything you’ve told us so far, she certainly sounds it,” said Wanda, giving you a gentle nudge with her elbow.
“Oh god, Ben, what have you been saying about me?” you asked.
“Nothing but lovely things,” he replied. “While simultaneously blinking ‘help’ in morse code.”
You rolled your eyes and he chuckled.
“He says you’re fiery,” his mother said. “And quite the challenge.”
You looked across to Ben again, this time with a fleck of genuine fear in your eyes. “Oh, nice.”
She giggled. “He said a lot of soppy things too, which I won’t repeat. Wouldn’t want to embarrass him.”
“No, please, embarrass him,” you said.
She laughed, and you noticed how much Ben looked like her, especially when they smiled. He had her eyes, her mouth, the curve of her lips. When they first got into the car, you’d been taken aback by how much he resembled his dad; their stature and disposition so similar it was almost uncanny. But now you were seeing both of them; his father undeniably in his bones, while his mother made up the details.
“Oh I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of embarrassing himself,” she joked.
“Thanks, mum.”
You allowed a slight smirk in his direction before running your hands over the skirt of your dress.
~*~
You would never take sitting down for granted again. The balls of your feet were burning, your high heels pinching at your toes and cutting into the backs of your ankles. Every corner you turned revealed another endless stretch of flowers and greenery, winding paths filled with crowds of impeccably dressed guests, their clothing as vibrant and colourful as the blooms surrounding them.
Tim and Wanda had ventured off to a display of tulips, leaving you alone with Ben for the first time since you’d arrived. The place was swarming with press and photographers, celebrities and civilians alike. Yet he seemed so unfazed by it, staying close to you despite it all. Perhaps he was too caught up in conversations with his parents, more concerned with making sure you were having a good time. Or maybe the idea of being seen with a ‘mystery woman’ didn’t bother him anymore. Was this one of those ‘soft launch’ things Nick was always talking about?
“You okay?” he asked as you meandered slowly together through an archway of pink and white flowers.
“My shoes are cutting off circulation,” you replied.
“There’s some benches up here, come on.”
You emerged out of the archway onto another long stretch of path, tall green shrubbery surrounding it like the walls of a maze.
“Are you worried about us being seen together?” you asked.
“Not really,” he replied, squinting up at the sun before slipping on a pair of dark glasses. “Anything anyone said would just be an assumption anyway. Who’s to say you’re not just an assistant, or an employee of mine or-” He stopped when he saw you glaring up at him.
“An employee ...”
“I’m not saying you look like an employee. I’m just saying there’s no reason for anyone to jump straight to the conclusion that you’re my girlfriend when there’s a million other explanations-”
You gave an offended scoff. “You don’t think I look like I could be your girlfriend?”
He breathed out a laugh and shook his head, pressing his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “You know full well that’s not what I meant.” He looked down at you, lowering his voice. “You’re trying to pick a fight, and I warned you to behave .”
Your surly expression faltered, the slightest smirk fighting its way across your face. You turned to try and hide it, noticing an empty bench behind you and immediately rushing to sit down with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
Ben sat down beside you, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands in his lap. “But really,” he said casually. “What’s the worst that could happen if we’re seen together?”
You pretended to ponder for a moment. “I don’t know, people could put two and two together and realise I’m the one that wrote the feature on you, which would in turn make it seem like I lack journalistic integrity, or make what I wrote about you appear biased or untrue. I could lose my job if the magazine received backlash, you could lose public favour if the cheating rumours resurfaced. And even if people didn’t accuse you of cheating on Faye, it’d still look like you moved on way too fast, so you’d surely get at least some criticism for that. We both would.”
He hummed in response, pushing his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.
“You’re so private,” you said with a breathy laugh. “I don’t get how none of that scares you.”
“It scares me. But I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I can’t not live my life out of fear it’s going to end up online or in an article somewhere. I know the risks.” He turned to look at you, speaking quietly. “But I also know it’s different for you . And if any of what you just said did happen, I would make sure you were protected from it.”
“How?”
“I have a good PR team-”
You interrupted him with a scoff, rolling your eyes and shaking your head dismissively.
“They are good,” he insisted. “And they’d handle it.”
“And if they couldn’t?”
“Then I’d handle it.”
You felt a chill roll down your spine, your arms pricking with goosebumps despite the sun’s rays gleaming down on you. It was the sharp, protective edge to his voice, the certainty in his tone that left you with no doubt that he meant every word. It was hard to discern his expression through the dark lenses of his glasses, but you knew he’d noticed your reaction, his lips curving into an almost smile before he turned away.
You reached for him without thinking, weaving your fingers through his. He looked down at your intertwined hands resting in his lap, and for a moment you thought he was going to pull away. But instead he brought them to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.
“They like you, by the way,” he said. “My mum and dad, I can tell.”
“That’s a relief, considering you told them I was a challenge .”
He chuckled. “I could’ve told them you were a serial killer and I don’t think it would’ve mattered. They’re just glad I’m out of that marriage situation.”
“They knew?”
“Of course they did.”
“And they were okay with it?”
“Fuck no. Told me it was a terrible idea, duplicitous, unnecessary-”
“Well they weren’t wrong.”
Even behind his sunglasses, you could tell he rolled his eyes at you. “I just couldn’t have kept such a big secret from them for that long. The second they started asking about grandchildren I’d have crumbled.”
You laughed. “Oh god, they’re not going to start asking us that, are they?”
He turned to look at you before pretending to think about it for a moment. “Mm, I give it a year before they start dropping hints.”
You laughed again, letting go of his hand to reach up and neaten the collar of his shirt. “And what do we say when they ask?”
“Maybe something that buys us a few more years of peace… Until they inevitably ask again.”
He traced a finger slowly up your arm, sliding the strap of your dress back into place on your shoulder. It was a considerate gesture, yet there was something so unexpectedly possessive about it; a subtle reminder that you belonged to him, that he was conscious of even the smallest details of your body, even when you weren’t.
“But I’ll keep them at bay for as long as you need,” he said softly, his voice deep and sincere. “Forever, if I have to.”
You knew the effect he was having on you wasn’t intentional, but that somehow made it even worse. Your stomach was coiling, cheeks flushing as vividly as the fuchsias surrounding you, all from one single, effortless touch.
You looked down at your shoulder for a moment before flitting your gaze back up to his face. “Do you really think they like me?”
He smiled. “My mum said you’re beautiful.”
“When?”
“When you went to look at that water feature with my dad. She said she can see why I didn’t wait to tell them about you.”
You nodded, trying to play it cool. “I like them too.”
The air carried the perfume of pollen, soil and fresh grass, the occasional trace of a perfume or aftershave as people idly passed by. You sat together on the bench in a pleasant silence; Ben people-watching, while you took off your shoes to let the warm pavement soothe your aching feet. The sun was bright, and you could feel it catching across your nose and cheeks as you tilted your head back, squinting up at the sky. He noticed and immediately slipped off his sunglasses, handing them to you without a second thought.
“Here they come,” he said, nodding down the path.
You turned to see his parents wandering leisurely towards you; his father’s hands clasped behind his back as he walked, hunched slightly to listen to his wife talk about each display they passed.
You sucked in a deep breath, reluctantly reaching down to put your shoes back on.
*Not much longer, I promise,” Ben said softly.
“Did you see that topiary display back there?” said Wanda excitedly as they approached you both.
“I don’t think we did,” Ben replied. “Must have walked straight past.”
“Oh you must see it, there’s elephants, lions, bears-”
“Oh my,” you added absentmindedly.
Ben giggled to himself and stood up, holding out his hand to you. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet before following them back down the path.
~*~
The drive home was quiet, the kind of comfortable silence that only came after a long, intense day. Hues of pink and gold bled across the dusky blue sky, the air thick with the lingering May heat. It felt akin to the early evening of a holiday abroad; when the sun became softer, but your skin still glowed in its memory. When the scent of summer still clung to the breeze; warm pavement, salt, lavender, and faint traces of smoke from a barbecue somewhere nearby.
You’d dropped Ben’s parents off first, and the ease of the interaction still surprised you; friendly kisses on each cheek, a squeeze of your hand and promises to see you again soon. Maybe Ben was telling the truth, maybe they really did like you.
He’d walked them to their door, returning soon after with a grin and a sigh as he leaned back in his seat, telling the driver to continue on.
“You survived,” he said quietly, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh.
“Barely,” you replied, though in truth, you had enjoyed it. And by the way Ben was looking at you, he knew it too.
You climbed out of the car when you reached his house, shoes dangling from your fingers as you made your way towards the front door. It wasn’t late, but you were still completely exhausted, like your brain had run a marathon and was finally stopping to catch its breath. Your body ached, throat scratchy from talking so much, skin tingling with a developing sunburn.
Ben trailed behind you, keys jangling in his hand as he whistled happily to himself, like the busy day hadn’t affected him at all. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let you walk in first. The house was dim and quiet, undisturbed in his long absence. A pile of letters covered the floor beneath the front door, you bent down to get them but he quickly shooed you inside, scooping them up himself and sifting through them as he wandered through to the kitchen. You threw down your shoes and followed him, resting your elbows on the island as he moved towards the fridge.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Cold, cold, icy water,” you replied.
He filled a tall glass and slid it over to you, the ice turning it frosty, condensation pooling on the counter beneath it. You guzzled it down, letting out an exaggerated ‘ah’ when you were done.
“Well?” he asked, leaning on the other side of the island facing you.
“Best water I’ve ever had.”
“Not the water,” he laughed. “Today. Did you have a nice time?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“Was I well-behaved enough for you?” you asked, cocking your head with a slight smirk.
He smiled. “You were perfect.”
You yawned, your eyelids so heavy you could barely keep them open. Ben pushed off the counter and walked around it to meet you, stepping close enough for you to smell the faint trace of aftershave still clinging to his clothes, the salt and earth on his warm skin.
He brushed a stray hair out of your face before resting his palm on your cheek. “Why don’t you head up to bed?”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
You gave a slow, appreciative nod and turned your back on him without a word. He understood immediately, fingers finding the zip of your dress and dragging it down, before pressing his lips to the back of your shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said.
“I’ll follow up soon.”
You moved languidly through the house, lugging yourself up the stairs and into Ben’s room. The bed was perfectly made, untouched, the sheets changed before he left for his press tour, waiting for his return. It looked almost too pristine to disturb, the edges of the duvet tucked and folded, pillows plumped, a throw draped neatly across it all.
You wandered into the ensuite bathroom, letting your dress fall to the floor and kicking it away as you tied your hair up and began washing your face. When you glanced up at your reflection - at the matching underwear accompanied by a bare face and simple ponytail - there was something oddly amusing about it; that after all the teasing and flirting this morning, you were about to climb into bed alone while Ben pottered around downstairs.
You remembered how he’d whispered into your ear as you got dressed, the promises of what he was going to do to you when you got home, and how your stomach coiled at the thought. You thought of how when you first met just seven months ago, sex was the only thing you wanted from him, and the idea of not getting it would have left you irritated and sulking like a child.
Yet here you were, padding across his bedroom and slipping beneath the cool sheets of his bed, alone. And somehow, impossibly, you found that you didn’t mind. In fact, you were comforted by it. It went beyond passion, beyond hunger, beyond the need to satisfy a physical urge. It was a kind of intimacy that came with existing separately in the same space, feeling connected without contact, not feeling the need to punctuate the time you spent together with anything other than an ‘I’ll be up soon’.
You felt yourself drifting off as soon as your head hit the pillow, dozing to the thought that this might actually be it; maybe this all felt so right because it was right.
You stirred to the feeling of the mattress dipping beside you, the warmth of Ben’s body as he whispered your name.
“Quinn… Quinn, move over.”
You grumbled, eyes still closed, limbs heavy as he nudged you gently.
“Quinn,” he whispered again with a laugh. “You’re right in the middle of the bed, I can’t get in.”
You shifted begrudgingly, rolling over just enough to let him slip into the space behind you. He settled in, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close, his bare chest pressing against your back as he draped his leg over yours.
“Love you,” you mumbled, half-asleep.
He kissed the side of your head. “I love you too.”
~*~
You’d lost count of how many imaginary grandmothers you’d lost over the years; a sick ‘nanna’ saving you from so many unwanted social obligations, a funeral always popping up when you needed it most. It was an excuse that never failed you - effective, untraceable, and just the right amount of tragic to discourage any follow-up questions.
“God, Quinn, I’m so sorry,” said Julia on the other end of the phone.
You were standing in Ben’s living room, peering out of the large bay window at a single magpie perched on the front gate. You gave a fake sniff, clearing your throat for added effect. “It’s all just so sudden. She’s really deteriorating fast so I need to get there as soon as I can. To be with her, y’know, before she…” You trailed off with a subtle voice crack.
“Yeah, I mean- Of course.”
“I can work remotely, so I’ll still get my pieces written and emailed over to you. I just won’t be able to come into the office for meetings.”
“No, that’s fine I understand, erm-” The sound of her chair creaked through the phone, her computer mouse clicking, papers shuffling. ”We have quite an important meeting scheduled in the first week of June, do you know, erm, do you have an idea of how long you might-”
You interrupted her with a pretend cry. “I mean, I can try my best to get back for it, I’m sure my grandmother will understand. You know, if she’s not already gone by then.”
“No. No, don’t be silly, take as much time as you need. Just… Keep in touch when you can, okay?”
“I will. Thanks, Julia.”
You hung up the phone and turned around to find Ben sitting on the couch, watching you with a disapproving glare.
“You should cast me in your next film,” you said.
He shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together to maintain his serious expression. “You’re terrible.”
“ You’re the one who insisted I come with you...”
“Oh, so it’s my fault your imaginary grandma’s about to die?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry, at this point she’s died about 17 times.”
His face broke with a smile, then a quiet chuckle escaped him. “Evil.”
“Mhm.” You walked over and threw yourself down beside him, feeling his arm immediately drape around your shoulders. “I still stand by the fact that you love it though.”
His phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. He picked it up, glancing at the screen for a moment before putting it down again.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Hm? Oh, just my assistant confirming the flights for tomorrow.”
“Ah.” You paused in thought. “God, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
“Well you’ve killed your grandmother now so there’s no going back.”
You giggled. “I should probably go home and figure out what the hell I’m going to pack. I don’t even know where my suitcase is.”
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“If you wouldn’t mind?”
He moved to stand up, placing his hands behind his head and stretching his spine. You’d taken up most of the bed last night, leaving him with such a small sliver of space that he’d woken up with a stiff neck. You felt terrible as you watched him groan and sigh, rolling his shoulders and twisting his torso from side to side to alleviate the discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
He just smiled, reaching out a hand to help you up off the couch. “How long do you think it’ll take you to pack?”
“I’ve got no idea, why?”
“Well I’m going to the gym soon,” he said, making his way into the hall and putting on a pair of trainers. “I thought if you wanted to, I could wait for you and we could go together.”
You grimaced as you followed him, leaning in the doorway and crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, I would , it’s just… My grandmother’s really sick-”
Chapter 26: XXVI
Chapter Text
“You might want to put this on,” said Ben, pulling a surgical mask from the back pocket of his jeans and handing it to you.
You took it from him with a raised brow. “Is this so you don’t get recognised?”
“That, and germs.” He slipped on his own mask, adjusting it to sit comfortably over his nose and mouth. “Press tours are draining enough without being sick on top of it.”
You put on your mask and slid on a pair of sunglasses - brand new, more money than you’d usually be willing to spend on something so superfluous. But you’d been pressed for time, caught up in the excitement of last minute holiday shopping.
The driver was taking your bags from the boot of the car, placing them on the ground one by one. The early morning was bright and crisp, making you shiver as you stepped out, teeth clenching with every brush of cold air across your bare arms. You’d dressed for California; soft, comfy trousers, a little white baby tee, stupidly forgetting the unpredictable British weather that would come first.
A man was waiting near the airport entrance, his short greying hair and casual clothes making him indistinguishable from any other person around him. But Ben seemed to know him, acknowledging him with a nod and a quick wave as he grabbed your luggage and began walking towards him.
You turned to the driver and gave a quick smile; your numerous awkward moments alone in the back of his car making you feel like you somewhat knew him now. He nodded at you in response, before closing the boot with a heavy thud and making his way back to the driver’s side door.
The man with the greying hair walked you briskly through the airport. It was emptier than you’d expected; short queues, no crowds, the sound of muted footsteps and hushed murmurs filling the vast, open space. Your suitcase rolled smoothly over the tiled floor as you dragged it behind you, while Ben was somehow managing to haul everything else on his own; his suitcase, his backpack, your large carry-on slugged over his shoulder. You’d offered to take it from him, but he simply shook his head, grabbing it before you even had the chance to protest.
You were guided through check-in and security, following Ben’s lead as he followed his escort’s. The smell hit you first; the overwhelming blend of expensive perfumes and colognes, burnt coffee, food wafting from restaurants and cafés. It was such a familiar scent, nostalgic, exciting, no matter how long it had been since your last flight.
People were slumped in stiff chairs, some curled up like they’d been waiting forever. The cry of a baby echoed somewhere in the distance, while a muffled, metallic voice spoke over the tannoy. You continued past it all, past the people with their neck pillows and coffee cups, duffel bags tucked between their knees, past the shoppers with their duty free bags and a group of young women in matching hen party t-shirts. Yet here you were, drifting along in a surreal, peaceful current, bypassing the chaos.
Eventually, you were brought to a quiet corner of the terminal where a small welcome desk stood in front of a sleek glass door, a subtle, shiny plaque on the wall beside it that read: The Windsor Suite. There was a man standing at the desk in a shirt and gold coloured tie, a name tag across the breast of his long black tailcoat. He was wearing a bowler hat, and it took everything in you not to laugh at the absurdity of it all as you watched him reach out his leather-gloved hand and take your boarding passes from Ben.
Your escort seemed to disappear, making himself scarce without a word, or maybe you were just too focused on the man in front of you to notice.
“The Windsor Suite ?” you whispered to Ben with a raised eyebrow.
He nodded towards the doors as the man pulled them open for you, gesturing for you to go inside.
And you did, your mouth falling open in shock as you wandered further in. The place looked like a luxury hotel penthouse; polished wooden floors and buttery leather chairs, fresh flowers in tall metallic vases. Everything was soft, neutral, warmly lit and beautifully decorated. A long, open bar extended the length of one wall, another wall filled with books and a large mounted TV. There was artwork everywhere, plush sofas and armchairs in textures of velvet, leather and chenille, a discreet butler standing near a serving cart.
You pulled down your mask as you looked around in awe. “This is… Insane.”
Ben set down your bags, taking off his own mask to reveal a slight smile. “How else are we supposed to wait for our flight?” he asked, clearly joking.
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I usually just sit on the floor near a plug socket somewhere with an overpriced sandwich.”
He laughed, dropping into an armchair with a sigh. “Trust me, if I could still get away with doing that, I would.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” You flopped into the armchair beside him, your body sinking into the soft cushions like a warm embrace. “Definitely not complaining.”
He laughed again and checked his watch, before settling back into his chair and closing his eyes.
You watched him for a moment before turning your attention to the rest of the room, eyeing the glossy sheen of the bar, the precisely placed books on the shelves and bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. There was a large, frameless window, providing an uninterrupted view of the runway outside, a private jet waiting on the tarmac, baggage handlers lugging suitcases onto the conveyor of a commercial plane.
If you weren’t so tired, you were certain you’d be exploring; walking the entire length of the suite and back, touching every surface, peering into cabinets and smelling the flowers. It was probably a good job you were exhausted, saving Ben the embarrassment of his ‘commoner’ girlfriend acting like she’d never seen a coffee table before.
“Would either of you like a glass of champagne?” the butler asked in a soft, posh voice.
You hadn’t even heard him approach you, startling slightly when you saw him standing at your side.
“It’s half past six in the morning,” you said with a quiet laugh, before pausing for a brief moment. “Yeah, okay. Can you put a bit of Chambord in it as well?”
He subdued his amusement, but the smile still managed to reach his eyes. He nodded and turned his attention to Ben.
“No I’m alright, thank you. But could I possibly get some water?”
“Of course, sir,” he replied, before quickly walking away.
You leaned in towards Ben, speaking quietly. “You’re making me look bad.”
“You said yourself it’s only half six,” he chuckled.
“Mm, well, I’d feel like we wasted this place if I didn’t at least do one extravagant thing. How much is this even costing you- actually, no, don’t tell me.”
He laughed again, a deep, tired laugh in the base of his throat.
The butler handed you a tall, thin champagne flute, the rosy liquid fizzing gently, tickling your nose as you brought it to your lips. It was sweet, slightly bitter, scratchy as it slid down your throat and cold as it hit your empty stomach. But it was undeniably satisfying, making your cheeks flush and your muscles relax as you curled your feet underneath yourself and settled back further.
You talked quietly for a while, the conversation drifting aimlessly from work schedules to bucket lists, stories, jokes, favourite things. The sun was getting brighter as the morning progressed, but the lighting inside the suite stayed soft and ambient, keeping you suspended in your relaxed, comfortable bubble.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you took it out to see a message from your mother.
Did you get to the airport ok? How long til your flight? x
“Everything okay?” Ben asked.
“Yeah,” you laughed. “Just my mum worrying about me as always.”
You leaned towards him, holding your phone up to take a selfie together. He tilted his head towards you, pulling a stupid face at the camera.
“I’m sending this to my mum,” you said.
“Oh.” He quickly adjusted his expression, smiling warmly and waiting for you to snap the photo.
But before you could, your phone began to ring, an unknown number popping up on the screen. You looked at it with confusion for a moment before finally answering it with a dubious ‘hello?’
“May I speak with Quinn Armitage?” said a smooth, intimidating voice.
You knew immediately who it was, sitting up straighter in your seat and clearing your throat. “Yes, this is- speaking…”
“Quinn, hello, this is Ellen Ford.”
Ben was watching you with curious eyes, analysing your face.
“Hi, Ms Ford, how are you?” you replied, locking eyes with him and watching his brows raise in surprise.
“I understand you’re taking some personal leave so I wanted to catch you first,” she began, her voice calm, unbothered, a complete juxtaposition to your shaking hands and swirling stomach. “A piece came across my desk recently that I understand you wrote; ‘Still, They Watch’...?”
It felt surreal to hear the title of something you’d written come from her. “Y-yes that’s mine, I… i brought it to Julia a while back but she-”
“It’s very good,” she interrupted simply, as though she hadn’t even registered that you were speaking.
“Thank you.”
“With some minor edits, I’d like to run it in the next issue.”
Your hand instinctively lunged for Ben’s thigh, fingers gripping him like a vice.
“However, with you being out of office for the foreseeable-”
“No, I’m,” you interjected, too excited to care about cutting her off. “I am out of office but I’m still working. If you send it, I can make the changes and get it right back to you.”
“Excellent. I’d like to talk more with you about the piece when you get back.”
“I- Yes, definitely. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how-”
She’d already hung up. You looked down at your phone in stunned silence, the camera reflecting your awestruck face back at you.
“What was that about?” asked Ben.
“My op-ed. She wants to publish my op-ed.”
He breathed out a single, quick laugh, smiling as he reached over and placed a hand on the back of your head, shaking you with restrained excitement. “That’s amazing!”
“I don’t even know how she got hold of it-” You paused, before looking up at him suspiciously. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“What? No! I swear to god, no.”
You narrowed your eyes at him before quickly realising he was telling the truth, your mouth swiftly curling into a smile. “I wish I could see the look on Julia’s face when she finds out.”
“Maybe she’s the one who showed it to her?”
“Definitely not. Maybe Nick snuck it into her office. I need to text him.”
“Text your mum first.”
“Oh, yeah.” You lifted the phone, leaning into him and finally snapping the photo.
~*~
You couldn’t stop giggling. Not as you were driven across the tarmac, or as you climbed the steps to the plane, not even when you finally got onboard. The whole thing just seemed so ridiculous to you; the special treatment and constant fast tracking, the flight attendants calling you ‘madam’ as they led you to your seat.
You’d stared out of the window during takeoff like a wonderstruck child, the reality of what you were doing finally starting to sink in - you were on a plane, tucked cosily inside your own personal business class cubicle as you soared towards the atlantic, your famous boyfriend sat directly behind you. Was this your life now? Would there come a day when trips like this no longer felt special? When boarding a plane and sitting in business class felt as mundane as catching the tube?
You’d been in the air for almost eight hours, and you were growing restless. You’d tried to sleep, took out your laptop and tried to write, you’d flicked through films on the TV, even resorted to playing word games on your phone.
You huffed and stood up, kneeling on your seat and resting your arms on top of the partition separating your cubicle from Ben’s.
He glanced up at you before taking off his headphones. “Hi,” he greeted with a smile.
“Hi. What’re you watching?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, I’m listening to music.” He looked up at you for a moment. “Are you bored?”
“Mhm.” You looked around the quiet cabin, then over to the toilets, then back to him, lowering your voice to a whisper. “Do you want to go and join the mile high club?”
“Quinn,” he said, his voice low and steady, like a warning.
“I’m only joking. I’m too loud to ever get away with that.”
“I know.”
You rested your chin on your arms as you looked down at him, smirking slightly. “Well if you won’t meet me in the toilets, will you at least play scrabble with me for a bit?”
He rolled his eyes, giving in to a smile and reaching for his phone. “Fine, but you can’t get pissed off with me like you did last time.”
“No promises,” you replied, turning around and sinking back down into your seat.
~*~
It was noon when you landed in LA, but your bodyclock was still stuck on London time. The evening would be closing in there now, the temperature dropping, sun beginning to sink towards the horizon. Yet here, it was bright and busy, with air conditioning blasting from the ceilings and deafeningly loud crowds at every turn. You were exhausted as you followed another escort through the airport, your eyelids gritty, limbs heavy, wondering why your mind hadn’t let you sleep on the plane when your body so desperately needed it.
Ben took you by the hand as you walked, while his other hand pushed a large luggage trolley. “You okay?” he asked, his voice muffled by the mask covering his mouth.
You nodded, giving him a slight squeeze.
It was strange how different everything felt already, like the atmosphere itself was unfamiliar; the current moved faster here, more erratic, pulling everyone along in sharp, errant bursts. There was a restlessness, a sense that no one had time to walk slowly or speak quietly, not even inside the airport.
Ben kept hold of your hand as you were ushered towards a private exit, and as the doors slid open, you were hit by a wall of sudden, intense heat. It was thick yet dry, like stepping into a cloud of dust. You’d visited hot countries before, but none that had taken your breath away quite like this. It was exciting, to feel so far removed from home.
A black SUV was waiting outside, the windows tinted so dark they looked opaque. The driver stood beside it holding up a discreet sign; Ben’s initials and a string of numbers you didn’t understand. The escort handed you both off to him, like children who couldn’t be left unsupervised for even a moment.
You climbed into the backseat as they piled your bags into the boot, breathing a sigh of relief to find the aircon blasting through the car. You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes, listening as the door opened and Ben shuffled in beside you, his voice hoarse from tiredness and the recycled plane air as he spoke to the driver.
His hand found your thigh, thumb stroking gently back and forth in a silently soothing gesture. You appreciated it, turning to look at him with a sleepy smile.
“How long until we get there?” you asked as the car began to move.
“About an hour.”
You rolled your eyes and he laughed.
“You just survived an eleven hour flight,” he said. “You’ll cope.”
~*~
The car rolled to a stop, but you weren’t there yet. You peered into the front, watching the driver roll down his window next to a small wood-paneled outbuilding. Ben leaned over, handing him a small plastic card. The engine rumbled quietly as you waited, and after a moment, you saw a barrier rise to let you through. You flashed Ben a curious glance but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy directing the driver on where to go.
You moved steadily along wide, winding roads, and even in your tired haze, your eyes stayed wide open. Huge gates stood before endless driveways, leading to grand entrances set into ivy-covered walls. Tall palms framed perfectly manicured lawns that stretched across hillsides, spanish villas with clay tile roofs, modern houses of glass and steel set like art installations against the dusty gold backdrop of hills and valleys. It was surreal, so perfect it almost seemed fake.
You kept going further up the winding road, the houses growing larger and further apart like they needed room to breathe. When you finally turned a corner, you’d almost forgotten why you were there, finally snapping back into reality when Ben handed the driver another keycard.
He used it to open a gate, rolling slowly up a long private road lined with neat grass and pruned hedges, wild bushes, trees and shrubbery providing a sense of seclusion as you ventured further in. The car finally stopped in the middle of a large, paved driveway, the house surrounding it making your mouth fall open.
You climbed out of the car, shielding your eyes from the sun as you stared up at the building before you. Lime Washed walls and terracotta roofs, arches and walkways, windows with wooden shutters and stone paths leading to standalone structures. The front entrance was like its own private courtyard; plants and pillars, another magnificent arch framing a glass front door. You stood gawping at it as Ben lifted your luggage out of the boot. And by the time the car had begun to drive away, you still hadn’t uttered a word.
“Quinn, can you come and get your suitcase?” he called out.
“When you said you had a house you stayed in whenever you came to LA, you failed to mention it was a fucking mansion ,” you said, whipping around to face him.
He shrugged at you, brow furrowed like he didn’t understand.
“Is this yours?” you pressed. “Like… You own it? You’re not renting it out, it- this is your house?”
“Yes, this is my house.” He began, talking sarcastically slow, like he was explaining the concept to a child. “This is my California home . So when I am in California, I live here.”
You sneered at him and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. “Well go on then, lead the way.”
“Why are you annoyed with me for having a nice house?” he laughed.
“I’m not annoyed, I’m just- I keep forgetting you’re… you . Then suddenly it’s like boom , vip lounge, business class, sprawling fucking mansion in the hills.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smirk he knew better than to let spread. Instead he kissed the side of your head and hoisted your bags onto his shoulders, dragging his suitcase behind him. You followed, eyeing more details of the house as you went; the architecture and the greenery, the steps leading up to the front door framed with lanterns, how everything seemed so thought out and deliberate.
He unlocked the door and let you inside, your footsteps echoing against the polished tile floor as you wandered in. You bit the inside of your cheek as you gazed around, knowing you couldn’t keep harping on at him about it, no matter how much you wanted to. The walls were smooth and rounded, the staircase curving perfectly up to the second floor. Everything was neutral and clean, earth tones and natural textures, tall ceilings and minimal clutter. There were more archways, providing small glimpses into other parts of the house, and you wondered how one man could possibly make use of so much space, if there were places he rarely ever saw.
“Go on, lay into me,” he said with a joking sigh.
“This is… beautiful,” you replied sincerely.
“Oh. Thank you. Do you want a quick tour?”
“Quick?”
He glared at you.
“Sorry,” you said, biting back a smirk. “Couldn’t help myself.”
The house echoed as you walked through it, the tall ceilings and generous windows making the place feel airy and open. Walls and archways seemed sculpted into the space, tones of clay and earth accented with black iron banisters, tiled floors and carved mahogany finishes. It was a far cry from his home back in London. There, his wealth was hidden in the foundations, in the pricey location and quiet luxuries. But here, it was impossible to miss.
The kitchen alone was bigger than your entire flat, bordered with pale oak cabinets and shiny industrial-sized appliances. Dim, warm spotlights lined the exposed beams in the ceiling, casting a glow over the huge island in the middle of the room. You ran your hand along the polished marble top as you passed it, catching a glimpse of what looked like a small orchard beyond the window.
“This is the kitchen,” said Ben.
There were a bunch of flowers sitting in a vase on the island. You reached out and touched the petals, surprised to discover they were real. “How are these not dead?”
“Hm? Oh, well I have people who come once or twice a week to look after the house when I’m not staying here. Y’know, gardeners, housekeepers, pool maintenance…”
You nodded, slowly learning to take this new reality in your stride.
He showed you to the first of many living rooms, where framed art and floating bookshelves decorated the pristine white walls. Curved couches sat low to the ground, angled towards the windows and sliding glass door on the back wall. He slid it open and gestured for you to follow him outside, a slight smile on his face, like he was excited for you to see what lay beyond it.
There was a fire pit on the patio, outdoor furniture still wrapped in its waterproof covering. You stood there for a moment in the dry, california heat, looking out at the well-kept grass that seemed to blend into the hills in the distance. Across the lawn was a swimming pool, a tennis court, statues and water features, flowers and citrus trees.
“It’s not like you to be this quiet,” he said. “Where’s the snarky comments? The criticism telling me this is all too much?”
You shrugged and shook your head. “I think you’ve finally managed to make me speechless.”
The tour continued with Ben doing most of the talking. He showed you rooms you wouldn’t have even known were there; a bar, a study, a sun room, all tucked away down curved passageways and across small courtyards connecting one part of the building to the other. There was a cinema room, with velvet recliners and a huge projector screen, a sleek home gym with accompanying sauna, and a cellar stocked full of whiskeys and gins, wines and bottles with labels you couldn’t even make out.
He lugged your bags upstairs and you followed behind in awe, staring up at the skylight above the landing, natural light flooding another vast, minimal space. You peered into passing guest rooms and bathrooms, verandas and more stairs leading back down to places you weren’t sure you’d even seen yet.
“And this is our room,” said Ben breathlessly, pushing open a set of double doors and dropping the luggage on the ground with a huff.
You stepped into the master bedroom and let out a soft, quiet sigh, too overwhelmed to muster anything more. It was huge, with smooth, curving walls and a glass door leading out onto a private balcony. The bed was perfectly made, all soft linens and neutral tones, the large wooden headboard built into the back wall. There was a sitting area, a fireplace, a television, and yet still, the room somehow felt sparse.
“What’s through there?” you asked, pointing to another door facing the bed.
“That’s the wardrobe- Well, closet ,” he said in an American accent, making you giggle. “And if you come through it, I’ll show you the master bathroom.”
You watched him open the door and disappear into the walk-in closet space, refraining from making a Narnia joke as you began to follow him.
You could have slapped him for calling it a wardrobe. It was more like a hallway, each side lined with shelves and cupboards, glass cabinets filled with watches and cufflinks, shoes neatly organised on racks beneath them. There was an archway on the other end, leading through to a bathroom of marble and tile, glass and stainless steel. The deep clawfoot tub stood in the centre of the room, behind it a large window looking out on another stunning landscape.
“Toilet’s through there,” said Ben. “And the shower’s in that bit over there.”
You shook your head in disbelief. “I’m so embarrassed that I ever let you set foot in my flat.”
He furrowed his brow and laughed. “What?”
“This. This is how you live, and then you come and stay with me where you need to punch the shower just to get it to turn on.”
He laughed again, more heartily this time. “I did offer to get that fixed for you.”
You rolled your eyes and made your way back through to the bedroom, your eyes immediately falling on the glass door. You walked across the room and slid it open, stepping out onto the balcony and resting your elbows on the railing.
You closed your eyes and tilted your head back to let the sun warm your face, and after a moment, Ben was behind you, pressing up against your back and wrapping his arms around your waist.
“I get why you want to live here full time,” you said softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Who said I wanted to live here full time?”
“Faye.”
He inhaled deeply, letting it out in a low groan. “I thought we’d learned not to listen to anything that woman says…”
“Yeah but, I wouldn’t blame you if this one was true. Why on earth would you ever go back to London when you have the ability to wake up to this every morning?”
He hummed in thought. “Well, I might not appreciate it as much if I was here all the time.” He kissed the side of your head. “I like it here, but… London’s my home.”
You let your head fall back against his chest, eyes scanning the hills in the distance, the afternoon light pouring over them like honey. A gentle breeze rolled in, taking the edge off the heat, and for a while neither of you spoke.
His chest rose and fell slowly as you rested against him, the quiet strength of his arms snug around your waist. Every time you thought you were finally getting used to it all, to the odd reality he existed in, something always came to throw you off kilter again.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle against your ear.
“Mhm.” You nodded, leaning back further into him. “Readjusting.”
He exhaled a laugh. “It’s been a long day. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
You turned your head slightly, intending to speak, but stopped yourself with a gentle sigh. The old Quinn would have corrected him, reminded him how far removed from normal his life was. But you no longer felt the need; understanding now that this wasn’t normal, but it was his normal. And, if you were going to stay with him, it would inevitably become yours too.
For a short while, you stood there wrapped in the quiet, basking in the warmth and the soft brush of his thumbs over your hips. Until eventually you felt him shift, his hands moving to your waist to guide you back inside.
“Shall we get a shower?” he asked.
His voice was low and casual, the same tone he might use when talking about dinner or the weather. There was no sly smile, no teasing edge, just an easy, simple offer.
It still surprised you how natural it felt; the idea of sharing something so intimate without expectation. Before him, you’d never have believed an invitation like that could be about comfort rather than sex. You wouldn’t have wanted it to be.
*Yeah, that sounds nice,” you replied with a sleepy smile, letting him take your hand and lead you back towards the bathroom.
You undressed together, throwing your clothes into a heap on the tiled floor. He opened the glass door of the shower and turned it on, holding his hand under the stream to test the temperature. And when it was ready, he gestured for you to step in.
He’d kept the water cool; a soothing relief from the California heat. You closed your eyes as you stood directly beneath the shower head, washing away the sweat and grime of your long journey. He got in behind you, pressing himself up close against your back and reaching over you for a bottle of shampoo.
He washed your hair, his fingertips massaging your scalp with a firm pressure, making you relax into him with a grateful sigh. And when he was done, you turned to face him, tilting your head back to rinse away the suds before lathering him with shower gel. Your palms glided over his shoulders and down his arms, curving around his waist and trailing down his back. He leaned down to kiss you, his lips pressing against yours, just once, before returning his attention to your hair.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed, lost in the scent of his soap and the sound of running water. Neither of you had spoken, moving with ease around the small space, taking turns under the stream and tending to each other carefully.
When you stepped out, your muscles felt looser, your skin fresh and clean, your mind pleasantly quiet. You wrapped yourself in a towel and wandered back into the bedroom, crouching at your suitcase and opening it to find the crumpled, disorganised mess of clothes you’d carelessly shoved inside.
Ben was sitting on the edge of the bed, a towel wrapped low around his waist, watching you as you rummaged for something to wear. His eyes followed you as you stood up and began to move around the room, drying yourself and peering at your reflection in the mirror.
“What?” you asked with a suspicious smirk.
He shook his head, leaning back on his elbows. “I just think you’re so beautiful.”
You paused for a moment, pressing your lips together to hide a smile before continuing to dry yourself. “Well, that’s lucky. I imagine you’d find it quite challenging to sleep with me if you didn’t.”
“I’m a man, darling. I’d manage.”
You snorted. “Charming.”
You slipped into your underwear and sat down to pull on a pair of leggings, your eyes flitting over to him every few moments as he began to get dressed too. Water stuck to his shoulders and chest like beads, his arms flexing as he unfolded a t-shirt, bottom lip sucked gently into his mouth. He was divine, mouthwatering, and there was a bed right there. Yet somehow, you were perfectly content on the other side of the room.
"Oh no," you began dryly. "We've already hit the 'boring' stage, haven’t we."
"What do you mean?" he asked with a laugh.
"Beautiful place, huge bed, and we’re just… Getting dressed."
His mouth curled in amusement as he realised what you were implying. Then his gaze drifted over you, his voice turning low and calm when he finally spoke.
“I’m letting you rest today.”
He didn’t elaborate, didn’t punctuate his words with a wink or a smirk. Instead, he simply reached for his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.
“You’re letting me rest…?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Mhm,” he replied as he rolled the material down over his torso. “Because I’m working all day tomorrow. And by the time I get home, I’ll need somewhere to put my frustration.”
You glanced up at him, your fingers paused with your leggings halfway up your thighs.
He met your gaze, the weight of his meaning settling in the space between you. “And you’ll be right here,” he said simply. “Won’t you.”
The air seemed to thin, your throat tightening, heat blooming deep in your stomach. “I’ll be here,” you finally replied.
His eyes flitted to your fingers as they clutched the waistband of your leggings, still half-forgotten at your thighs. The sight seemed to amuse him, a soft, brief smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Chapter 27: XXVII
Chapter Text
The days had melted into one long, golden stretch, unfurling lazily, one after the other, as though life beyond the property line had paused in your absence. You’d been living in a timeless paradise of warm skin and open windows, quiet days and close, passionate nights. Ben had kept good on his promise, giving every spare moment he could to making you glad you came. But you’d learned to relish the moments in between too; the solitude and the respite, the time each day offered like a gift, to relax, to write, to bathe in silence and bask in the stillness of the warm California air.
You woke to the sound of shuffling across the room, the clunk of a drawer and the faint hiss of a zipper. You stirred beneath the linen sheets, feeling the delicious ache in your limbs from the night before, an empty space beside you where Ben should have been. You lifted your head, squinting in the morning light to find him dressing quietly.
He glanced over at you, his voice still rough from sleep as it rumbled across the bedroom. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You stretched lazily, the sheets slipping down your body. “Where are you going?”
“Press junket day,” he replied, sitting down to put his shoes on.
“Mm, a whole day being asked the same five questions over and over again. Sounds fun.”
He chuckled under his breath. “You said it, not me.”
You sat up further on your elbows, making no effort to cover your bare chest, your hair like a messy halo around your head. “What time will you be back?”
“I’m not sure, probably this evening.” He stood up, adjusting the waistband of his trousers as he spoke. “I’m going to try and get back as early as I can but these things always end up running late.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a wonderful day planned.”
“You do?”
“Mhm.” You inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and sank back down into the pillows with a smile. “I’m going to write on the balcony, eat something nice, maybe have a nap, go for a swim...”
He smirked as he made his way over to you. “You know it quite suits you, being a lady of leisure.”
“I’m making the most of it before I have to go back to real life.”
“This is real life,” he said softly, resting a knee on the bed and leaning over to kiss you. “I’ll see you tonight.”
You returned his kiss, your faces lingering closely for just a moment before he retreated, grabbing his phone and wristwatch off the bedside table and disappearing out of the room.
~*~
The morning unfolded slowly, warmly. You lazed in bed for a while after Ben left, scrolling on your phone as the air-con system quietly hummed throughout the house. It had become a comfort; the calming white noise taking the edge off the silence, a gentle indoor breeze greeting you at the beginning of each day.
When you finally got up, you took your time in the bathroom; showering and brushing your teeth, putting on skincare, SPF, perfume - just because. You dressed in a loose t-shirt and cotton shorts, humming to yourself as you wandered barefoot through the house, lazily making your way down to the kitchen.
Someone had been there, you could tell because the dishes were done, the counters cleared and the fridge restocked with fresh produce and prepped meals. You may have been a few days into your stay, but you still found it unsettling; the idea of a housekeeper or someone from Ben’s team letting themselves in, going about their duties and leaving again without ever crossing your path.
A light breeze danced through an open window, with scents of dry earth, tuberose and jasmine rolling in from the hills, and on the counter, a large glass cafetiere added the rich, familiar fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. You wished you could bottle it; the smells, the sounds, the way the floor felt beneath your bare feet. It was all so idyllic, a peacefulness you weren’t sure you would ever feel again.
You poured a coffee over ice, grabbed a prepackaged fruit salad from the fridge and returned upstairs, settling onto the sun-drenched balcony where you’d spent the majority of your days. The cushions of the outdoor sofa seemed to mould around you, like they remembered your shape. You sank into them with a happy sigh, laptop perched on your thighs as you took in the view for a moment before lifting the screen and beginning to write.
You finished editing your op-ed, letting out an excited little squeak as you finally sent it off. You’d been proud of the feature you wrote on Ben; the way you crafted the piece, swayed opinion with subtle descriptors and carefully placed metaphor, how you wove his words with yours so seamlessly that they flowed like the ink they’d been printed with. But this was another beast entirely. This was yours - your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions - this was a piece of you, and it was going to be out there, in the glossy pages of one of the biggest magazines in the world.
You stretched your arms above your head, letting the anxious energy evaporate from your fingertips. Then you reached for your phone, opening the camera to take a few photos; some of the view, some of yourself, smiling and sunkissed, blissfully happy. You clicked on Instagram, already thinking of a witty caption when you remembered you were supposed to be in mourning, and a grinning selfie wouldn’t exactly sell the ‘dying grandmother’ story.
Then you saw it. The ring on Lacey’s hand, Nick’s relieved smile, her teary eyes. ‘ Obviously, yes,’ the caption beneath the picture read. And your mouth immediately fell open with joy. You swiped your thumb through the carousel of photos, each one as adorable and exciting as the last. They were in the middle of a plush, green meadow, surrounded by long grass and wildflowers, a backpack still on Lacey’s shoulders from their hike. You zoomed in on the ring and couldn’t help but feel proud that he’d taken your advice; a pale green stone set in delicate yellow gold with filigree detail. It was perfect.
About time! you wrote, laughing when Lacey almost immediately liked your comment.
For the next few hours, you seemed to float around the house; exploring the open grounds and sunlit rooms, grazing on snacks from the kitchen and humming to yourself as you went. You tried playing the piano that stood in the entrance hall, tinkering a tune from lessons you took as a child and wishing you’d never given up. By the time you found your way back to the balcony, the late afternoon sun had slanted across the hills, glittering over the surface of the pool and turning everything a warm, golden hue.
Maybe it was the house, the heat, the solitude. Maybe it was Nick and Lacey’s engagement, or the feeling of everything being so perfect with Ben. Whatever it was, you found yourself returning to your laptop, opening an empty document and beginning to write something new.
There’s something strange about falling in love when you’re old enough to know better. Embarrassing, even. Like showing up to a party three hours late, tipsy, holding a bottle no one asked you to bring. You look around and realise everyone else already knows the cues, the rules and the norms. They know when to lean in, when to pull away, how to talk with just their eyes, and leave on time for the next big event. They’re not hiding around corners to avoid conversation, dragging someone they just met upstairs because sex is easier than talking. They’re not letting someone feel them up for a better seat at a nicer table, or pushing people away for being ‘too nice’. That’s when it finally hits you, that you should be like them by now. You should be weathered and slick and unimpressed. But somehow, you’re brand new.
I used to think of love as a scam. Like some multi-level-marketing-scheme that we only joined once we’d fallen for the false promises of someone higher up the pyramid. Love was for the idealistic, for the smooth-skinned, the unsullied, for the people who didn’t yet know it came with a possibility of failure. Then once they’d done it, once they’d been maimed and scarred and lost the investments they were promised a return on, they would just go back again. Because now they had nothing to lose.
There was never a reason for me to think that way, to doubt or be skeptical of love like I was. But for some reason, in those smooth-skinned, unsullied years, I rejected it completely.
Now here I am, late to the party. Embarrassed. Tipsy. Stumbling around clueless while he patiently holds my hand. He’s been here before, he knows the cues and the rules and the norms. And I find myself glad, somehow, that I didn’t turn up on time. Because he might not have been here then.
You’d been typing for so long that your wrists were beginning to ache, your eyes itchy from staring at the laptop screen. You closed it gently, blinking a few times as you gazed out upon a darker landscape, the sun settling below the horizon as the sky clung to the last drops of light.
You stood up to stretch, rolling your shoulders and curving your back with a soft groan. The pool was still glittering in the dim evening light, the water so still besides the occasional ripple of a breeze across its surface. It was irresistible, the mere sight of it making your skin feel warmer, your clothes less comfortable as they clung to you with sweat.
You changed into a bikini and made your way downstairs, sliding open the door of the sun room that led to the patio. You walked across the grass and sat on the edge of the pool, lowering yourself into the water with quick, shallow breaths. It was cold, instantly washing away the last of the day’s heat and replacing it with shivers, your teeth chattering as you submerged yourself slowly.
But it didn’t take long for you to get used to it, your muscles eventually relaxing beneath the soothing, cool water. You swam lazy laps back and forth, listening to the sounds of wildlife beyond the property’s edge, crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze.
~*~
The sky had turned a deep, bruised blue, peppered with stars and a huge full moon. You were floating on your back, staring up at it in awe, when the faint sound of tyres crunching on gravel caught your attention.
You swam to the edge of the pool, listening to the distant rumble of a car engine, followed shortly by silence once again. You rested your chin on folded arms, waiting, wondering if it was him, or yet another invisible employee stopping by to water the plants or fold the laundry.
After a minute or two, you saw a light turn on in the kitchen, Ben’s silhouette passing by the window. You smiled and lifted yourself from the pool, wrapping yourself in a towel and hurrying across the grass. You slid the patio door closed behind you, jumping in fright when you turned to find him standing in the doorway on the other side of the room.
“Fucking hell,” you said breathlessly.
“Sorry, I was shouting for you, I didn’t realise you were outside.”
You tilted your head slightly as you looked at him. He seemed worn out, tired, highly strung, raking his hand through his hair every few seconds like he didn’t know what else to do with it.
“You okay?” you asked.
“Yeah, long day,” he said with a sigh before eyeing you up and down. “Were you swimming?”
“Mhm.”
“Wasn’t it freezing?”
“It was,” you began, walking across the room to meet him. “But it was okay once I got used to it.”
He gave a hum as you came together, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry I missed it. Would’ve been nice to have a moonlit swim together.”
“We could go back out, if you want to?” you replied with a teasing smile.
He exhaled a soft laugh through his nose, looking down at you like you already knew the answer.
“Are you tired?” you asked, draping your arms around his shoulders.
“Not tired, just… Drained. The room they put me in was so hot, and all the lighting and equipment just made it even worse. My throat hurts from talking so much, I don’t even know if I was making sense in those last few interviews.” He tightened his grip on you. “And the whole time, I was just thinking about how I had you here waiting for me. It was torture.”
You rose onto your toes to kiss him, your lips pressing softly against his. He sighed into it, shoulders relaxing beneath your touch.
“Poor baby,” you muttered, stroking your fingers lightly up the back of his neck into his hair. “I could cheer you up.”
He raised a brow, ever so slightly, but his eyes remained tired. “Could you?”
“Mhm…” You kissed him again, deeper this time, running your palms down from his shoulders to his chest. “Sit down.”
He let you guide him towards the couch, his gaze never leaving you as he dropped down onto it. You stood for a moment between his parted thighs, smiling as you watched him close his eyes and let his head fall back, his breathing coming easier now you were here with him.
You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down the side of his neck. He smelled earthy and masculine, like warm skin, salt and musk. It was a scent you were sure you could pick out in a crowd; so uniquely him, and completely intoxicating. His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing against your waist as his fingers splayed over the damp material of your towel.
“Just relax,” you whispered, gently pulling away from him.
He watched you from beneath a heavy brow, his gaze steady yet curious. You stepped back slightly, letting your towel fall to the floor with a smile and a joking wiggle of your hips. He exhaled a quick, silent laugh, though it only took a moment for his expression to darken again, his throat bobbing, eyes wandering over your bikini-clad body as his fingers flexed at his sides. He wanted to touch you, and you loved that he was holding back the urge.
You lowered yourself to your knees between his legs, your hands trailing up the inside of his thighs, feeling him tense beneath your touch as you parted them wider.
“Quinn…” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost sounded like a plea.
You shushed him and leaned forward, snaking your hand further up until you were at his crotch, pressing your palm against the hardening bulge beneath his trousers. “This is what I’m here for,” you whispered with a subtle smirk.
He lost his composure for a split second, his eyes rolling, a sigh escaping him as he slid a hand into your hair. But he kept his touch gentle, tucking the wet strands behind your ear with his fingers.
You unzipped him, dragging his trousers and underwear down just enough to release him from their confines. Another deep exhale left him as his erection sprung free, standing firm and ready against his stomach. You moved slowly, unable to resist teasing him first. Your eyes stayed on him, watching his jaw clench, pulsating in tandem with every brush of your fingers.
And just as he was about to speak, maybe even beg, you gripped the base of his cock and dragged your tongue from root to tip. His grasp of your hair tightened in response, his other hand clutching the material of the couch at his side. You parted your lips and slid him into your mouth, revelling in the deep, throaty sound he made, how his head fell back again.
You moved in a steady rhythm, teasing with your tongue and taking as much of him into your mouth as you could. By now, you knew exactly how he liked it; how fast, how deep, where to put your hands, the perfect moments to look up at him through your lashes. It didn’t take long for his breathing to grow heavier, for his hands to begin guiding your head, your name falling in soft murmurs from his lips.
He was getting close, you could feel it in the way his body tensed beneath you, how quiet he suddenly became. But instead of giving in to it, he made you stop, tightening his fists in your hair and pulling you away.
“Up,” he whispered, his voice rough and commanding. “Come here.”
You rose to your feet almost immediately, letting him guide you onto his lap with your knees bracketing his thighs. He swept his thumb along your bottom lip, gazing at your mouth in admiration, while his other hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you in place with your face close to his.
He rolled his hips beneath you, like a silent demand, and you reached down immediately to move your bikini bottoms aside. You guided the head of his cock along the seam of your pussy as his hands found your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin to ease you down onto him. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he filled you, and you instinctively began to rock against him in search of rhythm.
But his grip on you tightened immediately. “Slow,” he whispered against your lips, his voice deep yet tender. “Slow.”
You let out a heavy breath, following his lead and settling into a slow, sensual grind. His hands continued to guide your hips, maintaining your pace, as his lips found your neck, trailing hot, hungry kisses across your skin.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Just like that.”
You closed your eyes, gasping as the friction of each slow, deliberate giration sent waves of pleasure rippling through you. While the sound of his gentle praise brought them crashing down deep in your belly. You whimpered, pressing your forehead against his, your movements growing needier, but his hands held you steady.
“No rushing,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”
You did exactly as he asked, fighting against the urge to seek out pleasure and instead letting it find you, allowing it to wash over you with every deep stroke and dark utterance of his voice. Your fingers curled into the back of his hair, gripping him tighter with every slow, measured rock of your hips, the couch creaking slightly beneath the weight of your bodies.
He shifted slightly, the new angle allowing him to sink deeper inside you, hitting the spots that made your laboured breaths catch on quiet, desperate moans. You kept moving, your hips rolling like liquid as he kept his hold on you, maintaining your pace, encouraging you to take it slow.
“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice rough and serrated as he brought a hand up to your jaw, encouraging you to lift your head.
Everything seemed to disappear beyond the point your eyes met, like the whole world existed solely inside his dark, heavy-lidded gaze. You moaned softly as you leaned into the push and pull of his hands, the smooth, deep slide, relinquishing yourself to him completely, never daring to look away.
His chest was heaving, throat rumbling with groans so low they were leaving him in quiet growls. You brought your lips to his, letting the sounds pour into your mouth as he kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sweeping over yours in time with the rhythm and roll of your hips. The feeling of him inside you was sublime; fullness and friction, pressure and electricity. Sparks were kindling deep in your belly, while familiar surges of tingling heat coursed through your body.
“Fuck,” he hissed, as though he could feel it all too.
You whimpered in response, your body moving entirely on instinct, chasing your orgasm as it began to swell in your core. But still, he refused to speed up, his hands remaining firm as they guided you, angling you just right until a bolt of pleasure drew a heavy, unexpected moan from your throat.
“That’s it,” he whispered.
Your climax unfurled slowly, like a deep, powerful rumble of thunder. It made you stop breathing, every muscle in your body contracting at once, pulling inwards to the place where the lightning had struck. You dug your fingers into the backs of his shoulders, eyes closed, hips slowing to a stop as your limbs began to shake.
A silky groan poured out of him as your whole weight settled into his lap, taking him as deep as your body would allow, squeezing and gripping him with each new surge of pleasure. He held you there as he came; head falling back, teeth clenched, fingernails leaving grooves in your flesh. You forced yourself to look at him, taking his face in your hands and leaning forward to kiss him between hot, gasping breaths.
“I love you,” you whispered into his open mouth, immediately feeling his lips curl into a smile.
“You better,” he muttered softly.
You giggled, before melting into a calmer, gentler kiss. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Eh, you don’t need them.”
~*~
You were sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, still in your bikini, a plush throw from the sunroom couch draped around your shoulders. The lighting was warm and ambient, the room glowing gently as the windows framed a pitch black sky.
Ben was rummaging through the fridge, the tension he’d arrived home with now gone, replaced with loose posture and relaxed shoulders, a natural smile as he told you about his day. The funny interactions and questions he actually enjoyed answering, the times he was told off for swearing too much and the person who got so nervous they wasted their entire five minutes awkwardly shuffling through cue cards.
“There was one guy,” he said, half-laughing as he emerged from the fridge with a container of strawberries. “Who did a quiz. And he was asking the whole cast the same questions to see who got the most right.”
You smirked. “So naturally you just had to win.”
“Of course.”
You laughed, watching as he took a bite of a strawberry, chewing on it as he continued to speak.
“Every answer had to include the word strange ,” he mumbled. “Y’know, because Doctor Strange.”
“Mhm.”
“Some of them, I don’t know how he was expecting anyone to know the answer. One was something like… ‘name the 1960-something controversial sci-fi novel by Robert… Something or other…”
“Heinlein? Stranger in Strange Land ?”
His eyes darted across the island towards you, another strawberry halfway into his mouth. “Oh, alright, fucking Einstein.”
You laughed, unable to disguise your smugness. “Don’t tell me you’re threatened by a clever woman?”
The corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Not at all. You just don’t strike me as the type to enjoy 1960’s science fiction.”
“I’m not. They said it was banned back when it came out for being full of sex and orgies, so obviously I had to read it. Turns out it’s just boring and really fucking misogynistic.”
He exhaled a laugh. “There was a play I studied in uni… God, what was it called?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought before grabbing his phone off the counter. “I’ll have to look it up.”
You watched him tap and swipe across the screen, squinting as he looked down at it before letting out a huff.
“I need my glasses,” he said. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”
You giggled, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’re such an old man.”
He gave a playful glare, his voice low and dramatic. “Watch it.”
You smirked, reaching across the island to pluck a strawberry from the container and settling back on your stool to eat it.
He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his back pocket, slipping them on before resting his elbows on the counter, phone in hand. But after a moment of quiet, he turned his head towards you, eyeing you with interest.
“Do you really think I’m old?” he asked.
You met his gaze, assessing his tone; casual yet curious, not offended, but wondering, like the question had crossed his mind before.
“Older than me ,” you replied.
“Does it bother you?”
There was a seriousness to his voice now. But it was still soft, open, welcoming of whatever your answer may be.
“That you’re older than me?” you asked.
“That I’m… a lot older than you…”
“Well it’s not that much…”
“It’s thirteen years.”
You paused, drawing in a deep breath through your nose and shrugging slowly. “You know my parents have the same age gap…”
“They do?”
“Mhm. Exactly the same. They were actually a few years older than we are now when they had me.”
He seemed to disappear inside himself for a moment, thinking, before coming back to you with an inquisitive look. “So your dad was… an older dad, then?”
“Mhm.”
“Did it ever bother you? You never felt like you missed out in any way?”
You felt a flicker of understanding, like it was suddenly obvious where his apprehension lay. You’d left the door to having children ajar; a future he’d made clear he wanted but didn’t need. And if you were to ever step through that door with him, he would be in his late forties, perhaps older.
“I never felt like I missed out,” you replied earnestly. “He was just as active and present and involved as any other dad. Maybe even more so because they’d already lost pregnancies before I came along.” You shook your head. “And if they could have, I’m sure they’d have had more kids after me too.”
He smiled.
“He ran in the dads’ race every sports day, played dolls and make-believe with me, never moaned or groaned or said he was too tired for anything,” you said. “Worshipped the ground my mum walked on - still does - which is probably why I have such impossible standards for men.” You laughed.
He laughed too. “Well, if I ever become a parent, I’d hope to be just like him.”
“You will be.”
“ Will be…?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly.
“Would be,” you corrected, rolling your eyes. “Then again, with the amount of sex we’ve had over the past few days, it wouldn’t surprise me if my implant just gave out from sheer exhaustion.”
He chuckled, his face creasing with warmth and amusement. “Well, we’re flying to New York tomorrow night so it’ll get somewhat of a break.”
“Oh no I wasn’t complaining. I’ll take all the sex I can get, y’know, before you get too old and your dick stops working.”
He dropped his head, letting out a shocked breath, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Right, I’ve had enough of you now.”
You giggled as you watched him push off the counter, turning on his heels to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s past my bedtime,” he replied sarcastically.
“Do you need some help getting up the stairs?”
He turned back around with a deadpan look. “No, but keep talking and I might fake a fall just to get away from you.”
You snorted out a laugh, reaching over the counter for another strawberry, glancing over at him as you bit into it.
He was standing in the space where the kitchen met the hall, his arm resting above his head on the frame of the archway. “Come to bed, smartarse.”
You smirked, hopping off your stool and wrapping the throw tighter around you like a cloak. “Yes sir.”
Chapter 28: XXVIII
Chapter Text
In some ways, you regretted not venturing beyond the house. That for almost a week, you’d had the city of LA on your doorstep, Hollywood on the horizon, a plethora of stores and restaurants, clubs and landmarks, yet you’d deemed none of it worthy of leaving your paradise for. But as you dragged the zip closed on your suitcase, you couldn’t help but feel perfectly content with how you’d chosen to spend your time.
It had been like living inside a dollhouse, moving from room to beautiful room with no need for urgency, everything you needed appearing just where it should be, as if placed there by a little girl’s hand just out of sight. You felt rejuvenated, loose and soft, your eyes sparkling, skin glowing, mouth resting in a smile more often than it ever had before.
Ben was downstairs, pacing the echoey entrance hall as he spoke on the phone. To whom, you didn’t know. It could have been his manager, publicist, assistant, maybe an old actor friend, or some big Hollywood director. You found it hard to care too much about his work; unable to connect the revered A-list actor to the man you shared a bed with each night, the man who talked in stupid accents and still bookmarked his pages with old train tickets.
You stood up and slung your carry-on bag over your shoulder, lifting the handle of your suitcase and dragging it behind you. You stopped in the doorway, turning around and taking one last look at the bedroom; the late afternoon light melting across the headboard, the door to the balcony where you’d spent so much of your time. You were going to miss it. But you knew you’d be back.
You were halfway down the huge, curving staircase when Ben noticed you struggling with your bag, awkwardly bumping your suitcase down each step with a heavy thud. He wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder and hurried up to meet you, taking your luggage and carrying it down the rest of the way as he continued to talk.
“And is that under my name or yours?” he asked as he placed your bags next to his by the front door. “Okay, great. And you’ll be there tomorrow? Okay. Talk soon, bye.”
You’d sat down on the bottom step while you waited for him to finish, smiling up at him as he slid his phone into the back pocket of his trousers.
“Who was that?” you asked. “Your other girlfriend?”
“Yeah, we’re going to meet up in New York for a quickie.”
You paused. “Even the thought of that just pissed me off.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “It was just Kay. She was letting me know everything’s sorted for when we get there.”
You’d learned to stifle the urge to grimace whenever he mentioned his publicist. She was one of the orchestrators behind his marriage, one of the voices in his ear telling him it was a good idea. No matter how kindly he spoke of her, you couldn’t help but doubt it, like you were holding onto a grudge that wasn’t yours to bear.
“Have you got everything?” he asked.
“Mhm.” You nodded with a sigh.
“What’s the matter?”
“I like it here. Sad to be leaving, that’s all.”
He pursed his bottom lip sympathetically and extended his hand to you. You stood up and walked over to him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulders and place a kiss on the top of your head.
“We can come back whenever you want,” he said.
~*~
You said goodbye to California at 6pm, gazing at the golden horizon and pinkish hued clouds through your tiny plane window with a wistful sigh. And just five and a half hours later, you arrived into utter darkness, staring up at a starless night sky as you made your way down the steps onto the runway. It was 2.30am in New York. The time difference had thrown you off-kilter, leaving you with an energy that seemed incongruous to the sleepy faces of airport security and weary travellers around you.
This journey was different to the last. You had no escorts, no fast tracking, no fancy men in tailcoats. Instead you moved through the airport like everyone else, disguised by surgical masks, baseball caps and sunglasses. You could have sworn you spotted a few glances and double-takes from passersby, people wondering if it could be him, but refraining from getting too close.
Ben held your hand as you navigated the building, eventually boarding the AirTrain where no one even cared to look up; their fists wrapped around handrails, earphones in, faces buried in books and newspapers. It was so quiet you didn’t dare speak, exchanging glances with Ben instead, seeing his eyes crease whenever he smiled.
There was also no driver this time. No quiet, stony man waiting to chauffeur you around in a big SUV. Instead, Ben picked up the keys to a Mercedes from the car rental desk, throwing your bags into the boot and slipping into the driver’s seat. You got in next to him, taking off your mask and sunglasses and turning to look at him, eyeing him with a raised brow as he rubbed his hands together excitedly.
“What?” he said. “I like driving into the city.”
“Why?” you asked with a laugh.
“You’ll see.”
The early hours made for open, quiet roads, the freeway a smooth, uninterrupted stretch. Ben drove with a hand on your thigh, the other lazily hugging the wheel. Music played softly through the radio as a light breeze rolled in through a crack in your window. It was idyllic, peaceful, and then you saw it.
The city skyline was like a constellation against the inky black sky. A smattering of glittering lights across every building and structure, the water below reflecting them back with a diffused glow. You stared out of the window in awe, taking your phone out to snap a photo that didn’t do it any justice. Ben smiled as he drove, charmed by your fascination, happy to be the one that got to show it to you.
It was clear he knew exactly where he was going, the car soaring over a long, steel bridge into the city with no hesitation. He knew every turn he had to take and every interesting thing to point out, like the old warehouse that was now a gallery, the dingy-looking deli he swore made the best sandwiches, and the street they’d closed off while filming Doctor Strange. You took it all in, curling into the passenger seat, elbow propped on the window, cheek in your hand.
As you ventured deeper into the city, it somehow began to feel more vibrant. Even in the dead of night, there was life everywhere; traffic lights and flashing neon signs, yellow taxi cabs perusing for passengers. California had felt like a long exhale. But this place seemed to breathe.
He pulled up a few minutes later outside a sleek, towering building, turning into an underground parking garage beside it. There were no doormen to help with your bags, no security guards manning the entrance, just a small intercom on the wall, a touchscreen keypad beneath it. Ben pulled out his phone, looking through his texts for a moment before punching in a code that made the door unlock with a satisfying buzz. You followed him inside, emerging into a brightly lit lobby with shiny marble floors, a concierge sitting behind a front desk near the doors that led out onto the main street.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said in an accent you didn’t think existed outside of movies. “Or should I say good morning.”
Ben gave a polite laugh as he approached the desk. “Good morning. I think you have some keys for me. Should be under ‘Philip Chase’.”
The man checked beneath his desk for a moment before standing up straight with a pair of keycards, handing them to him with a smile. “Apartment 603.”
“Thank you.”
You followed Ben towards the lifts on the other end of the lobby, shifting your bag back onto your shoulder as you went.
“Philip Chase?” you asked.
“Pseudonym.”
You scoffed quietly as the doors slid open, stepping inside and pressing the button for the sixth floor.
“So, Mr Chase,” you began as the lift began to move. “How long have you owned this place?”
“Oh this is just a rental.”
The doors opened onto a spacious, quiet corridor. Even the air smelled expensive; clean and citrusy, with a deep undertone of something musky and polished. The carpet was plush, sinking slightly beneath each footstep, the walls adorned with sconces that gave off an ambient glow.
Ben pressed one of the keycards to the sensor on the door of your apartment, pushing down on the heavy handle and stepping aside to let you walk in first. Your breath caught for a moment when you stepped over the threshold, your eyes darting around the expansive, grandiose space.
You’d expected something hotel-like; neutral and classic, carpet and coffee tables, fake plants and carefully curated art. But it was almost the complete opposite. There was something industrial about it; open plan with wood floors and exposed copper piping. Rich navies and deep greens softened by warm, amber lighting and exposed brick walls. Huge metal-framed windows covered the length of one wall, revealing a view of the city, so stunning you found yourself moving across the apartment to get a closer look.
“Holy shit,” you breathed.
He dragged the suitcases inside and closed the front door. “It’s nice, isn’t it.”
“Nice?” you replied with a laugh, turning to look at him.
“More than nice?”
You shook your head, returning your gaze to the window. “I think I might actually like this more than LA.”
He laughed as he stepped up behind you, resting a hand on the back of your neck. “Knew you were a city girl.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him. “I’m a ‘whatever this is’ girl.”
“Good to know.” He gave the back of your neck a gentle squeeze before letting go and making his way over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and nosing through the cupboards. “So, house or apartment, then?”
“For what?”
“For when we live together.”
“Slow down, sir.”
He smirked, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting off the cap.
You wandered over to him, resting your elbows on the counter and watching as he took generous gulps of water, his throat bobbing with each deep swallow.
“It amazes me how certain you are,” you said, shaking your head softly.
“About what?”
“About us. It’s like you’ve got no doubt in your mind that this is… It.”
“I love you,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulders.
You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I love you too.”
“I don’t see anything changing that, do you?”
You shook your head.
“Well there you go,” he said. “That’s why I’m so certain.”
You exhaled a laugh through your nose, tilting your head slightly to gaze at him as he spoke.
“And you know I’m only teasing you when I talk about all the big future stuff,” he said. “I don’t doubt it’s going to happen. But I’m not in any rush. Really. This little bubble we’ve got… I’m happy in it.”
You paused for a moment before speaking softly. “You know bubbles can burst…”
“Not this one,” he replied with an ease and confidence that made you smile. “No matter how much of a pain in the arse you try to be,” he continued, moving around the counter towards you. “Or how many of your fake grandmothers have to die so I can have you with me wherever I go. Or how much I want to tell the whole fucking world about you.”
You laughed, looking up at him as he brought his hands to your cheeks, holding you in place as he leaned in close.
“I will protect this bubble, at all costs ,” he finished quietly, pressing his lips to yours with a firm kiss.
You smiled against his lips, placing your hands over his as they cupped your face.
“I’m holding you to that,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him..
“Fine by me.”
“And you know…” you said as he continued to press his lips to yours, punctuating your words with kisses. “The bubble has a very strict limit on how often you’re allowed to mention big scary future things…”
“What’s the limit? Just so I can make sure I meet my daily quota.”
You rolled your eyes and playfully pushed him away.
He laughed as he took a step back, before turning on his heels and beginning to walk away. “Come and unpack before I do something drastic. Like propose.”
The bedroom was a complete contrast to the one in LA. It was darker, cozier, more intimate; a large bed and minimal furniture, sconces on the exposed brick walls providing a warm, dim light. It was beautiful, the kind of room you’d see in a movie or TV show, another perfect snapshot of the city through a tall casement window. You tried not to gawp as you walked in, making your way coolly over to your suitcase.
“Is there even a point in unpacking?” you asked as you unzipped it. “How long are we here for?”
“A week at least,” said Ben as he rummaged through his bag.
“A week ?”
“At least. Y’know, these Marvel flicks, they’re sort of a big deal,” he replied sarcastically.
“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen any.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know, I’m joking. I’ve actually seen quite a lot of them.” You paused for a moment before laughing softly. “Isn’t it weird to think that I watched films of yours over the years with no idea I was going to end up with you one day.”
“You’re living every super fan’s dream,” he teased.
“You have fans?”
He scoffed and threw a balled up pair of socks across the room at you. You dodged them with a laugh before finally beginning to unpack.
You filled a dresser with your clothes and put your shoes and empty luggage inside the closet. Then you adorned the bedside table with things that made it feel more like yours; your perfume and jewellery case, a journal, your phone charger, the book you’d yet to start reading.
Now you were standing with Ben in the bathroom, side by side at the sink as you brushed your teeth together. He was shirtless, a pair of pyjama bottoms sitting low on his waist, while you’d opted for a loose t-shirt and a pair of knickers. You exchanged glances in the mirror, small smiles and playful glints, talking without need for words. And when you were both done, he hovered for a moment near the door, watching you tie your hair up and apply your moisturiser like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
You checked the time as you crawled into bed. 4am. And it was finally catching up with you. Your muscles ached as you sank into the mattress, eyelids heavy, your arm instinctively draping over Ben’s stomach as he lay down with you.
“Do you want to come to a screening tomorrow?” he asked quietly.
“For what?”
“Multiverse.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound very bubble-like.”
He exhaled a laugh, bringing a hand up to stroke the back of your head. “It’s not a red carpet thing. Nothing flashy. It’s private; mostly industry people, critics, press, sometimes there’s a few competition winners.”
You hummed quietly to yourself, mulling it over.
“I just thought you might like to come,” he said. “And maybe there’s a selfish part of me that wants you to see me all… muscular and powerful.”
“In your little red cape.”
“It’s a cloak.”
You laughed, resting your head on his chest. “Yeah okay, I’ll come.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
He placed a kiss on the top of your head before letting out a long, laboured yawn and relaxing into the mattress. Neither of you spoke again, the silence softened by your rhythmic breaths and the faint sounds of the city beyond the window.
~*~
Ben was already gone when you woke up; his side of the bed still rumpled, a soft indent still visible in the pillow he’d slept on. You’d gotten used to waking up alone, and you didn’t really mind it. Your brain had always taken a little while to start functioning in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of a beautiful home had become the perfect way to slowly ease you into the day.
You showered and got dressed, determined to venture beyond the apartment, though you had no idea where you were going to go. There was a credit card on the kitchen counter, a note beside it that read: If you need anything. You stubbornly refused to even pick it up, turning your back on it as you slung your bag onto your shoulder and headed for the door.
You found a small café a few blocks away, sitting in the window to people-watch while you ate breakfast and jotted ideas in your journal. A woman walked by in a mini skirt and knee high boots, her long hair fluttering behind her majestically as she moved. Meanwhile, a man in a structured coat and halfmoon sunglasses crossed the street like it was his own personal catwalk. A group of young women stood taking photos of each other against the backdrop of traffic, each one of them dressed impeccably; bold colours and mismatched textures, every piece they wore so deliberate and thought-out.
As you watched the world drift by, it only seemed to grow clearer how deeply this city cared about its image. It wasn’t a shallow battle of aesthetics, but a showcase of individuality. Everyone walked like they had a purpose, like they were being watched, even the man sipping a coffee at the table next to you looked like a model with his loose-fitting shirt and slicked back hair.
It made you feel underdressed, dull, like you were somehow disrespecting the city itself by gracing its streets looking anything less than exquisite. Then you remembered the screening. Nothing flashy , Ben had said. But what exactly did ‘nothing flashy’ mean? What if you walked into that theatre in your ‘not flashy’ outfit, only to be met by more beautiful people in more beautiful clothes? The thought put you off your food.
You told yourself you were just going to browse.
Yet somehow, you found yourself wandering in and out of clothing stores; designer brands with oddly posed mannequins, small vintage boutiques that smelled like leather and incense, and one store with music so loud you walked right back out again. Everything you touched came with a pang of fear, a price tag you didn’t dare look at. But eventually, you found something.
The skirt was long and silk, in a soft, pale shade of green that immediately caught your eye. You paired it with a delicate button-up waistcoat in a similar colour, not bothering to try anything on and simply hoping it would all work together. You tried not to look flustered when the girl behind the cash register gave you the total, thinking back to the card Ben had left on the kitchen counter for you; the one that probably had unlimited credit, the one he’d placed there with a note that might as well have said: buy whatever you want, I have so much money I won’t even notice it’s gone. But you kept a straight face, reaching into your bag and handing over your debit card, certain you could actually feel the sting as the money left your account.
By the time you made it back to the apartment, you’d somehow acquired a new pair of shoes too, and a lipstick, and a clutch bag, and a Big Gulp of Dr Pepper almost twice the size of your head. You’d almost gotten lost twice on the way back, making turns down streets you thought you recognised, only to find yourself further from home. Your feet were aching as you finally stepped into the apartment, your finances bruised, but at least your ego was still intact.
~*~
“Quinn?” Ben’s voice called out.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you replied, hopping into your heels as you made your way out of the bedroom.
He was standing in the middle of the apartment waiting for you; a soft white t-shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. The matching brown jacket draped over one arm. He’d kept his stubble, his hair just long enough for a slight wave to form.
You stood up straight in the doorway, shamelessly drinking him in, any sense of urgency leaving you the moment you laid eyes on him. He looked delicious. He smelled delicious; the scent of his freshly spritzed cologne drifting across the open space towards you.
“What?” he asked, glancing down at himself in paranoia, then back up to you.
“I want to climb you,” you said simply.
He gave a quick, surprised laugh before glancing down at his watch. “You can climb me when we get back. Preferably with less clothes on.”
You rolled your eyes with a slight smile before making your way across the room towards him.
“You look beautiful,” he said, gaze trailing over you slowly.
“Is it alright?” you asked as you smoothed your hands over your hips. “Not too much? Or… Too little?”
“No, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He reached out as you closed the distance, his hand finding your waist as he leaned down to kiss you.
You gave him a quick peck before running your thumb over his lips, wiping away the smudge of lipstick you’d left behind.
~*~
You were back to being chauffeured around, climbing into the back of yet another dark car with tinted windows, exchanging occasional glances with the driver in the rearview mirror. As always, Ben’s hand settled on your thigh as you travelled through the city, crawling slowly through heavy traffic as the dusky golden sky began to melt into the late summer evening.
When you arrived at the theatre, you were ushered through a back door and led into what looked like a small greenroom, the hum of crowds and conversations just beyond a set of double doors. Ben kissed the side of your head and directed you to follow a woman dressed all in black. She was talking through a headset, flicking through pages on a clipboard as she gestured for you to come with her.
You glanced up at Ben with a furrowed brow, reluctant to leave his side.
“She’s going to take you to your seat,” he said reassuringly.
“Oh… Okay…”
You followed the woman out into the main lobby, through the crowds of people pouring into the theatre until you got to a reserved seat near the front. You sat down, looking around in confusion, wondering why he hadn’t come with you, if you were going to be watching the whole thing alone.
It took another five minutes for the room to fill, the audience talking amongst themselves as you sat scrolling idly on your phone. When a man finally emerged in front of the screen with a microphone, you put it back in your bag and placed it on the ground near your feet, listening as he began to speak.
“Good evening everybody, thank you so much for joining us tonight. We are thrilled to have you all here for this very special private screening of Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness.”
There was a ripple of applause and hushed whoops through the theatre.
“As you all know, this has been a very highly anticipated movie for Marvel Studios, and we’re so excited to finally be bringing it to you. The work that’s gone into this movie, I can’t even begin to put into words, but what I will say is that this is nothing like anything you’ve seen in the MCU before. Now, just before we dim the lights, I do have a very special guest who has kindly agreed to come out and say a few words.”
You heard a flutter of quiet gasps behind you, making you laugh slightly as you realised why Ben hadn’t come with you.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Doctor Strange himself, Benedict Cumberbatch!”
Ben emerged from behind a thick, velvet curtain to an eruption of cheers and applause. You smiled as you watched him; the charming grin and polite waves, how he placed his palms together and bowed his head slightly in gratitude. You’d never seen his stardom up close like this before, never heard the roar of adoring fans or watched him work a crowd. It was surreal, fascinating, and undeniably attractive.
The man handed him the microphone and took a step back as Ben cleared his throat, waiting a moment for the audience to hush before speaking.
“Hi,” he began modestly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hello, wow, thank you. I er, I know you’re all itching to see it so I’ll keep this short. These movies are truly a joy to work on. I love this character and I love the… the madness - excuse the pun - that is this film. The cast, crew, everyone who was a part of this project has really worked hard and I hope you see that when you watch it.” He stared out at the audience, the spotlight catching his eyes, making them sparkle as he spoke. “So with that being said, I really hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, please lie on the internet and say you did. Thanks.”
Everyone in the audience laughed, including you. You watched him hurry down to take his seat beside you as the host announced the movie. And within moments, the theatre fell into darkness as the screen came to life.
“You okay?” he whispered, reaching over and giving your hand a subtle squeeze.
You nodded, glancing over at him. “Excited.”
He smiled, settling back into his seat as the opening credits began.
Vivid colour burst onto the screen, a kaleidoscope so bright and expansive it almost hurt your eyes to look directly at it. You felt the bass from the speakers in your chest as the music began to play, the pulse and the vibration from every sound effect that followed.
From the moment Ben appeared as Doctor Strange, with those silver flecks and intense eyes, your stomach fluttered with an unexpected sense of pride and disbelief. You knew he was a formidable actor, but it still shocked you to be sitting next to a man whose voice you knew so well, whose face you’d grown so familiar with, yet somehow not recognise him on the screen at all.
You caught yourself smiling more than once, your eyes dancing over the vibrant scenes before you, then sideways to steal a glance at him in the dark. He wasn’t watching himself, not really, his focus stolen by the reactions of the audience; listening for laughter, dissecting the silences. It was as though he’d disappeared inside himself, analysing every minute detail.
The film was bold, dark yet funny, a goldmine of references and epic scenes that bled into one another through portals and shattered timelines. The theatre would let out collective gasps, amused chuckles and excited murmurs, while other times it was completely still, eerily quiet.
You enjoyed the action scenes, but couldn’t help giggling at the thought of him filming them; before the CGI and the finishing touches, when it was just him swirling his hands around, attached to a harness, fighting an invisible opponent. Then the mood in the room shifted, the scene turning emotional, quiet, with intimate dialogue and a beautiful woman gazing up at him so lovingly.
It’s just a movie, Quinn, you told yourself, fighting the irrational jealousy trying to rear its head. And he seemed to sense it, reaching over and gently gripping your thigh.
Then your phone buzzed in the bag at your feet.
You ignored it.
But it quickly buzzed again. And again. And again. A nonstop string of vibrations that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. What if work was trying to get hold of you about your piece? Or what if something was wrong? Were your parents okay? Was there some kind of emergency?
You slowly reached down and grabbed your bag, bringing it onto your lap and popping open the clasp as quietly as you could. You dimmed your phone screen and unlocked it, watching the growing stack of notifications popping up one after the other in total confusion; texts, social media, emails, private messages.
You opened Instagram, blinking in confusion as you clicked on your most recent post, a mirror selfie from over a month ago, now flooded with hundreds of comments.
Homewrecker.
Slut.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
Found you x
You knew he was married. You’re disgusting.
Not a girls’ girl, clearly.
Hope the attention was worth destroying someone’s life.
We see you, Quinn. And so does everyone else now.
Imagine sleeping your way to a byline.
This is why no one trusts journalists.
Can’t wait till he dumps you like he did his wife.
Proof men think with their dicks.
Trash.
You owe Faye Dennehy an apology.
Enjoy your fifteen minutes.
Whore .
You tried to swallow but your throat was too dry, your eyes wide as you stared down at the comments continuing to roll in.
You blew a married man and called it journalism.
She probably slept with half his team to get close to him.
Poor Faye.
From writing about him to riding him. Inspirational.
Hope you’re proud. He lost everything for a glorified side piece.
Imagine cheating on a woman like Faye with a nobody journo.
Does he pay you by the article or the orgasm?
Vile little girl.
Another man loses his integrity to a pretty face and open legs.
Journalism isn’t what it used to be. Clearly neither is marriage.
You ruined a marriage, now you’re ruining his career. Gold star.
You scrolled frantically, heart pounding, breath catching as you tried to figure out where this was all coming from. There was a message from Nick in your DMs, a link to an article followed by a string of question marks. You clicked on it with shaking fingers.
MYSTERY SOLVED: Is This The Woman Benedict Cumberbatch Left His Wife For?
From the moment Benedict Cumberbatch announced his divorce from fashion designer Faye Dennehy last year, speculation swirled about the real reason behind the couple’s seemingly sudden split. Those rumours only seemed to strengthen when a “mystery woman” was reportedly seen leaving the actor’s home in the early morning just a few weeks after the announcement.
Now, after months of internet sleuthing and fan theories, the pieces of the puzzle seem to have finally fallen into place, and it all started with a casual afternoon stroll at the Chelsea Flower Show.
Cumberbatch, 45, was photographed attending the prestigious London event last month alongside his parents and an unidentified woman. While their interactions appeared low-key, fans with eagle eyes and long memories began analysing the paparazzi shots and within hours, the internet had a name.
Meet Quinn Armitage, 32, a journalist based in the UK who is now believed to be the actor’s new girlfriend, and possibly the reason behind his divorce.
If the name sounds familiar, it should. Armitage writes for Draft Magazine , and is the very same writer who penned the exclusive interview of Cumberbatch just weeks after he ended his marriage. The feature painted the actor in a surprisingly intimate and sympathetic light - a man who wished nothing but the best for his ex wife.
At the time, the piece was praised as “nuanced” and “deeply personal.” While Cumberbatch was deemed “honest” and “down to earth”. Now, many are wondering if it was all just strategically timed PR.
The Timeline That’s Raising Eyebrows
Fans were quick to point out the suspicious alignment of events. Within days of the divorce announcement, speculation arose as to whether infidelity could have played a part in Cumberbatch and Dennehy’s decision to part ways. Armitage was quick to dispel these theories in her Draft Magazine feature, which was published the following month.
Before the feature’s publication, sources claimed to have seen an “unidentified woman” leaving the actor’s London home in the early morning. Cumberbatch was later spotted wearing a bracelet with partially visible engraved letters.
The letters? “QUI”.
Was Cumberbatch really sporting a bracelet engraved with Armitage’s name just weeks after announcing his divorce? Before the Draft feature was even published?
The recent Flower Show outing has thrown everything into sharp focus. Matching the woman in the photos to Armitage’s publicly available social media profiles, internet sleuths were able to rapidly piece the story together. Now, with a positive identification of Benedict Cumberbatch’s “mystery woman”, the question on everyone’s lips is no longer if something is going on, but when it started.
Was This the Woman Behind the Split?
The timing is undeniably murky.
Though neither Cumberbatch nor Armitage have publicly commented on the nature of their relationship, critics are asking whether the journalist’s involvement with the actor began before his marriage ended. And if so, was her Draft feature part of a carefully constructed narrative to soften public perception and preempt the fallout?
Fans React
As the story has actively unfolded within the past few hours, social media has understandably erupted with collective disappointment and outrage, accusing Armitage of unprofessionalism and “weaponised journalism”, while questioning if the freshly divorced A-lister really enlisted the help of his writer mistress to rehabilitate his image.
We have not yet been able to reach Mr Cumberbatch’s team for comment, nor Miss Armitage or anyone at Draft Magazine . But in the age of screenshots, side-by-sides and bulletproof timelines, it may not matter. The internet has made up its mind.
Your heart was pounding so heavily that you could no longer hear the movie, just a loud rushing of blood in your ears. There was a thick, sludgy pit forming in your stomach, your limbs so heavy you could barely move them. Even with the AC in the theatre, your skin felt warm and clammy, your cheeks burning so hot you were sure they’d turned crimson.
You closed the article and backed out of your DM’s without replying to Nick, plummeting headfirst into an onslaught of fresh, venomous comments. Someone had tagged Faye under your photo, and you couldn’t help but click on her account, opening her story to see a plain black screen, four simple words written in white: The truth will out.
That fucking bitch, you thought, your eyes welling with pure rage.
You stood up shakily, feeling Ben reach over and tap you, looking up at you curiously.
“Bathroom,” you whispered, before walking as quietly and quickly as you could down the dark aisle and out of the theatre.
You rushed through the doors into the brightly lit hallway, barely making it a few more steps before you felt your legs give way beneath you. You planted a hand on the wall to hold yourself up, your chest heaving, throat tight, skin tingling as you sucked in deep, shaking breaths.
You couldn’t help but look at your phone again, this time opening Twitter.
So let me get this straight… Benedict Cumberbatch met Quinn Armitage while he was married, she writes a soft-focus puff piece about him, and now they’re holding hands at the Chelsea Flower Show? Girl… your PR arc is showing. 💀
Soooo… the mystery woman leaving his house at 6am was the journalist? LMAO this man really said “I’ll do my own PR and get laid in the process.” Gotta respect it
Yet another male celebrity in his mid-40’s ditching his perfectly lovely, smart, successful, AGE APPROPRIATE wife for a younger woman with loose morals. Why am I not at all surprised?
Quinn Armitage knew exactly what she was doing. You don’t just ‘accidentally’ fall into a relationship with a married man and then write a gushing magazine piece about him while getting your name on a high profile byline. That’s not love, it’s strategy.
You locked your phone and shoved it into your bag. If you couldn’t see it, then none of this was actually happening. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening.
You considered asking someone to go and get Ben, to have him call the driver to take you back to the apartment. You also considered simply walking out and disappearing into the night; changing your name and starting a new life. But you did neither. Instead, you took a deep breath, swallowed down the nausea and walked back into the theatre.
~*~
The lights came up to a wave of applause, rolling through the theatre like a tide until it was deafening. You stood slowly along with everyone else, clapping along with them, your hands moving independently from the rest of your body. There were whistles and cheers, people shouting their praise over the noise.
Ben turned to look at you with a proud smile.
You smiled back weakly.
He looked at you for a moment longer, his eyes flickering over your face like he was trying to read your expression, but then the host approached, gesturing for Ben to step back up to the front of the theatre.
“Thank you so much,” he said into the microphone. “I’m so grateful to you all for coming. Thank you.”
He didn’t say anything else, too overwhelmed by the response of the room to think of something to say. Instead he gave one last wave to the crowd before making his way back over to his seat beside you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, following him as the woman with the headset led you out through a side exit and back into the small greenroom. You trailed behind him the whole time, your arms stiff at your sides, the throb of a headache taking root in your temples.
Ben was talking as you walked, something about the film, or maybe it was about the audience. You weren’t paying attention, but still you offered a small, polite smile when he turned to look at you.
“So what did you think then?” he asked as you stepped out of the building into the cool night air.
“It was great,” you replied softly.
“Quinn.” He stopped walking for a moment, making you halt too. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just… I’m tired. Is the car here?”
He gave you a sceptical look, but eventually nodded, placing a hand on your lower back as he guided you towards the car waiting nearby.
The driver opened the door and you slipped into the backseat, sinking into the soft leather with a heavy exhale. Ben climbed in beside you and reached for your hand.
“You sure everything’s alright?” he asked gently, squeezing your fingers.
You gave another weak nod before turning away to look out the window.
Your whole body felt tense, like you’d been filled to the brim with concrete. The comments echoed in your mind, one after the other in a poisonous string, wrapping around your throat like a noose. You could still see them when you blinked. Whore. Homewrecker. Liar.
They knew your name, your face, where you worked, where you lived. Your stomach began to gurgle.
“Hey,” Ben said softly, allowing a slight laugh. “If you didn’t like the film, you don’t have to pretend you-”
“I enjoyed the film, Ben,” you interrupted.
He stared at you for a moment before exhaling a gentle sigh. “Something’s wrong.”
“Ben,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose between finger and thumb. “I just want to get back to the apartment.”
He conceded, settling back into his seat as the car continued through the heavy traffic.
You kept your eyes on the window, though you weren’t actually taking in the view; your mind was reeling, head pounding, anxiety wedged in a knot at the base of your chest. The car finally emerged onto a clear stretch of road, speeding up to make it through a set of traffic lights. But the motion made your stomach turn, your lips tingling as you began to panic.
“Stop the car,” you said abruptly.
Ben turned to you in confusion. “What?”
“Tell him to stop the car. Now.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“I’m going to be sick,” you snapped, already reaching for the door handle.
“Stop the car!” Ben shouted to the driver.
The car screeched to a halt and pulled over near the sidewalk. You shoved the door open before it had even fully stopped and leaned out, gripping the handle as you vomited onto the busy street. The sound was humiliating; the heaving, the spluttering, the bile hitting the concrete with a crude splash. Ben placed a hand gently on your back, but you shook it off quickly, settling back into the car and pulling the door closed.
“I’m fine,” you said breathlessly, wiping your mouth and nose with the back of your hand.
“Quinn-”
“I’m fine, can we just… Go, please.” You let your head fall back, breathing deeply as your body fluctuated between cold shivers and rushes of heat.
He stared at you for a moment, jaw sharp, brow heavy with concern. But he finally gave in, quietly instructing the driver to keep moving.
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Your mouth tasted like vomit, your eyes teary, nose running. Your fingers trembled as you clung to your bag, every buzz of your phone like a cruel taunt.
You felt guilty for pushing Ben away, for tainting the evening with a bad attitude and cold disposition. If you were a better actor, you could have preserved the moment for him; gave a pretty smile and held his hand in the car, told him how much you liked the film. But you could barely stand to look at him, the shame and guilt and devastation eating away at you with every concerned glance and worried tilt of his head.
You walked together from the car into the building, waiting in silence until the lift doors opened. You stepped inside and immediately leaned against the mirrored wall, resting your head back and closing your eyes as he pressed the button for your floor.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
You nodded, mustering a barely audible hum as you wrapped your arms around your stomach.
“Quinn, you’re-” He let out a confused breath before continuing quietly. “Are you- You’re not… It’s not possible you’re… Pregnant, is it?”
You opened your eyes and brought your head forward, looking right at him with a dumbfounded expression. “No, Ben. Funnily enough, women can be sick for reasons other than pregnancy...”
He sighed and rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed by his own tactlessness. “Fair enough, you’re right, sorry.”
The lift doors opened and you stepped out, making your way down the hall towards the apartment.
“Well you need to tell me what the matter is,” he said, and you could tell he was losing his patience.
“Ben-”
“No. Something’s obviously wrong-”
You huffed, opening your mouth to speak, but he cut you off.
“You wouldn’t talk to me after the screening, you still aren’t talking to me, you threw up in the fucking car, Quinn, out of nowhere-”
“Can we just get inside? Please?”
He was standing between you and the front door, staring down at you, forcing you to look at him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Inside,” you said simply, your voice so quiet it was barely a whisper.
He remained there for a moment, his eyes darting across your face, noticing the glimmer in your waterline, the curve of your brows. Then he finally yielded, scanning the key card and opening the door to let you walk in first.
You took a few steps inside, stopping briefly to savour the dark, quiet space; the calm, the stillness, the seclusion. You drew in a long, deep breath through your nose, letting it out through pursed lips as Ben flicked on a light and closed the door.
“Talk to me, Quinn.”
You turned to look at him, taking a long pause before speaking reluctantly. “Is your phone still switched off?”
“Yeah.” He patted the pockets of his trousers, then his chest, before pulling his phone from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Yeah, I didn’t think to turn it back on because we left so… Why?”
“You should probably turn it on.”
His brows twitched, coming together with a quick, confused scrunch. But he didn’t press you, didn’t doubt you or demand an explanation. Instead, he held down the side button, staring down at the screen as he waited impatiently for it to light up.
You didn’t hang around to see his reaction, turning immediately and making your way into the bedroom without a word. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, dropping your head into your hands with a pained groan. Then the tears finally came, spilling into your palms as you gasped to catch your breath.
You were hunched over, elbows digging into your thighs as you cradled your face to catch each quiet sob. Your body shuddered with shallow, panicked breaths, your throat burning as you tried desperately to stay quiet. But it only seemed to make it worse, your chest heaving with every sharp, stuttered intake of breath, eyes burning as your mascara began to bleed with your tears.
A sudden, loud crash echoed through the apartment, making you jump in fright, your back straightening as your head snapped towards the door. You stayed frozen in place, wide-eyed as you heard Ben let out a deafening, full-throated yell.
You stood up and hurried out of the room, your gaze immediately falling to the remains of a large decorative vase, now scattered across the floor in broken, jagged pieces. You stared down at it in shock, then over to Ben as he stood on the other side of the room, hands on hips, chest rising and falling with hot, heavy breaths. His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring, eyes wild with fury as they finally found yours.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just stood there staring at you, wounded, furious, helpless, all at once. Then he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and deep with anger.
“They’re tearing you apart.”
You nodded. “I know.”
“Saying we had an affair, that we planned to…” He paced back and forth quickly, like he was struggling to control his rage, before speaking quietly, like it pained him to say the words out loud. “They called you a whore… ”
“Yeah,” you whispered, holding back the urge to cry.
“Fuck!” he screamed, grabbing the lamp off a nearby table and launching it across the room.
Your whole body tensed as it collided with the solid brick wall. You’d never seen him like this; not when you fought, or when you purposely did things to piss him off, not even when he caught you snooping through his house on the night you first met. It was like he wasn’t there anymore, like something hot and primal had burrowed beneath his skin.
His fists were balled at his sides, his face red, eyes dark as he turned in a tight circle, like he was searching for something else to break, another outlet for his rage. “It’s all so fucking warped! Gold-digger, homewrecker, like you fucking hunted me down and stole me from some perfect fucking marriage!”
You wrapped your arms around your stomach, as though shielding yourself from it all.
“ Mysterious woman ,” he laughed, almost maniacally. “How the fuck do they get away with writing this shit!? Sending an angry mob after someone with no fucking proof! And of course I’m just an idiot man thinking with his dick, but you … Of course you’re this master manipulator fucking slut with no morals.”
He raked a hand through his hair, gripping it at the root as his voice continued to bellow through the apartment. You stood frozen as you watched him grab his phone off the arm of the couch, sending it flying through the air towards the wall, just like the lamp.
“I’m sorry,” you said weakly, blinking away a tear that dripped onto your cheek.
He stopped suddenly, the air seeming to still as his gaze settled on you. “What?”
You gave a slight shrug, unsure of what else to say. And within seconds, the anger behind his eyes crumbled into something else entirely.
“Oh my god,” he breathed as he took a step back, almost like he was ashamed of himself. “I’m terrifying you.”
“No-” you began with a sigh. But your voice was soft and unconvincing, trailing off as he interrupted.
“I am. I’m throwing shit about and screaming like a lunatic and you’re standing there feeling like you need to apologise.”
He looked at you again, then down to your bare feet and the shards of broken vase scattered across the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, rushing over and using his foot to kick the mess away, clearing a path for you to step towards him. “I’m sorry, you know this isn’t- I would never- I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just so…” His breath caught in his throat.
You nodded. “I know.”
“This isn’t your fault, Quinn. The things that are being said, you know that’s not…”
You were so numb, unable to absorb anything he was saying. Even as your eyes met his, it was like you were staring straight through him. He brought a hand up to your cheek, and you didn’t realise you’d flinched until his expression changed, a look of anguish washing over him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“ You didn’t write those things…”
“No, for this . For losing my temper, for frightening you.”
You paused for a moment before bringing your hand up and placing it over his, resting your cheek in his palm like a silent acceptance.
He swallowed hard. “It’s going to be okay. I promise, we’re going to fix this.”
But there was a crack in his voice, a flicker of uncertainty that you’d never heard before.
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Kabubsmagga on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Sep 2024 07:47PM UTC
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Kabubsmagga on Chapter 11 Wed 27 Jul 2022 05:07PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 27 Jul 2022 05:08PM UTC
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