Page 110 of Let’s Make a Scene

I force myself to focus on Nisha. This is very different from the first sex scene I filmed a decade ago. Intimacy coordinators weren’t exactly a common presence on set then, and I’d fumbled my way through the thing the best I could, sick with nerves and never totally comfortable with the result.

“And at this point, Jack will remove Cynthie’s chemise,” Nisha says. “Are you happy with that, Cynthie?”

I nod. Funnily enough, despite the heated moment we’ve just shared, I’d be hard-pressed to name someone I feel safer with than Jack. It’s not just Nisha who checks in with me at every step; he does too, sometimes with a look, often with words, and I make sure I return the favor.

“So let’s get up on the bed,” Nisha says. “When we’re filming, Jack will lift Cynthie up and place her on the mattress, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Jasmine jumps in before Logan can get started. “We want this to feel very tender, romantic. It’s been a long time coming for these two. There’s passion, but also a lot of feeling, and some nerves too, particularly for Emilia.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, “I think Edward’s probably nervous too. He may not be a virgin, but he’s loved Emilia for over a decade. She’s the only woman he’s ever loved, and now he finally gets to touch her. He’ll be worried about hurting her, worried about pleasing her.”

“Good, good,” Jasmine agrees, her voice low. We’re all talking in the same hushed tones, like we’re in a museum, like this is a solemn occasion.

To his credit, Logan restrains himself from jumping in with explicit directions about tongues and breasts, which I think actually does show some growth on his part. I can only imagine what it would have been like trying to film this the first time around.

We get up on the mattress and run through the rest of the scene. It’s impossible for a sex scene not to be awkward. I don’t care how professional everyone involved is; you’re still performing for an audience without your clothes on. Actors might be more au fait than the general public when it comes to displaying our bodies, but we’re still human.

“Perfect,” Nisha says finally. “So now we’ll go through it, and this time we’ll take the clothes off and make sure we’re all feeling confident about the angles.”

Jack and I move slowly through the scene, and if my hand trembles a little as I undo his cravat, or if his breath catches when he slips my chemise from my shoulders, I tell myself it’s because we’re in character. It might even be true… I realize this is what Jack was really trying to say this morning, that what I’m feeling matches what Emilia is feeling so closely that the boundaries are even hazier than usual. Brooke’s and Declan’s presence adds a further complication.

It’s nothing like the two of us being all over each other a couple of hours ago. There are people watching us, and they’re very interested in the exact angle of our bodies, the perfect, suggestive positioning of the bedsheets. They see us as a collection of photogenic limbs, and the longer the rehearsal drags on, the easier it is to think of my own body with a similar level of detachment.

But we’re still skin to skin. He’s still running his hands over me, and I still like it.

Jack was right. It’s complicated.

By the time we run the scene for real, I’m feeling relaxed enough about the movement to focus more on the actual acting. I sink further into Emilia, her desire, her emotional turmoil.

“Action,” Jasmine calls, and then Jack has me up against the wall, kissing me, kissing my throat, as I tug at his necktie. We move across the room, shedding clothes at carefully planned intervals. When we’re down to our Regency appropriate underwear, Jack scoops me up into his arms and I laugh. He places me gently on the bed, on top of the scattering of handwritten love letters that he wrote me thirteen years ago, the ones he just found out I’ve kept ever since.

The paper crinkles under me as he runs a hand up my calf, pushing the thin white linen of my chemise up and over my thighs. He groans, burying his face in the side of my neck, and I clutch at his hair, my heart beating hard, overwhelmed and yes, a little nervous.

My hand runs tentatively down the muscular line of his bare back. His face comes up, above mine.

“Are you certain, love?” he asks, the words rough with lust and tenderness in equal measure.

I look into his eyes, and it’s like the scene wavers, like I’m falling out of it. I’m looking at Jack, and I feel overwhelmed by sensation. The room is hot, the lights so bright. I can feel the eyes on me, the cameras. My breath catches and it’s not acting. There’s a familiar and dreaded tightening in my chest.

Jack’s eyes widen. “Cynthie?” he says, pulling away from me in an instant, and I think that later I’ll be grateful for that, for the way he knew at once that there was something wrong. But for now, all I feel is panic.

Not now, not now, not now, I think as my breathing falters.

“Cut,” Jasmine says crisply.

I push myself up off the bed. Thankfully, I’m still wearing the chemise because I want out of this room as soon as possible.

“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I feel a bit dizzy. I think I’d better get some air.”

Without waiting for any further conversation I hurry through the door, ducking around people without making eye contact.

When I’m out in the corridor, away from the lights, the temperature feels more bearable. I move into an empty room farther down, and sit on the floor, my back against the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest, as I try and ride out the storm raging inside me.

When there’s a gentle knock, I expect it to be Jack, but instead, Jasmine walks through the door.

“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I don’t know what happened. It came on so suddenly, just out of nowhere.”

“Sometimes that happens,” she agrees, sliding down to sit on the floor beside me.