Remember When
Title: Remember When
Recipient: kimberleigh_
Pairing: Karl/Miranda
Rating: R
Summary: Karl and Miranda reconnect.
There's a light breeze over the water, and she feels it around her bare legs as she walks out to the end of the dock, swirling the gauzy fabric of her summer dress. The sun's warm enough, though, and it feels like heaven just to sit down on the old wood planks and bask in it, letting the tension in her muscles release slowly as she names them one by one. Bicep, deltoid, pectoral, abdominal... she gets tripped up on the thigh and sits there contemplating that body part, her hand resting lightly on the right one. Thigh... what was thigh?
Her meditations are interrupted by a pair of lanky legs coming into her field of vision, khaki-colored trousers and bare feet. She smiles at the feet and pats the warm plank next to her. "What's the party going to do without its life, Karl?" she teases as he squats down and then sits, letting his legs dangle off the edge. He grunts lightly and a large, steady hand ruffles her hair and squeezes the back of her neck. She closes her eyes and inhales.
"Haven't seen you in ages, Randi," he muses. She's not sure she likes his idea of small talk, so she cuts off the question about his work or Wellington as it rises into her throat. Instead she keeps her gaze steady out over the water.
"No," Miranda replies, watching a gull swoop over some unseen aquatic prey, breathing in the ocean scent and the barbecue fifty meters behind them, across the verdant lawn. "What's the word for thigh muscle, Karl?"
He laughs, and in the sound is a hint of the Karl she knew, once. His hand creeps cheekily onto her own thigh, the rough skin of his thumb slowly stroking. She can feel its callouses through the thin material of her dress, on the soft pale skin of her inner thigh.
"This one? Adductor." She bites her lip.
"Randi..."
"People, Karl," Miranda says simply. She knows that tone of voice. They used to talk to each other only in tones, in gestures. She remembers disregarding his words in favor of the second meaning in a secret smile, a downward-sloping pitch, a half hitch of breath. She remembers the tone of voice that means "walking away," too. She hesitates.
"When did you ever give a fuck about people?" Karl retorts, near her ear, and that tone is all sunshine and warmth, boyish mischief. His hand creeps closer, half an inch, to the point where her adductor muscle curves down, around. His hand slips up, parallel along its length, and her pussy clenches once in a burst of sudden excitement.
"Fuck," she whispers, and he laughs.
"They won't see anything," Karl promises. "Just our backs. Just two people talking." He bends and lets his lips brush her ear. "We were always... intimate, Miranda."
The way he says her name, the whole thing, sends a shiver down her spine. He doesn't call her Miranda, not unless he's in that mood, and she lets a breath out that tells him everything he needs to know.
Permission.
Adrenaline makes her skin tingle as his hand slides steadily closer. He laughs as his fingers quest for the edge of her skirt, finding his way beneath the folds of fabric and then triumphantly zeroing in on his target. His thumb presses to her clit first, directly, and she gasps, careful not to let her back go too taut, not to signal something--anything--to someone who happens to be watching.
"Does it still give you a thrill, Miranda?" he whispers. She doesn't have to answer. The damp fabric he meets as his thumb trails down, pressing in slightly, tells him everything he needs to know. Her underwear pulls taut as he presses harder, and her muscles clench again, breath hissed through her teeth.
"Karl," she mumbles in a warning. She doesn't have to look to see his grin. She focuses on the soothing ripple of the water as she parts her thighs slightly, as his short fingernails scratch lightly over her clitoris. She wants him to slip his hand past the elastic, but at the same time it's so delicious, that sharp-light-sharp scratching motion, and she whimpers as tension floods out of her neck, as her head falls back. Suspicious, maybe, but she's feeling so good as she closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her face.
He moves on, his fingers turning so that their pads brush over the whole of her vulva, the soft tissue and hair and moisture all obstructed by a layer of cloth. He's a terrible tease, but that's nothing new. And because they're in public, she can't wrench his hand into place, or shove him down against the boards and make him fuck her. She can't ride his cock here in the middle of a party, but she can growl lightly, under her breath, warning him. He laughs lightly and indulges her, pressing steadily over her clit, his fingers starting to rock in a more satisfying motion.
She doesn't move to meet him, doesn't thrust with her hips. She's the picture of innocence here, sitting side-by-side with an old friend, legs out in front of her, weight on her hands behind. Mercifully, he gives her the steady quickening rhythm that she needs, and there's the reminder that they've done this before, that he knows what gets her wet, what makes her come. He knows that she's loud, too, and she can just feel the challenge in the warm summer air between them. She's never backed down from one of his challenges before. Sure as hell isn't going to start.
The sounds of laughter and conversation drift into the space between them and the party, along with the cry of the gulls and her soft, shallow breathing. Her hips are glued in place, her muscles now rock-hard-tight-steady not going to give this one up. She doesn't move an inch when she comes, when his whole palm presses hard against her to feel her heat and the pulsing of her blood. She bites her lip hard enough to crack the skin, and the deep feral scream she wants to let out is pushed down into a groan, a bare exclamation. Blinking, breathless, she finally turns and looks. His smile is everything she thought it would be and as he eases his hand away, she wants to pull him back to her, almost thinks about it, almost thinks about kissing him hard on the mouth right there.
"You're missing the pudding!" a cheerful voice calls from the other end of the dock, and Miranda curses under her breath as she simultaneously turns and straightens her dress.
"Hey, Daisy," she grins, her expression easy as he plops a Santa hat down on each of their heads. Karl smacks one of his calves and Dave kicks lightly, and Miranda pushes herself to her feet and hauls Dave off by an arm around his neck before he realizes just what that new scent is on the air.
She glances back over her shoulder as they walk towards the grill, and there's Karl standing with the water to his back, grinning boyishly at her as he sucks on the tip of his thumb. It's just about as it's always been.