Karl ignores her on set all day and turns up at her trailer after, with a bottle of wine, a copy of Dead/Alive, and a very sheepish smile.
Mir stands in the doorway and stares down at him. She tries to look unforgiving, but the frenzy of hormones doing a small tap-dance in the pit of her stomach aren't helping. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slam the door in your face right now."
"This film we're making is going to be loads better than Dead/Alive."
She laughs despite herself.
Karl looks good on Miranda's couch. She comes back from fetching wine glasses and his head is tipped back, his eyes closed, the neck of his button down shirt falling open. If she had a dustpan in her flat, she would drop the wine glasses on the floor and bite his throat before he opens his eyes and unnerves her with his predatory gaze. Karl's dark eyes will be her downfall here
She doesn't have a dustpan, and she doesn't fancy picking glass out of her hands. As she's setting the glasses down on the table, Karl blinks and focuses on her and she very nearly drops them to the floor anyway.
Miranda sets the glasses and the corkscrew on the table and the moment her hands are free, Karl wraps a hand around her wrist, sending a shiver up her spine, and tugs her into his lap.
The movie slides behind the couch cushions and stays there for weeks until Elijah demands its return.
The wine is knocked over and the red stain never quite comes out of Mirry's white carpet.
Third time's the charm. Karl is agile in bed, and he's got strong hands and a warm mouth and tonight he lets Miranda straddle him, pin his wrists above his head, and lick him all over. It isn't rushed, but it isn't lazy; it's somewhere between passion and affection, and it seems okay to both of them, if Karl's wild thrashing and rumbling moans are anything to go by.
Karl is pliant tonight, and Miranda feels as though they've come to some sort of agreement, between undrunk wine and unwatched films. A peace offering of sorts, on Karl's part. "I'm not so good with words," he'd said after pulling her into his lap but before he made her come screaming with his mouth between her legs.
They strip slowly, tongues and hands occupied until they run up against another piece of bothersome clothing. Karl's jeans get tossed across the room and accidentally knock a lamp to the floor. Mir pins him to the bed again and fucks him slowly, languidly, and she leaves faint purple bruises across his torso. Karl writhes underneath her, begs for a faster pace, clutches at Miranda's hips so hard she's afraid that he'll leave bruises; she laughs at him and bites down on his earlobe, tugging gently with her teeth.
Karl flips her over suddenly; she distracted by the way his pulse thrums frantically below every inch of his skin, the way she can run her tongue over it and make him twitch and squirm.
She's on her back, looking up at him, his hips pressed firmly to hers, her legs wrapped around his ass. Before Karl starts moving, he hesitates. He stares at her, silent, and blinks twice. He leans down and buries his face in her neck, her hair, and starts to move. This time she doesn't come screaming, exactly, but Peter's still going to be awfully pissed about the bruise below her ear.
She gets up for a glass of water in the middle of the night and when she comes back to bed, Karl is rustling sleepily in the bed. "You weren't here," he says. "Where'd you go?"
"Just for water," she says. "I'm here now."