You're so vain

The moment the lift doors open, I feel him.

You walked into the New Years Eve party like you were walking onto a yacht

Warm Melbourne night, champagne fizzing in the air, music thrumming through the rooftop and your hat strategically dipped below one eye and your shirt was apricot. Of course, I mean, who else could wear a colour like that and get away with it.

Positioning yourself at the bar, you had one eye in the mirror… … until your gaze landed on me.

It was like a spark against dry kindling. The heat rising through my body, craving, hungry. But nope, I’m not falling for that again.

And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner, that you would grace them with a few moments of your time.

You're so vain, I’m sure you think everything is about you.

You’re leaning against the balustrade, all effortless confidence, framed by the glittering skyline Melbourne on this hot summer night.

He sees me trying to avoid looking at him.

He smiles, slow and knowing.And damn it, my pulse responds before my mind catches up.

I walk towards him through the crowd, pretending not to notice the electricity building between us with every step. His eyes track me with infuriating certainty, like he already knows how the night ends.

“Miranda,” he murmurs when I reach him, voice brushing my skin. “You came.”

“I didn’t come for you,” I say, lifting my chin.It would land harder if I weren’t already warm everywhere.

His eyes drop to my mouth.Then lower.

“That dress disagrees with you.”

I exhale sharply. Fine. So he wants tension? I’ll give him tension.

“You always think everything’s about you,” I say. “Just like that song.”

He leans in — close enough that his breath grazes my ear.“And you still walked straight towards me.”

God help me, he’s right.

Before I can retort, he takes my hand. So confident, so certain. And leads me toward the shadowed door at the edge of the rooftop. I should pull back. I don’t. The music, the voices, the city fade as he pulls me into a dark room lit only by thin strips of moonlight.

The door clicks shut.

The air shifts.

He steps closer, stopping just short of touching me.The tension is a live wire between us.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

I don’t.

I reach for his lapel and pull him down into me. The kiss hits instantly, hot, hungry, months of unspoken wanting crashing together. His hands find my waist, my back, pulling me tighter as fireworks erupt outside, painting the room in gold and red.

Every burst matches the electricity skimming across my skin.

I break the kiss just long enough to breathe against his lips.

“Maybe,” I whisper, “I followed you because I wanted trouble.”

His breath catches.

Then he kisses me again. Deeper, rougher, with the kind of urgency that says he’s been imagining this as long as I have.

Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, I’m not counting anything at all.

His mouth finds mine again, and the kiss turns molten.There’s no hesitation now, only heat, only want, only the sharp realisation that we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross.

His hands slide along my waist, fingers pressing through the fabric as if he needs to memorise every curve. 

I feel the restraint in him fraying, his unravelling only sparks something wilder in me.

I push him gently, deliberately, until his back meets the wall. His breath stutters. Good. He’s not the only one allowed to set a pace.

“I knew you’d taste like trouble,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“And I knew,” I whisper against his jaw, “you’d be too easy to ruin.”

His exhale shivers against my neck. My pulse jumps. He lifts his hands to my hips, drawing me closer until our bodies align in a way that sends heat spiralling through me. Every point of contact feels dangerous.

Outside, fireworks crack open the sky, bright flashes slipping through the blinds, strobing across his face. Gold on his cheekbone. Scarlett across his mouth. Blue across mine.

He watches me in that shifting light, gaze hungry, reverent, undone. It hits me then: he’s wanted this just as fiercely. Maybe longer.

His hand slides up my back, slow, deliberate, sparking a trail of fire. He slips the strap of my dress down my left shoulder. Almost reverently he cups my breast through the satin, gently then becoming more urgent. His breath on my neck, his fingers working my nipples, my pussy so wet I can feel it dripping down my leg.

“Miranda…” My name breaks from him like he’s been holding it too tightly. His cock is rigid, swollen in his shorts. 

I silence him with my mouth, dropping down in front of him, reach in and releasing his cock into my mouth. Sucking him harder, deeper, feeling him, no thinking, animal lust taking over now.

He answers with a low sound, I have one hand curl into his shirt, pulling, claiming, the other hand working his shaft in a deep slow rhythm with my mouth. 

His hands slip into my hair, tilting my head just enough to see me bringing his cock to the point of no return. I cradle his balls, while my other hand holds him tighter, licking the end of his cock I swallow his pre-cum, tasting him, sucking and slurping while the rest of the world dissolves.

Fireworks erupt.

His cock pulses. Bang. Another cracker. Another shot down the back of my throat.

Hot cum explodes in my mouth, squirting deeper with every pulse.

A barrage of fireworks celebrate the moment with us.

I lick my lips, a little drip escapes my mouth and lands on my now exposed left breast. 

I’m standing in front of him, scooping his cum off my nipple and sliding it into my mouth.

He draws a shaking breath. “Tell me what you want.”

I trace my thumb along his lower lip, slow and wicked.

I lean in, mouth brushing his, breath mixing with his.

Come back soon to find out what Miranda's New Years wish...

What do you think Miranda wished for? let me know @curvymiranda.bsky.social

or request your own Fantasy Storytime written just for you

~ credit to Carly Simon for her inspiration and lyrics.