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Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi!
If I love you, beware!
-Bizet, Carmen, "Habanera"
James Holt's first fashion spread in Runway is, as he says, "based on the intersection between East and West." Well. That never gets old.
Still, he is your chosen new star, and frankly you've got so much on your plate that you don't really feel like shooting him down. He has some decent ideas for the layout, and you've got one or two good photographers on board, so it should be quite passable. And with the way you've felt lately, 'passable' is…well, passable. Besides, Jacqueline isn't here to get on your last nerve, which would have been far more than you could bear.
Nigel is avoiding you. He's been smart about not doing that, since Paris, but perhaps having James around is too much of a reminder of your--not betrayal. It wasn't like that. A reminder of your necessary executive decision. You are relatively certain that he understands this, and if the opportunity presents itself, you'll reward him. But still, it's irritating, watching him skulk around the shoot, refusing to look you in the eye. Really, how childish. Did he think you'd sacrifice your job to keep him happy? After he's known you for nearly twenty years?
Nigel should know better. Nigel knows you. Nigel is a reasonable person. Nigel is not Andrea.
"Because of the way you treated Nigel, and the way I treated Emily, and because I didn't want to do anything like that again."
No. No, you are not thinking about Andrea Sachs today. Or, ideally, ever again. She does not exist. She is not your problem. Stephen and his lawyers, now they are a problem. Trying to get more frequent therapy appointments for the girls, that is a problem. Starbucks discontinuing your favorite latte even after you personally wrote to Howard Schultz expressing your displeasure--that is a problem. Andrea doesn't even feature on the list. At all.
The background for the photoshoot is a palette of gray and black silk: minimalist and pleasing. The models pose in James's most outlandish creations, the ones you like the best, and they pull it off, for the most part. Although you don't like the way they're standing. Too far apart, too distant. And their eyes, of course, are as vacuous as always. Models aren't exactly known for their personalities (a trait you have encouraged), but every once in a while, really, is it too much to ask for some sign of intelligent life?
You point at two of the girls. "You two. Jean-Paul, put them together." With a grimace that's so slight you can pretend to ignore it, Jean-Paul obediently maneuvers the girls closer together, but you still don't like it. "No, no. Look, her obi is practically in the other one's face. Here, you--" You point at the tall brunette-- "Get on your knees in front of her." She obeys. "Lower!" She goes lower. The other girl, the even taller blonde, looks at you and then tentatively places her hand on the first girl's head. You nod in satisfaction. They look like a noblewoman and a serving maid, and the colors in the clothes set a powerful contrast to each other. The hand on the head is a nice touch, adding the barest frisson of sexuality. Yes, that's much better. "That's all," you say, and Jean-Paul's camera starts snapping away.
Someone taps you on the shoulder. It's Nigel, who is studiously avoiding looking at James Holt. He's shoving some sheafs of paper at you, and you frown as you take them. "What's this?"
"Chinese proverbs," Nigel says. "We thought they'd be a nice touch, for the spread. Sara says she was thinking of organizing each pose around a quote--they're pretty visual."
You make a noncommittal noise as you glance over the quotes. You're not exactly familiar with Chinese proverbs, but then again, neither are Runway's readers, and they'll only care about the exoticism of it all. It's not a bad idea, though it's hardly original. Well, at least that's in keeping with the rest of this project.
When did you stop caring about this?
No. It's not that you don't care. Of course you do. You are simply…out of sorts. And have been, since the ball. And you're not thinking about this anymore. You shake your head imperceptibly and focus on the quotes.
Paper cannot wrap up fire. "Well," you say, "whatever that means, it would go well with the white-and-orange dresses."
"That's what I was thinking," Nigel agrees, sounding cautiously pleased.
Jade that is not chiseled cannot become a gem. "All right. The green saris for that one, obviously. And the pointy earrings and bracelets." You tap your chin. "One of the models will need a large pendant. Actual jade would be too obvious…"
"I thought the Rosena Sammi tourmaline. The watermelon one."
"Fine." You look at the next quote.
If you love something, let it go. If it returns to you, it is yours. If it does not, it never was.
And then Andrea Sachs is walking away from you.
"For that one," Nigel says, more enthusiastic now, "I thought the kimono-ballgown hybrids with the cranes on them. The black and white ones. They'd go with the gray backgrounds fairly well, too."
Andrea Sachs is walking away from you, twice. In Paris, and then again at the ball. Both times, you let her go. Both times, you withhold punishment.
Both times, she does not return.
"Suggestive of flight, of course," Nigel continues. "Homing pigeons, or--falcons, I guess, you know. Birds like that."
You look at the two models you just directed. Jean-Paul has continued down the path you set--now the brunette on the floor has twined herself around the blonde's legs, holding her close. Their eyes are closed as if in ecstasy.
"Actually, you know, that set might work well," Nigel says, following your gaze. "Think we can put them in the bird outfits and have them do the same thing?"
"I don't like this quote," you say, unable to take your eyes off the girls.
"What? Oh." Nigel sounds disappointed. Hasn't he noticed what is going on over there? Does he know you posed them that way? Couldn't anybody who looked at them figure it out?
Oh, God. You might as well have painted it on your forehead. You might as well have invited everyone to psychoanalyze you the moment your back was turned.
"Well--what about the other two quotes?" Nigel asks. "I have some more, too."
"I don't like this quote," you repeat, rising from your chair. "And I don't like those poses. Jean-Paul!" He stops taking pictures. The models look at you in surprise. You gesture at them, although your arms feel weak. "It's not working. Think of something else."
He looks confused. "But--I mean, I think it's working well, actually, the chemistry seems--"
"Do you like working, Jean-Paul?" you ask softly. You are aware that the room is going quiet all around you and that people are starting to stare. You want to get out of here.
He swallows hard. "Yes. Sorry. Okay, girls, you heard Miranda…" They disentangle themselves from each other and step apart. Are you imagining things, or do they seem disappointed?
Nigel is staring at you in undisguised confusion. You seek familiar refuge. "It is completely beyond me," you say, well aware that your voice carries to every terrified corner of the room, "why some people appear to turn off their ears and ignore perfectly clear directions."
"Um, well," Nigel says.
You don't let him finish. "All I ask is that people listen. Is that so hard? Am I asking the impossible?"
"No, no." Nigel has the gall to sound soothing. "Forget the quotes. They're good as gone." He tries to smile at you. "Chinese doesn't even make sense in English, does it?"
"Call the car," you say, hearing your own voice as if it's coming from a long way off. "I'm going back to the office. And tell Emily to have my Starbucks waiting." Someone scurries off to obey. At least one person was listening. Andrea had always listened. Once she'd gotten the hang of how things worked (though God knew it had taken long enough), she'd done her job perfectly, she'd anticipated your every need--
You leave the room without another word to anyone. You return to Elias-Clarke, you return to your office, and Emily knows by the look on your face that you are under no circumstances to be disturbed.
Yes, Emily had better stay out of your path. Especially since this whole mess is, in a way, her fault. You'd noticed her swanning around the office in lovely clothes she'd never worn before, yet seemed strangely familiar, and then you'd realized--they weren't her clothes, they were Andrea's clothes, from Paris. Andrea hadn't even wanted to keep that reminder of her time with you. And that had been the last straw. You'd gone after her in some fit of insanity, determined to make her explain, and had only ended up more confused and angry than before. She threw you off-balance--she always has, she's always left you reeling just a little bit, and you can't understand why.
So you need to be left alone now. You need time to think. You need time to understand.
You need time to remember when, exactly, you fell out of love with Stephen. You know when he fell out of love with you. He told you so, quite explicitly, over the phone in Paris: "How the hell could I love someone who's never here?" You thought, half-hysterically, about mentioning the fact that many of literature's greatest works are about someone loving someone else who isn't there. But Stephen has never been a great reader, and so you didn't say anything of the kind. And you thought about your girls, and you cried. And you reached out, briefly, to Andrea.
Who isn't here.
If you love something, let it go.
If you love something.
If you love.
This is impossible and untrue, to say nothing of ludicrous. You are being childish. It's just some silly Chinese folk saying, or something, and you've just made a fool of yourself in front of your staff. Usually when you fly off the handle you have a reason, even if they're too dim to perceive it. This time, you can admit fault. To yourself, anyway.
You overreacted. It's understandable, you suppose, with all the stress you're under. You are getting divorced for the second time in your life, after a marriage of appallingly short duration. Stephen lasted all of three years. Greg had held out for seven, you'd say that for him. Apparently being married to you is more a test of endurance than anything else. And if you start to cry in your office, you might as well gouge your own eyes out, or at least, the eyes of anybody who might be likely to see you. Andrea saw you cry, but that was different, of course--
Her eyes, enormous and dark, wide with compassion. Or pity. You'd rather not try to divine the difference, just now. Whatever it was, her voice positively trembled with it as she said, "I'm so sorry, Miranda."
Sorry. She was so sorry. So sorry that, apparently, she'd run right off to sleep with that idiot journalist who'd plotted to replace you. And then…chosen you instead, after all. Yes. She'd betrayed a man who'd done her a huge favor, who'd been kind to her, for you. Only to turn her back on you, at the last.
"I didn't turn my back on a 'chance,' Miranda. I turned my back on you."
But she was just like you. Is like you. No matter what she thinks, no matter how hard she tries, that won't change. She's driven to succeed. And someday, she'll get to the point where she either has to step on someone or be stepped on. It's inevitable. And you know which one she'll choose, even if she can't yet accept the truth. She won't be able to turn her back on that.
You realize that you have already stopped thinking about Stephen, and have started thinking about her again. He'd be insulted if he knew. Although he had mentioned, once, that Andrea--your "newest victim"--was a "rather fetching creature." That had irritated you, but maybe not for the reasons you'd supposed. Fetching. Yes, she'd apparently liked that, all right.
Outside your office, someone timidly clears her throat. You look up--it's the new second assistant. Well, "new" as in "two months old," anyway. You haven't bothered to learn her name yet, although you very nearly called her "Andrea" once. "What?" you say. Then you look at the clock. It's after ten o'clock at night. How long have you been sitting here, staring at the same set of papers on your desk, and doing nothing useful? This simply cannot be allowed to continue.
"Go home," you tell New Andrea. "Or wherever it is you go." She hesitates. "My point is that you should take your uselessness elsewhere." That gets her moving. Some days you think you'll have to start shooting bullets at her feet.
The door shuts behind her, you hear the 'ding' of the elevator, and you realize you are all alone in the office. The building suddenly seems very big, and very quiet, and very empty. Well, there must be some tired little man pushing a mop around somewhere, but he doesn't count.
If you go home, it will be empty and quiet too. Stephen moved out before you even returned from Paris. The girls are with Greg's mother, whom they adore and who unequivocally loathes you. The help will have left by now. There is no reason to go home, not yet.
You know where she lives.
You made sure to confirm this, during the ball, though you weren't quite sure why. You'd never cared when she was actually working for you. But now you watch to see if she walks by the building. She doesn't, not anymore. Is it because you mentioned it? Is she avoiding your gaze, afraid of your anger? Afraid of you? Afraid of becoming you?
You rise from your desk. You fetch your jacket and your bag. You have no answers to these questions. You need answers to these questions. You don't know enough. No, you don't know anything at all.
You don't know anything except that, right now, you are really fucking sick of watching Andrea Sachs walk away from you.
L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre
battit de l'aile et s'envola ...
The bird you thought you'd caught
Spreads its wings and flies away.
Her apartment is a hole and it stinks of Chinese take-out. At least it smells better than the cab you just took. You can't even remember the last time you were forced to ride in a taxi. But it would have raised far too many questions, calling the car. You don't need to worry about other people watching you and speculating on your motives. Especially when you're not sure what they are, yourself.
She lives alone now. You can tell that instantly. The relief that knowledge gives you is almost painful. There is no one else here to--to--interrupt your conversation.
Which is good, because it's not going well. She wants to know why you're here. She has a right, for goodness' sake. But for once, you can't find the words you need, and finally, you appeal to her in desperation.
"Can you tell me why I am doing these things, Andrea?"
You are sure that you didn't mean to sound so confused when you said that. Or so pleading. In fact, you didn't really mean to say anything like that at all. Which is the problem. You are confused, you're doing and saying things that are entirely out of character for you, and you need answers, and you need them now, which brings you full circle to the question you just asked. She'd better be able to answer it, somehow, or there will be hell to pay.
Her hair is a total mess and her eyes are baggy and red from lack of sleep. She's dressed in an appalling t-shirt-and-flannel-pants…something. Even sloppier than the day you met her. And her beauty is killing you. You are actually aching for her.
This. This is what you want. This is why you are here.
You've never been frightened by what you want. That is, until tonight, because what you want has a mind of her own and does not want you back. You can see it in her eyes.
"Oh God," she breathes, staring at you with something in her eyes that you cannot decipher but must be horror because she seems to be rooted to the spot.
Horror. She is repulsed by what you want. And by you.
You will ruin this girl, you decide at once. You will hound her out of New York City. You will blacklist her from every publication. You will do whatever it takes to make sure you never have to see her face again because this is it, the last straw, the very last indignity you will be forced to bear on her account. She will never, never be allowed to hurt you again; she'll be lucky to get a job at the Podunk Picayune by the time you're through with her, all for the way she's looking at you right now--
"I like the way you say my name."
Your thoughts grind to a dead halt and you stare at her. She doesn't look horrified now. She looks...her eyes are...
You move closer. You have to. Her mouth parts slightly. You can't breathe.
"It's just, nobody says my name like you do. I like it."
Andrea. She'd tried to introduce herself to you as 'Andy.' Revolting. Andrea is a beautiful name, properly said. You'd started, very much, to enjoy saying it. You had hoped--planned--to say it often. You'd turned around to say it, in Paris, only to find there was no Andrea to say it to...
You looked back. You saw her walking away. That should have been enough. But you looked back again, as if your eyes had deceived you, as if perhaps she'd just stepped away for some fresh air, as if she might change her mind. And only when you saw the set of her shoulders, the toss of her head, did you understand what had happened.
And still you tried to get her back. You called. You called. You were furious, of course, but if she'd apologized, or come up with some excuse--that one about needing the air, that would have been fine--you'd have taken her back. If she'd returned.
If it returns to you, it is yours.
She never returned. Even when you called her back one more time, to the ball, hoping--what?--hoping to ensnare her once again, by reminding her of the glittering world she'd left behind?--even then, she turned her back. She was not yours. Is not.
And yet here you are. What does she want, sackcloth and ashes? You on your knees? Would that do it? Oh God--would you do it?
Say something. Say--say--
She stops your mouth.
And all you can think is yes. Yes and thank God and...her mouth is warm and very soft. You have never kissed a woman before. You've never really thought about how different it would feel. Her breasts are pressed to yours.
You grab her. You can't not grab her. Who knows, she might try to get away again. But her lips open, and let you in, and her skin is smooth and hot beneath her ratty t-shirt. She has her hands in your hair. Her mouth tastes like cheap wine.
Something happens involving movement, and next thing you know, you are wrestling with her t-shirt on her bed, taking it off and revealing beautiful, ample breasts. You'd almost forgotten that women besides yourself have these--all you ever see are rake-thin, boyish models. But they look wonderful on Andrea and fit perfectly into your palms.
You cannot stop kissing her. It's been so long since you kissed anyone, anyone at all, besides cloying little air-kisses at social functions that don't count even a little bit, and you've never kissed anyone like this. Like Andrea. Who isn't trying to get away. Who is, in fact, trying to get your jacket off you.
If it returns to you--
You decide this counts as returning. You will leave your mark, this time. You've never been particularly nice, you've always been a little bit savage, and perhaps that is why Andrea doesn't react with shock or even surprise when you bite her on the neck. Oh. Oh, yes, that is exactly it, exactly what you have been wanting to do since--before Paris, maybe, since--
You know all your assistants worry that you'll eat them alive. Andrea's the only one who's had cause, so far.
Andrea is still wearing pajama bottoms. You are still wearing nearly everything. That's not good enough. You need to see her. You've seen her in makeup, in couture, in hopelessly gauche nonsense, but now you need to see her without anything at all.
So you undress, and she undresses, but she halts at her panties which is quite unacceptable, and you'd tell her so if you could stop kissing her for five seconds. But she gets the message, and then she's naked, Andrea is naked for you, and what you do next seems as inevitable as the morning sunrise. You kiss her skin. You've hurt her with your mouth before--called her fat, called her incompetent, lashed her and struck her--but you cannot hurt her now, not here, not like this. And even if you tried, you could never, at your worst, hurt her as she is capable of hurting you.
So you...apologize. She is not fat, or incompetent, or anything that is not beautiful, and your mouth tells her so. Her nipples are mid-sized and dusky. They pebble against your tongue while she twists and gasps beneath you, her eyes closing, her legs parting all unconsciously. Oh. Oh yes. And then you know what you must do.
Men have done this to you before. But you always knew they didn't really want to, and in the end, because of that, you didn't want it either. This is different. You mouth your way down her body, wanting to leave more bite marks but unable to take the time to do so. The soft skin of her belly begins to quiver, her thighs tremble, her breath catches and seizes as she realizes what you are about to do.
Wet. Slippery. She wails softly the moment your tongue slides against her, and from that moment on, you are an addict. Your eyes fall shut even as you throb between your own legs, and you lap at her like a cat at a saucer of milk, feeling her twitching and seeking after you.
Yes. She follows you, now. Her hips jerk every time you lick her clitoris, and so you do it again and again, listening to her sob, feeling her fingers sliding into your hair. You know she's always liked your hair. And she likes the way you say her name. You have to stop to take a breath, and you use the moment to whisper, "Andrea"--as if you are, indeed, summoning her to follow you--
She arches her back. Her breath climbs to a high, hysterical pitch--stops--and then she gasps, "Miranda!"
Something implodes inside your mind. You keep going, keep tasting, prolonging her whimpering and her shaking until she is begging you to stop. Begging you. Andrea Sachs, begging you for something with her whole heart.
You do not want to stop. But you won't hurt her, either--you don't want pleasure to turn entirely into pain--and so you raise your head, wipe your mouth, and look at her.
Then you think you might come on the spot. She is spread out on the bed, naked, flushed, panting desperately, thighs still quivering. She smells of sweat and sex. You could fall on her, cover her, clutch at her--you could do so many things that you are paralyzed by possibility.
But then she sits up, reaches out to you, and wraps her arms around you--kisses you--all with such gentleness, such tenderness, that you go weak. Nobody is ever gentle with you. Nobody would dare. But here she is, caressing and holding you, and all of a sudden you have no more strength.
You watch helplessly as she cups your breasts through your bra. And then she unclasps it, being much too careful for someone who's just come as hard as she has, but that's all right because finally she slides it down your arms. She looks at your breasts with wonder, feeling, just perhaps, the same way you did when you looked at her.
Then she touches you, and your skin catches fire everywhere. A part of you begins, finally, to be frightened. Not frightened. Terrified. This is too much. You want her too much. Her hands cup you, firmly, and your mind reels as if you are drunk. You can still taste her on your lips.
You hear yourself talking, your voice broken and helpless. "Don't," you say. "I'll--I'm--"
I'll lose my mind. I'm afraid.
But she, being of a more innocent bent, misinterprets. "Close?" she asks, almost solicitously.
Close to what? Yes, you suppose you are close to something. Close to her, but not close enough. She brushes her lips over your throat, your shoulder, so lightly that you can't even call it kissing. You can barely breathe.
"So go ahead," she whispers.
No. No, you can't do that. Whatever is waiting, the pleasure that beckons you, can immolate you. She can immolate you.
And it still won't be enough.
"Oh--God," you say, rubbing your nose into her hair, which is so soft and smells so wonderful. You can feel the pulse at her temple beneath it. How can you make her understand your fear? She'd take pity on you, wouldn't she? "I--"
"Go ahead," she says again, and, just like that, slides her hand down into your panties and touches you where you need it the most, more than you've ever needed it before. The world shakes, and you grab onto her for support, crying out. It isn't so much physical pleasure, that wet tremble between your legs, as it is the realization that--that--
--that she CAN'T leave you behind again--
--that out of everything you have lost in these past few months you cannot lose her, not again, not again--
--it is this that sends you collapsing against her, gulping so hard for air that you wonder if you'll pass out.
She did it. She's won. She's beaten you.
You don't know how long you lie there, realizing this, but at some point she brushes your hair out of your face. That snaps you awake. She's looking at you, as if she expects you to say something. You probably should.
You can't. There aren't any words for this. You close your eyes.
Something has ended, tonight. Something has come to a close. You don't know if you should mourn its loss, or hope for a new beginning.
She'll probably start talking now. God help you if she does. But, to your surprise, you feel the bedspread being pulled over you, and she settles down next to you without a word, as if nothing could be more natural than sharing a bed with you tonight.
Perhaps you should not stay. But the thought of getting out of this bed, getting dressed in front of her, calling another cab, even the thought of all that is exhausting enough to send you half to sleep. It is time to think of practicalities.
"What time do you have to be up in the morning?" you ask, hearing your own weariness.
"Alarm's set for five-thirty," she says sleepily. Six hours, when you could probably sleep for twenty-four? You shudder.
She offers to let you stay, after she's gone.
You make no reply, and she turns out the light. Soon, almost insultingly soon, she is fast asleep.
It takes you a little longer. You're tired, more than tired, but you already know that there is no way she is going to be the first one out of this apartment tomorrow.
Even if it's just this once, you will leave her behind.
Tu crois le tenir, il t'évite,
tu crois l'éviter, il te tient.
You think you hold it fast, it flees,
you think you're free, it holds you fast.
You are surprised by how difficult it was, in fact, to leave. You wonder what she thought as you walked out. Did she believe you hadn't noticed the awkward hope on her face, with disappointment and hurt hard on its heels? But, well, you had places to go, and a cab was on the way, and you really had to get back to your home as early as possible, before the neighbors would be awake to see you sneaking back inside in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. You are getting divorced, after all, and besides, there's a busy day ahead of you, largely centered around finding out if you completely wrecked the progress of yesterday's shoot or not.
Anyway, now she knows how it feels. You wish that satisfied you. You're surprised it doesn't.
Your day is strangely ordinary: hot Starbucks awaiting you, proofs from the shoot (which appears to have gone much better in your absence), mutinous muttering in the background. They think you don't know what they say about you. Even Nigel gets in on the act, down the hall, with Emily.
"…some reason?"
"Might've been something I did, but all I did was show her those quotes and she…"
You round the corner. They shut up instantly. They know you've heard, and they know you don't particularly care, but they're still frightened. Emily especially. She knows better than anyone else how replaceable she is. "Is there some reason I don't have a reply from Donna yet?" you ask.
"I'll call her again," Emily murmurs, and hurries off.
"I'm off to my lair," Nigel says, and leaves without further ceremony.
Everything's back to normal. Except that your lingerie drawer is now minus one ruined Millesia panty, and Andrea is out there somewhere with a hickey on her neck. You hope she's had the sense to wear a high collar.
Her skin was much softer and smoother than a man's. It had bruised more easily. It had been warm and giving under your lips and teeth.
You certainly hope that this whole thing is a fluke. It would be absurd to realize, at this stage of your life, that you really prefer women--especially when you are routinely around the most beautiful women in the world. You gaze speculatively at New Andrea, who's sitting nearly motionless at her computer, awaiting your orders. No, definitely not. You consider Serena, who's far more attractive--nothing there, either. Well, perhaps it doesn't matter. You have no plans to take other women to bed, whether they work for you or not. No matter how slender or beautiful or eager to please they are, they cannot possibly do to you what Andrea has done without even trying.
You realize that your face is going a little red, your heart is beating a little faster, and you feel just the slightest bit sticky between your legs. You honestly cannot remember the last time this happened to you, at least, not just from the memory of sex. What you do remember is the way she tasted, and the sound of her desperate little whimpers. And later, the way she burrowed into the bedclothes, creating an oasis of heat in that frigid flat. "I was having a dream about porcupines." That had better not have been some kind of Freudian metaphor for you.
You send emails. You have a meeting. You talk to your lawyers. You give up and call her.
She ever so graciously says that you can come back for more. Well. She's always had nerve. But the twins come back from their grandmother's tonight, so of course there is no possibility of going to Andrea's right away. You have damage to undo. Greg's mother is not exactly mature whenever the subject of you comes up, even if it's raised by your own children. So you spend considerable time this evening explaining to your daughters that you do love them very much, actually, even if you can't spend lots of time with them, and wondering if it would scar them too badly if you killed their beloved grandmother. You are fairly certain you could get away with it. You have more than enough gloves to hide your fingerprints.
They've started sleeping in the same bed again. They do that, sometimes. Their therapist tells you that it's in response to a loss of security, of stability, and that they should grow out of it soon. So you do your best to make sure everything is as normal as possible. You tell them that it's just the three of you again, the three girls, and it's going to be just fine. You'll take them to Cancun next month. Won't that be fun? They nod. They smile. You hope. Patricia sleeps outside their bedroom door that night.
In the meantime, you wonder about Andrea's past…experiences. You have no sexual history (ugh, what a dreadful phrase) with women, but what about her? Christian Thompson aside, she'd had a photo of some pretty boy on her desk while she worked at Runway. That doesn't rule out other possibilities, of course; you understand that having lesbian flings is quite au courant in college, these days. Then again, she went to school at--wasn't it Northwestern? Nobody has lesbian sex in Illinois, do they? Well, maybe in Chicago…
You are clearly going out of your mind, so it is with some relief that, a few days later, you pack the girls off to a friend's house for the night before returning to Andrea's. Something has to give, after all, and you would prefer that it wasn't your sanity.
About midway through the evening, though, you are beginning to think that is a vain hope. The first night apparently wasn't a fluke. You can't get enough of her. Where is this going to end? You can't see from here. All you know is that she has four slender fingers inside you at once, knuckle-deep, and--she has always been a fast learner--is kissing you, deeply and slowly, in time with the movement of her hand. Her other hand is holding your head, moving your mouth to where she wants it at any given moment, while you grab onto her for dear life, making noises you'd forgotten you knew. Your breasts still tingle and ache from the attention she lavished on them until you begged for mercy. You are helpless, weak and pliant with need, unable to hold together a single coherent thought.
You can't take it anymore. "Faster," you gasp, "faster." She kisses your neck and goes faster, until, at last, you're coming hard, coming for so long that you're afraid you won't be able to stop. You convulse around her fingers and it feels so good that any confusion or ambivalence you ever felt about this seems utterly absurd.
She kisses your shoulders as you come down from it, withdrawing her fingers and gently stroking the insides of your thighs, moving her head to kiss your breasts yet again. The luscious heat of her mouth on your nipple, when you hadn't expected it, jerks a spasm of aftershock from you, and you whimper. Too much…too much…but you don't stop her, you can't remember the last time you felt sensation in excess, you don't want it to end even if it drives you right out of your head. Finally, though, she relents, and you sink back, trembling, against the creaky mattress.
You are sated, and shattered, and surprisingly at peace. You think that maybe you can rest safely here, for a while.
"You're amazing," she breathes against your skin, sounding awed. She kisses her way back up your chest, over your shoulders and throat, to your panting mouth. "You're beautiful."
You take a moment to gather your composure, and then you speak. "No," you correct her breathlessly. "I'm vengeful."
She blinks down at you, her swollen, red lips frowning in confusion. "You're what?"
You hook one leg around her hip, shift, and roll until she's underneath you, looking up at you with wide eyes. "You'll see," you say lightly, before you bend to kiss her delighted smile.
She'll pay for your pleading. You don't think she'll mind. And then, as per your agreement, you will stay until morning and drink a cup of what is undoubtedly stale, store-brand coffee. You are beginning to think you might be rather taken with her. She is very fetching, after all.
You wonder, briefly, if she might not be the one who let you go, and if you are the one who returned.
You kiss her again, and she murmurs your name. You decide it doesn't matter.
Fin.
L'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre;
tu ne l'attends plus, il est là.
Love stays away, you wait and wait;
when least expected, love appears.