"So be quiet," Andy whispers, before she silences Miranda with a kiss.
But not for long. "Are you crazy?" Miranda says when Andy pulls away. Her voice is as close to panicked as Andy has ever heard it. "You've lost your--get out of here!" Andy kisses her throat. "We can't do this here!" She grabs at Andy's shoulders.
Andy pushes her back down against the bed. "We can't not do this here," she says hoarsely. "You were looking at me all day--"
"Andrea--"
"--and I was looking right back, oh Christ, Miranda." Andy kisses her harder this time.
"He's right down the hall," Miranda whimpers, winding her arms around Andy's neck, wrapping a leg around Andy's waist, bare skin against Chanel wool.
"His door's shut. The light's off. I left my shoes downstairs, I tiptoed--" Andy pushes the hem of Miranda's nightgown up. "Just let me--"
"Not in the bed." But Miranda is already going weak, limp, beneath her. "He'll…or the maid will know--"
This is true. Andy will almost certainly leave a couple of long brown hairs lying around on the sheets. "Floor, then." She urges Miranda to sit up, tugs her like a rag doll. "Or your bathroom. The wall. Anywhere." She grabs Miranda's breast, and Miranda bites her lip and whines.
Miranda's right. She is crazy. But it's been days, days since they've had this--the office is too rushed with a big shoot coming up (and no time for hotels), Miranda's car with the privacy screen is in the shop, Stephen's in town, and Nate's hours at the restaurant are different, so he's home right when they don't need him to be.
(They don't fuck in the bed there, either. They do it up against the wall--kitchen, bedroom, bathroom walls--on the table, in the armchair, on the floor, the kitchen counter--anywhere they can spread their legs into some kind of feasible position without staining anything.)
Andy wasn't lying. They can't not do this anymore.
"Andrea," Miranda says as Andy drags her to the edge of the bed. It's unclear whether it's a protest or a plea. It might be both. It often is. Then Andy slides her hands up beneath the nightgown to cup Miranda's ass, and realizes it's bare. She gasps, and her head spins. Miranda.
"You're not." Andy gulps for air. "You're not wearing…" Has Miranda been going commando all day? It doesn't seem possible. But the thought turns Andy on so much she can barely breathe.
"I never do," Miranda manages. "I never do at night, I don't like the way it fee--" She pulls back again. "Stop. We can't…"
"Okay," Andy says as she slides her hand between Miranda's legs. Her eyes widen. Wet already--and it's not a new development. Miranda's curls are stiff and sticky. At her touch, Miranda's head falls backwards, like the muscles in her neck just stopped working. "Oh my God," Andy breathes. She slides a fingertip through Miranda's lips, and Miranda bucks into her touch. "You've got to let me do this." And now she pulls on Miranda for real, tugs her off the mattress and down onto the floor. "It won't take long, will it?"
"No," Miranda says, and grabs Andy's wrist, but not to push her away. Instead, she drags Andy's hand back down between her legs. "Oh God. Oh God, hurry."
"You've been wet for hours. You've been soaking yourself." Miranda's helpless moan is her confession. "Does it hurt, baby? You've been aching for it?" Andy slides two fingers inside her, and Miranda's hips cant forward into it, her eyes squeezing shut. She loves 'baby' here, like this. "You've sure as heck been begging for it all day--"
"Nuh, no--"
"Me too. I knew I'd do it the minute you left the office today." She kisses Miranda's shoulder and wishes she could bite down and leave a mark. She wants Stephen to know who Miranda belongs to, wants Miranda to feel the sting of her teeth.
She knows Miranda wants it too, even if she can't say it. She knows it from the way Miranda always wriggles against her mouth, the way her breath catches whenever she feels the slightest brush of Andy's teeth on her skin. And Miranda wants to mark Andy right back. But they can't. It's much too risky. The moment it happens, the moment they lose that much control, this is over for good.
"I knew I was going to come upstairs and do you here," she moans, remembering Miranda's eyes on her during the day. Like always, she'd tried to think about Nate. Like always, it hadn't worked. Because whenever they were in the same room, Andy could see Miranda begin to breathe just the very little bit faster. And if this is the only place and time Andy can make her fall apart, give her what she needs, then so be it. "I couldn't help it."
No, she couldn't help it. The memory of Miranda's moans and whimpers has followed her around all day, and every time she came within ten feet of Miranda, she thought she could smell her. She can sure as hell smell her now. The scent of Miranda's arousal feeds something in Andy, taps into her addiction, because this is Miranda the Snow Queen and she wants Andy enough to screw her in the middle of the night with her husband down the hall.
Andy shoves the top of Miranda's nightgown out of the way. The nipple in her mouth, familiar but always a shock, makes her moan. The sound vibrates through Miranda, who shudders. And then, when Andy begins to suck and fuck her in rhythm, she nearly screams, biting her hand just in time.
Andy already knows, her pulse pounding in her temples, that she's going to get Miranda there tonight. Occasionally, just once in a while, she doesn't. The first time, neither of them came; it had happened practically by accident, that collision in the ladies' room that ended with grappling and kissing and frustrated desperation. Too much wanting, and too pressed for time. It hadn't stopped them from going at it again that very night. It won't stop them now. Nothing ever stops them. Not Miranda's husband and kids, not Andy's morals, and certainly nothing else.
Miranda grabs the back of Andy's head, and pulls her up for a kiss. "Your mouth," she whispers, and arches into Andy's hand. "I want, give me your mouth."
"God, yeah," Andy gasps, and rolls over on her back, grabbing Miranda's hips and urging her to straddle her. "It's easiest like this--" Easiest if they're on the floor, anyway. Miranda's joints will ache otherwise. "Sit on me, and we can…"
Miranda hisses, and yanks her nightgown over her head. The sight of her almost blinds Andy for a second, even in the shadows. They don't get naked all that often. They lack time and opportunity. And somehow, in between those rare encounters, Andy manages to forget the details, but they always come rushing back when she sees the whole package--Miranda's breasts tipped with hard, pink nipples, her pale, soft skin, and the scar from her C-section that drives Andy as crazy as everything else about her. Her thighs tense up as they position themselves to either side of Andy's head.
"Ungh," Andy manages before she pulls at Miranda's ass, and then it's in her face, that wet, beautiful flesh topped off by light brown hair. Andy's almost afraid she'll drown, but then again, what a way to go. And she trusts Miranda. Mostly. Specifically, she trusts Miranda not to kill her in her own house--partly because of the scandal, but also because Andy gives her the only good sex she's ever had, orgasms or not.
Miranda whispers 'oh' at the first touch of Andy's mouth, and Andy feels the quiver in her thighs as she rocks her hips gently, trying not to grind down or move too fast while she rides Andy's tongue. She's trembling so much that Andy can feel it. Andy circles her clit, and then presses down really hard.
Then, just like that, Miranda freezes in place, shuddering and gasping. The tell-tale signs. "Oh!" she sobs, and then lurches forward, almost collapsing as she presses her hands into the carpet to brace herself. "Oh."
Andy barely has a moment to be disappointed--she hadn't known it would be that quick--before Miranda moves off her face, scooting back down her torso and making a big mess of Andy's blouse. The silk drags against her cunt and makes her groan; she grabs Andy's right hand, pulls it off her hip, and presses it back down between her legs. "More," she pants, her pupils huge and dark enough to swallow the irises. She's breathing so quickly it looks like it hurts. And when Andy pushes three fingers into her all at once, she stops breathing at all in favor of arching forward and impaling herself as deep as she can.
Andy will be lucky to get out of this without a sprained wrist. She doesn't care. She lets go of Miranda's hip with her other hand, reaches up, and strokes back down Miranda's torso, pinching a nipple on the way. Miranda groans softly, lost again, already out of her mind, riding up and down and bracing herself against Andy's raised knees. Last time was just a ripple, and wasn't enough. She's racing towards something bigger now, something better, and yes, Andy's going to get her there tonight and have one more memory to store up for later after it's all gone.
"I couldn't help it," Andy whispers. "I couldn't help it."
"No," Miranda says hoarsely. "No, no." She begins to move faster still, gasping too much to make any more noise. Then she manages, "No, oh, please!" She can't get what she needs in this position. At this angle, Andy's wrist is already starting to hurt. She can't move her hand hard or fast enough, and right now, Miranda needs to get her brains fucked out.
"Oh, baby--" It comes out like Andy's choking. "Go for it. Do it. Want me to do you harder?" Miranda's 'god' is barely audible, and Andy tugs her fingers out and flips Miranda down on her back before Miranda can object to any of it. Screw the achy joints. Then her hand's back inside, pumping in and out, making slurping noises now while Miranda's eyes roll back in her head and she bites her hand again.
"Is that good?" Andy gasps. She needs to know. She has to make Miranda understand that-- "I'll do anything. Fuck you anywhere, anytime, I'll do things I never did before and talk dirty and--"
"Oh yes," Miranda says, sounding delirious, "please, yes, right th--" She goes rigid, arches up again. "--there, yes!" She clamps around Andy again and again, her mouth and eyes open as she stares up at the ceiling. She looks as if she's in pain. Miranda isn't used to pleasure, and sometimes Andy wonders if she can tell the difference.
Then she slumps back down, her ass hitting the carpet. She makes an 'oof' noise when Andy pulls her fingers out, and lies still, panting, while Andy just looks at her, unable to stop staring. She is too magnificent for words, and right now--just for a few seconds--she is helpless.
Andy remembers the first time she saw Miranda collapse. It was their second time, in the townhouse's basement, which was surprisingly like anybody else's basement. Except it had featured Miranda Priestly lying on a dusty table, trying not to scream while Andy fumbled around and licked her until their abortive encounter in the bathroom seemed a million miles away. She'd clenched around Andy's tongue, moaned oh yes darling, and then--when Andy staggered up from her knees--looked utterly mortified.
She's never said 'darling,' or anything like it, since then. But she clutches and clings, and kisses Andy like she'll die if she doesn't, and always holds Andy for a few minutes after it's over. Andy's been in thrall to her since that first moment, but at least it seems to be mutual. It's why they can't seem to stop this. It's why Andy did the unthinkable tonight and pounced on Miranda in her bed against all the unspoken rules, because she'll go crazy without this.
She looks Miranda's body up and down, and whimpers. The sound makes Miranda's eyes gradually focus, and she looks up at Andy.
Then she sits up with a grunt, still staring right into Andy's eyes as her breath evens out. Andy shivers. Miranda's eyes might kill her one day. So might their affair: Andy's pretty sure the human psyche isn't built to withstand this level of need. She'll end up dead, or in a mental ward.
"Bend over," Miranda rasps.
Dead it is, then. Andy unbuttons her slacks and shoves them down her thighs, along with her underwear, before presenting Miranda with her ass. She can feel herself dripping down the inside of her thighs. More ruined expensive underwear. But then three of Miranda's fingers breach her, and that doesn't matter anymore.
Miranda doesn't do her hard, even though she has to know that time is of the essence. They're being as quiet as they can, but who's to say that's enough? Andy imagines Stephen suddenly bursting into the room, the light of the hallway shining behind him as he stares down at the sight of his naked wife fucking the daylights out of her assistant on the floor. The thought shouldn't turn Andy on even more, but it does. She lowers her head and groans into the soft pile. Then she snorts. A carpet-muncher for real.
"So you think you have a right to me, do you?" Miranda whispers coldly. But for her breathlessness, she might as well be tearing Andy down in her office. She slowly slides her fingers until they're almost out of Andy, until they're rubbing the very edge of her. "You think you can barge into my own house and use me as you choose, any time you feel like it?"
Andy raises her head and looks back over her shoulder. "Prove me wrong," she says.
Miranda hisses, and the skin around her eyes tightens with fury. For a second, Andy wonders if she'll pull away, leaving Andy to go home unsatisfied just to make a point. But then she drives her fingers back in really hard, because she doesn't want this to end either. Andy whimpers and tosses her head back, and then Miranda surges forward, kissing Andy's back hungrily while she fucks her, reaching down below with her free hand to cup Andy's breasts through her ruined shirt.
"You couldn't wait?" she growls against Andy's shoulder-blade. "You're so lacking in self-control?"
"Yeah. Yes. Oh God. Yes." Andy lowers her head again. Almost there. So close to there. "You wore that shirt today, and you know what that does to me--"
"Blouse, not a shirt--"
"--half the fucking office wanted to get their hands on you--"
Miranda's chuckle is low and rough. "I doubt it." She shoves her fingers in deep, and then turns them, twists them. Andy whines.
Then Miranda says, her voice breaking a little: "Oh, Andrea."
Andy comes.
She pitches forward while Miranda slides her hand out, and only narrowly avoids smashing her nose into the carpet. This time Miranda doesn't reach out to hold her, though, or lie down beside her. When Andy rolls over to look at her, Miranda's sat back down, and is looking at Andy through half-lowered lids. She doesn't look sated or triumphant, or even tired. She looks defeated.
It makes Andy cringe, and she wonders if she's just screwed everything up beyond recall. The last thing she needs, or wants, is to shove the final impossibility of this right into Miranda's face. Miranda's undoubtedly realized that on her own, of course, but until now they've kept it out of the room when they're together. Now, though…now they've crossed a line.
Andy knows she will ditch Nate. She's got to. It's the only humanly decent thing to do. They're not married, and she doesn't like lying in bed next to him anymore.
But even when she does that--even if Miranda actually divorces her husband (and she's never mentioned anything of the sort)--what kind of future could they have? What would they do with each other outside the bedroom? What would they even have to talk about? Sex alone can't be enough, no matter how good it is, because it won't last. Everybody says so.
She sits up. She and Miranda stare at each other, and don't move.
"We can't," Miranda begins, and Andy's heart freezes. But then Miranda continues, "We can't do this again here. Not like this. Don't try it." She purses her lips. "For all you knew, he could have been in here with me."
Andy closes her eyes. "Okay," she whispers, not wanting to think about that at all, but glad beyond measure that Miranda didn't say…something else. Although Andy knows that one of these days, she will. Miranda doesn't waste her time on things that won't work. The fact that Andy wants so much for it to work doesn't count. Wishing won't change anything. Will it?
"You have to go," Miranda says. Andy opens her eyes again, but Miranda's not looking at her. Instead, she rises to her feet with a grunt. "I'm up early tomorrow."
The book's downstairs. Andy has learned that Miranda doesn't always wait up for it, that sometimes she goes to bed and works on it in the morning. Given that Andy seduced her out of a sound sleep, it's pretty obvious that Miranda's going to have an early session with her favorite thing in the world. Andy's just holding her up, keeping her from her rest. "Okay," she mumbles, and stands up. She almost falls over, and quickly tugs her pants back up, her face burning. At least Nate won't be home to see her come-covered shirt.
"I'll--" Miranda says.
Andy looks at her quickly.
Miranda presses her lips together. "I'll see you tomorr--" Then she stops, reaches out, and pulls Andy in for a kiss. Andy's always shocked that Miranda is shorter than she is, although not by much. She clings back, and they kiss for a long moment in the darkness. Kissing is risky, because it's a while before they can manage to stop. But they always do it anyway.
Against her will and common sense, Andy wonders if Miranda will ever call her 'darling' again.
"Not again," Miranda moans against her mouth, and pulls away. "We can't."
"No," Andy agrees hoarsely. "Not again."
They look at each other. Andy knows they're thinking the same thing.
It will be just like this next time. Just like this.
FIN.