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Winning the War

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Andy got excited about words. She’d always been that way, even before she could read, and she could, more often than not, be found with a book or periodical in hand. Her interest in visual things, on the other hand, was pretty much limited to newspaper layouts. Until she started working for Miranda, anyway.


Andy liked to think that she had managed to absorb a little of the Runway ethos in her eighteen month tenure. Her cerulean sweater phase was in the distant past, at least. She still accepted Nigel’s fashion advice, as was only natural, but she no longer needed him to pick out every item and accessory for her. Even Emily, recently graduated to the art department, had been forced to admit that Andy could put a passable outfit together these days.


Miranda, though—Miranda was all about the visual. It was almost inevitable, really, considering her status as the acknowledged queen of the fashion world. Only after Andy had spent six months clawing her way to the first assistant spot (after her first Paris trip) and another three clinging to it did she realize that Miranda’s sensitivity to visual stimulus extended well beyond the arena of fashion.



It was sheer accident that Andy forgot her umbrella at Runway when she left to bring the Book, cursing the still unproven second assistant the whole while. And it was just plain bad luck that a freak summer thunderstorm struck just as she was getting out of the car in front of Miranda’s house.


Andy realized just how much her Runway indoctrination had taken hold when she automatically hunched to protect the Book from the sudden downpour, rather than herself. It took several frantic moments of juggling Book, dry cleaning, and keys before she finally managed to get the door open. She was really hoping to avoid Miranda tonight, especially since she was currently dripping all over the formerly pristine floors, but no such luck.


Andy cringed at the distinctive click of approaching footsteps, imagining how bedraggled she must look. There was no help for it, though—Miranda had taken to meeting her by the door on a pretty regular basis lately. Andy had (mostly) learned to ignore the pounding of her own heart and remain relatively calm when faced with Miranda’s disconcerting stare.


She was anticipating a particularly icy stare tonight, what with the dirty footprints and the small puddle by the closet, but the look she actually got was strangely…warm. Hot, even. And it was directed at her chest. Andy looked down, only to discover that her (formerly) stylish white shirt was now just about transparent and clinging firmly to her breasts.


Horrified, Andy quickly wrapped her free arm around her chest and looked back up at Miranda, hoping against hope that Miranda wouldn’t be too angry. She wasn’t. In fact, if Andy didn’t know better, she would swear that Miranda was…blushing? Miranda Priestly never blushed. It was a statistical impossibility that Andy in a wet shirt would be able to achieve such a monumental feat. And yet…her cheeks were definitely looking a little pink. And she wasn’t making eye contact. Too weird, Andy thought. She sees half-naked supermodels on a daily basis. Why would I be any different?


Still unsure of what to say, Andy silently held out the Book with her other hand, and Miranda grabbed it with unaccustomed haste. She then turned and headed upstairs without a word. Not even a “That’s all.”


It took a gaping Andy at least thirty seconds to realize that she was supposed to be leaving. She spent her entire trip home pondering the mystery that was Miranda Priestly. She was forced to conclude that one of three things must be the truth: a) Andy was crazy, b) Miranda was a very closeted, very sexually frustrated lesbian, or c) Miranda had the hots for Andy. The last two options weren’t mutually exclusive, of course, but Andy thought she had a good way to figure out which of the three was closest to the truth.




Andy had always been a fairly modest girl. It was those stupid Midwestern values showing again. She’d  found it difficult to show herself off the way so many of the clackers did. But it was for a good cause (sort of), and it was high time she got over herself and learned to embrace the more…revealing side of fashion. Cue Project Temptation.


One look at Miranda’s face when she caught sight of Andy’s outfit was enough to convince Andy that option I-was-just-hallucinating-everything was definitely not the case. Miranda didn’t blush again, but she was definitely looking a bit flustered. Andy caught herself thinking it was almost cute to see Miranda so unsure of herself, although she covered it well. Andy was pretty sure that Carrie (the second assistant) was completely oblivious.


The only remaining question was…did Miranda get flustered because she was forced to stay celibate for fear of the press, or was Miranda flustered because she had a (for lack of a better term) crush on her first assistant? There was only one way to find out.


The next few weeks saw a fashion metamorphosis for Andy Sachs. Even Emily was grudgingly impressed by Andy’s sudden fit of daring. Miranda’s unfailing reaction to every new outfit was completely intoxicating. The idea that the queen of fashion, the woman who had called Andy fat and incompetent, found Andy attractive was so mind-boggling, so unbelievable, that it took a full month of blushes, hesitations, glares, and obvious avoidance before Andy was forced to conclude that Miranda was, at the very least, in lust with her.


This strange behavior on Miranda’s part did not go unnoticed by the office at large, naturally, although the bulk of it took place when the two of them were alone in Miranda’s office or in the car. The general conclusion was that Miranda had some sort of personal issue going on, but since she compensated with fits of irrational and terrifying pique at anyone who happened to witness one of her moments of distraction, the clackers kept any speculation very low-key.


Strangely, Andy seemed to be relatively immune to these bouts of hostility. Miranda apparently enjoyed sending her on tedious or only marginally useful errands as a form of punishment, but that just served to reinforce Andy’s perception that Project Temptation was getting to Miranda. The idea that she, Andy Sachs, had that kind of power over the Dragon Lady was absolutely incredible. She was coming to realiz that the thought of Miranda being attracted to her was no longer as disconcerting as it had been a month previously. In fact, she was beginning to find her first real taste of sexual power over someone rather exciting.


Another two weeks of watching Miranda react to Andy’s increasingly overt flirting (the back-arching stretch was Andy’s new favorite move) dulled Andy’s natural sense of caution enough that she failed to notice Miranda’s responses becoming rather rehearsed.


Unfortunately for Andy, Miranda had an unerring instinct for spotting weaknesses in others. Also unfortunate for Andy was the fact that Miranda had a great deal more experience in the nuances of sneakiness, timing, and power plays. And Miranda hated feeling powerless even more than she hated cerulean sweaters. Miranda was going to fight back.


The warning came on a Friday night when Andy was waiting for the Book. There was nothing left to do that even remotely resembled work, so she checked her personal e-mail. And got the surprise of her life.


The subject line was “Pride goeth before a fall.” As a product-pitch, it left something to be desired, so Andy was pretty sure it wasn’t spam, even though she didn’t recognize the sender’s e-mail address. She was right.



The war is not yet won. Do not count your victories prematurely. You obviously know little about seduction, and a great deal less about me than you think. I have allowed six weeks for you to cease this ridiculous taunting routine and do your job, and you have chosen to disregard everything you know about my reputation for vengeance. Let me assure you that I have earned every bit of that reputation. You will submit to me in the end. Your only choice is whether you will bow willingly or I will be forced to bring you to heel. This is your only warning.


Andy was stunned. Miranda was obviously furious with her. And she still had to deliver the book tonight! I’m doomed, she thought. And yet, and yet…Andy’s paralyzed brain ground slowly back into action. Why had Miranda delivered the message so anonymously (other than the obvious deniability element)? Was she bluffing? Not entirely, of course. After over eighteen months at Runway, even Andy knew enough about Miranda’s reputation not to doubt that she meant business. But it was very unlike her to deliver any sort of warning, or to allow six weeks of borderline insubordination—from an assistant, no less. Therefore, there must be something special about Andy’s case. Something different.


Andy glanced back over the e-mail. Submission! That was it—that was the difference. Submission was not something you required of employees. Submission was something you required of defeated enemies. Or a certain type of lover. Oh God. What have I done? Andy buried her face in her hands.


Andy wasn’t sure which prospect was more terrifying—being Miranda’s enemy, or being her lover. But it was fairly apparent that those were the only two options left. I am such an idiot. Why did I think this was a good idea?


Miranda was attracted to her. She knew that. Had known that. But she knew equally well that Miranda would never have made the first move. Miranda was a draconian boss, true, but she was one hundred percent professional. Andy had been the one to make the first move, to cross the line. She had been teasing Miranda for six weeks. And now it was time to put up or shut up.


Andy glanced at the clock. 8:15. So she probably had an hour or two to come up with some sort of plan. Great. First things first: what, exactly, did Miranda want? What was her goal in sending the e-mail? If she’d wanted Andy blindsided, it would have been fairly easy for her to fire Andy with no warning and then blackball her. That was obviously not her main goal. She wanted a (relatively) fair fight. She wanted to have to force Andy to submit to her. Which meant…she wants me to fight back. God, that woman is twisted. And then I guess I am, too. There’s no way I’m going to give in after one lousy e-mail. Bring it on.


An hour later, Andy telegraphed her defiance with a straight back and the fiercest glare she could muster. Miranda just smiled and accepted the book. But Andy didn’t fail to notice the glint of amusement in her eyes. Or the hunger. Message received. Game on.



It soon became apparent that Miranda knew a lot more about Andy than Andy would have given her credit for. It also became apparent—well, more apparent—that Andy was in a world of trouble.


Miranda had allowed her plenty of space over the weekend to plan and to grow somewhat complacent, but Monday morning saw the first engagement…and Andy was definitely not the winner.


Andy found it somewhat humiliating that one short note was enough to bring her low. But Miranda was a formidable opponent, and she supposed it was best to know what she was up against from the beginning.


Miranda had somehow managed to slip the note into Andy’s coat pocket without her knowledge. They were in the car on the way to a meeting at Dior when Andy noticed the telltale crinkle. She knew she hadn’t put it there, since she had long ago learned her lesson about trusting important information to pockets. That left only one possibility. She froze.


“Go ahead,” came Miranda’s voice from the other side of the back seat. Her smirk was almost audible. “Don’t mind me.”


Oh god, was Andy’s first thought. This is going to be bad. She was proud that her fingers only trembled slightly as she slowly unfolded the note and recognized Miranda’s handwriting.


You have no idea how many times my eyes have undressed you in the past six weeks. From now on, you will know every time it happens. Every time I touch my glasses, you will know that I am picturing you bent over my desk, helpless, as I feast on the sight of your naked body.


Andy could feel herself blushing even as she hastily refolded the note and put it back in her pocket. I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again. The rest of the trip passed in an almost sepulchral silence.


Miranda touched her glasses six times during the Dior meeting. Andy squirmed in her seat every time. Miranda just smiled.



The worst part about the whole situation, Andy decided a week later, was that Miranda seemed to know exactly how to make Andy react. Every time she went somewhere, she would find a note in her bag or in her coat pocket. Every time she returned, Miranda would give her a smug little smile and touch her glasses, and Andy’s whole body would shiver.


It was almost impossible to predict what the notes would say. The only constants were that they would invariably make Andy blush, and they grew more and more graphic and more and more sexual over time. For someone commonly referred to as an ice queen, Miranda was surprisingly skilled at verbal seduction.


It annoyed Andy to no end that her body insisted on reacting to Miranda. She often found herself squeezing her thighs together involuntarily as she read a particularly devastating missive. After three weeks of Miranda’s guerilla tactics, Andy was so sexually frustrated that some of the suggestions Miranda made were starting to sound pretty good. Andy had been single for nearly a year now, and her libido was making itself known with a vengeance.


Miranda had (to the best of Andy’s knowledge), been single for approximately the same amount of time, but she seemed to have learned to control her reactions to even the most revealing of Andy’s new outfits. She reacted either not at all, or in a way that let Andy know exactly how she felt about them, to the point that Andy was hard pressed not to blush just looking at Miranda’s expression. Her slow head-to-toe examinations made Andy squirm every time.


Normally, the amount of work required by Paris preparations would ensure that Andy fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, but the note in her pocket when she left for home (Carrie had recently taken over Book-delivery duties) was always a doozy, and she soon became resigned to an embarrassingly brief session with her vibrator before bed. The most disturbing part was that her accompanying masturbatory fantasies had a tendency to turn into Miranda just as she reached climax. After the fourth or fifth time this happened, she gave up even pretending not to think about her boss.


By the time Paris was only a month away, Andy had finally been forced to admit—to herself, anyway—that she was just as attracted to Miranda as Miranda was to her. Anyone who could get her soaking wet with only a two-line note was not to be taken lightly. The only remaining question was what to do about it.


In some weird way, Miranda seemed to be aware of Andy’s moment of truth, because she spent the remaining weeks before Paris writing a slightly different sort of note. These ones focused a little less on fucking her brains out and a little more on kissing her senseless. Andy ordered herself firmly not to be moved. It almost worked, but then the touching started, and after that it was only a matter of time.


Andy was forced to conclude that Miranda had studied pressure points, because she seemed to know exactly where to touch Andy to make her weak in the knees. They weren’t even inappropriate touches, not really. An “accidental” graze of the elbow, a finger or two brushing the small of her back in a crowd, the meeting of hands on a Starbucks cup. And the more Andy reacted, the more often they happened. She almost fainted when Miranda’s hand caressed the back of her neck under the pretext of fixing her hair. Miranda fairly glowed with satisfaction.


Three days before they were due to depart, Andy had had enough. This farce had gone on for far too long. Andy was tired of spending every waking moment either scrambling to fulfill Miranda’s every whim or hoping desperately that Miranda would eventually cave and put Andy out of her misery. Miranda was obviously not going to give in any time soon, and, as much as it galled her, Andy was just going to have to admit defeat.


With that goal in mind, Andy managed to find the time for a quick (and embarrassing) trip to the Closet. One carefully selected scarf and some very expensive lingerie later, Andy was as close to ready as she was going to get.



Paris was a whirlwind of activity, of course, and Andy knew Miranda would not thank her for any distractions during the most important fashion week of the year. So she did her job, and bided her time, and tried not to care that Miranda had not left her a single note all week.


Several Runway employees, including Nigel, complimented her on successfully scheduling a notoriously difficult week, but Andy only had eyes (and ears) for Miranda. She couldn’t help recalling the last time she’d been in Paris with Miranda: the astonishing conversation in the car, the moment she’d almost walked away from her incredibly frustrating, incredibly intimidating, incredibly gorgeous boss.


After what felt like an eternity, but was actually closer to six days, their last full day in Paris finally arrived. Andy snuck into Miranda’s room while her boss was attending a very exclusive party honoring somebody-or-other’s lifelong contribution to the world of fashion and made her preparations. How fitting, she thought, as she carefully hung her designer outfit in the closet, that her second important Miranda-related decision should take place in the same city as the first. There would be a certain symmetry in getting fired here, she couldn’t help thinking. And if Miranda reacted the way Andy hoped, it would be worth every second of the last twenty-one months of hell she’d gone through for this woman.


Andy had finished applying the smokiest eye-makeup she thought she could get away with and was just putting the final touches on the arrangement of the pure white scarf when she heard the door to Miranda’s suite opening. She froze momentarily, then adjusted her position on the bed for maximum impact and waited. And waited. And waited.


The next nineteen minutes were quite possibly the most excruciating of Andy’s life. She could hear Miranda kicking off her shoes, moving around, pouring herself a drink, and sitting down, then…nothing. Just an occasional sip and the slight rustle of pages being turned.


Miranda had her blouse halfway-unbuttoned when she entered the bedroom, took one look at the bed, and stilled.


“Well,” she said, “this is unexpected. I see the white flag. Is this a truce, I wonder?” She gave Andy and her black La Perla lingerie a long, leisurely perusal. “…Or a surrender?”


Andy swallowed, and raised her chin, feeling absurdly vulnerable as she exposed her throat to Miranda’s piercing gaze. “Surrender,” she said bravely, and waited.


Miranda’s slow, hungry smile was simultaneously terrifying and everything Andy had been hoping for.


“In that case,” Miranda said, as she resumed unbuttoning her blouse, “I want you to touch yourself while you tell me about your favorite note.”


Andy stared. “You want me to…”


“Touch yourself,” Miranda ordered, cutting her off. “You may not come. Begin.”


Andy reached, with shaky hands, to remove her underwear, but Miranda stopped her.


“I didn’t tell you to undress, foolish girl. I told you to touch yourself.”


I’m doomed, Andy thought, for perhaps the three hundredth time, as she slid her shaky right hand inside the lace underpants and did as she was told. She was embarrassed, but unsurprised, to find that she was already wet.


Miranda, who was now similarly clad in nothing but undergarments, hung up her clothes next to Andy’s and stalked back to the bed. “Very nice,” she said, “but you seem to have forgotten the other half of my instructions.”


What? Andy thought, dazedly, as she struggled not to stare at Miranda’s creamy white cleavage, now on display less than five feet from her face. Then she remembered. “Oh god,” she said, closing her eyes in humiliation. It wasn’t enough for Miranda that she was here, at her mercy, fully surrendered and masturbating for Miranda’s amusement? Of course not. This is Miranda, after all. “My, uh, my favorite note,” she managed, voice shaking.


“Yes,” Miranda purred, as she pulled a chair over from the corner of the room. “Your favorite note.” And she sat down not two feet from the bed, clasped her hands in her lap, and waited.


Andy, who had been sexually frustrated for over two months, was already struggling not to come while staring at Miranda’s beautiful, womanly body displayed in ice-blue satin lingerie. She wasn’t entirely sure she was capable of coherent speech, but the sooner she got the humiliation over with, the sooner (she hoped) Miranda would let her come.


“Scarves,” she managed to say, finally. “The one with the scarves was my favorite.”


Miranda’s smile widened. “Tell me why,” she ordered, and she reached across the space between them and traced one finger over the white Hermès scarf still partially covering Andy’s left arm.


Andy fidgeted and looked down. “Because,” she said, “I like the idea of being in your control.” She swallowed and then dared to make eye contact again. “Or you being in mine.”


“Indeed,” Miranda said, as she removed the scarf. “Power dynamics can be very arousing.” She ran the same finger down Andy’s right arm, stopping at the wrist where it disappeared into her underwear. “I told you a year ago that I saw a lot of myself in you, did I not?”


Andy nodded, speechless, as Miranda gently tugged on her right wrist, pulling it out of the concealing black lace.


“I never told you,” Miranda said, as she delicately licked the accumulated come off Andy’s hand, “how literally I meant that.”


“God,” Andy said.


“Almost,” Miranda said, with a very smug quirk of her lips. Andy would have retorted with something suitably scathing, except she was busy attempting not to squirm too hard at the sight (and feel) of Miranda slowly sucking Andy’s index finger into her mouth.


“You taste exquisite,” Miranda said, after reducing Andy to a moaning puddle on the bed, “just as I knew you would. Strip for me.”


It took Andy three tries to unhook her bra, and an embarrassing amount of effort to lift herself enough to get her underwear off, but she managed it. Miranda’s heated stare followed her the entire time although she made no move to help.


“Lovely,” Miranda murmured, as Andy’s breasts came into view. She took hold of Andy’s right wrist again and guided her still-wet fingers to her right nipple. “Pinch them,” she said, and Andy quickly brought her left hand up and complied.


Andy only realized she was squeezing her thighs together when Miranda placed a gentle hand on one of them. “None of that,” she said. “You may come when I tell you, and not before.”


Andy groaned. She knew from the occasional glance in the mirror behind Miranda that she was looking quite flushed by now, and she’d stopped trying not to pant several minutes ago. Right now, she’d settle for not moaning too loudly, although considering that Miranda’s hand was starting to inch its way up her thigh, that might be a losing battle too.


“Spread your legs,” Miranda said. Andy did, rolling almost fully onto her back as she did so. Miranda got out of her chair and followed, ending up lying on her right side near the edge of the bed.


Andy looked down, scarcely able to believe that she was watching Miranda’s left hand caress her inner thigh. “Fuck,” she mumbled, as Miranda came within a hair’s breadth of touching her clit and then switched to the other leg.


“Patience,” Miranda said, and she leaned forward to give a rather sharp admonishing nip to Andy’s neck.


“Please,” Andy said. “You’re killing me here.”


“You’ll live,” Miranda said, without a trace of pity, but Andy thought she looked rather pleased with herself all the same.


“You’ve had me on edge for two months now, Miranda,” she breathed. “I’ve been masturbating to thoughts of you for weeks. You just have to look at me and I get wet.”


“Is that so?” Miranda said, and she brushed her thumb over Andy’s clit.


Andy’s hips bucked without her permission, and she pinched her nipples so hard she was sure they’d be sore for days. “Fuck, yes,” she said, no longer concerned with her dignity. “I’m begging you, Miranda. Let me come. Please.”


Miranda examined the glistening evidence on her thumb. “Hmm,” she said. “Finally ready to submit, are you? Just as I told you you would?”


“Yes!” Andy almost shouted. “Yes! Anything! I need you. Please.”


“I’m not sure that you deserve to come,” Miranda said, looking insufferably superior. She probed Andy’s cunt delicately with one finger.


“I don’t,” Andy admitted, arching and writhing in an effort to get more stimulation. “I know I don’t. I’m sorry. Please.”


“Flaunting yourself in front of me,” Miranda said, ignoring her pleas. “Taunting me with your cleavage, bending over my desk, asking if there was anything else I needed.” She sneered on the last word and drove two fingers all the way inside with breathtaking suddenness. Andy shrieked, trembling in the face of her anger.


“Prove to me,” Miranda said, with a punishing thrust of her hand, “that you deserve to come. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can give me what I need?”


“Yes!” Andy gasped. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything.”


“Good,” Miranda said, withdrawing her hand. “Stop touching yourself and clean my hand.”


Andy reached out with shaking fingers and brought Miranda’s hand to her mouth. She lavished each finger with licks and kisses until Miranda abruptly withdrew it again. “Enough,” she said brusquely. “On your knees at the foot of the bed.”


Miranda stripped her underwear off and flung it casually to one side as Andy hastily forced her shaky limbs to cooperate.


“Go ahead, give me what I need,” Miranda said, as she settled herself against the pillows and spread her legs. Andy took a brief moment to stare at the glistening curls between Miranda’s thighs—what an introduction to bisexuality, she thought dimly—and dove in.


Andy had done some reading in preparation for this moment—it would have been foolish not to, all things considered—but everything she’d read went out the window after the first swipe of her tongue. This wasn’t an unpleasant duty or a scripted interaction; this was wonderful. That was Miranda fucking Priestly up there moaning every time Andy hit a sensitive spot. The thought was almost enough to make her come without any external stimulation at all. Andy groaned into Miranda’s cunt and fucked Miranda like her life depended on it.


Andy could tell from the rhythmic clenching around her fingers and the pronounced roll of Miranda’s hips that she was close to orgasm. She sought out Miranda’s clit, sucked it firmly into her mouth, and lashed it with her tongue. Miranda shrieked, convulsed, and flooded her with come. Andy just moaned, pressed upwards with both of the fingers currently buried knuckle-deep inside Miranda, and sucked harder. Miranda bucked against her mouth, swore violently in several languages, and came again.


“No more,” she panted out, pushing weakly at Andy’s sweaty forehead. “Enough.”


Andy allowed herself a quick kiss on Miranda’s inner thigh and then sat up, staring at her flushed, breathless boss. It’s so unfair that a woman old enough to be my mother is that beautiful, Andy thought. And quickly after that, God, I hope she lets me come soon. I’m gonna leave a puddle on the comforter, here.


An agonizing two minutes later, Miranda sat up and gave Andy a long, assessing look. “I’ve had worse,” she finally admitted.


Before Andy could muster the brainpower to be insulted, Miranda had leaned forward and grabbed her forearm. “Get up here,” she said, pulling impatiently on Andy’s arm. Andy went without a murmur.


“On your back and spread your legs,” she said, tugging Andy into position like some sort of doll. If Andy had been less foggy with lust, she might have been angry, but she was far too desperate for a climax to be upset over Miranda’s attitude right now. She spread her legs as wide as she could and moaned a little at the sensation of cool air against her clit.


The next thing Andy knew, Miranda had crawled on top of her and was sucking her neck hard enough to leave what would surely be a very impressive hickey. The feel of Miranda’s hot, slightly sweaty skin against her own was almost enough to make Andy forget who exactly was on top of her. She just knew that she wanted to feel everything immediately. She’d waited too long already, and she was not going to be denied any longer.


Andy reached around Miranda’s back and unhooked her bra, then pushed up on Miranda’s shoulders long enough to remove the offending garment. “God,” she said, wrapping her legs tightly around Miranda’s hips, “you have the most amazing skin.”


Miranda groaned and reattached her mouth to a particularly sensitive spot just beneath Andy’s ear.


Andy threaded one hand through Miranda’s hair and pulled back hard enough to detach Miranda from her neck. “Enough!” she said, and brought Miranda back down into a bruising kiss.


Miranda attacked her mouth with the same vigor with which she’d sucked on Andy’s neck. Andy groaned and began to roll her hips. Lying underneath Miranda was an incredible feeling, but right now what she really, really wanted was to finally have the orgasm she’d been denied for the past hour, and she didn’t think she was going to get it this way. She dug all ten nails firmly into Miranda’s gorgeous ass and used the resulting moment of shock to separate their mouths.


“Miranda, this feels incredible, but I can’t come this way, and I’m about to go crazy if you don’t fuck me right fucking now.”


“That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?” Miranda said, as she slipped one hand between their bodies to land unerringly on Andy’s clit. “What would people say if my first assistant suddenly went crazy?”


Andy ground herself shamelessly against the heel of Miranda’s hand and lunged forward to capture a nipple in her mouth.


Miranda hissed and shoved three fingers into Andy’s cunt with no warning. Andy’s legs tightened around Miranda’s back and she hissed out a fierce “yes!” around Miranda’s nipple.


Miranda leaned down next to Andy’s ear and whispered the most beautiful words in the English language: “Are you ready to come, Andrea?”


“Yes,” Andy said instantly. “Please, yes, so ready!”


“Then come,” Miranda said, and bit her earlobe.


Andy’s entire body tensed, and then arched impossibly high off the mattress. “Fuck,” she said, trembling so hard she shook the entire bed, “fuck, fuck, fuck, no don’t stop! Fuck!” There were small explosions going on behind Andy’s eyelids as she felt herself squeezing Miranda’s fingers again and again.


“Jesus,” Andy managed to pant out about three minutes later, still trembling a bit with aftershocks.


“Quite,” Miranda said, sounding insufferably full of herself, but she stroked Andy’s back with surprising gentleness.


“So,” Andy said, crossing her fingers behind Miranda’s back. “Am I fired, or what?”


To Andy’s astonishment, Miranda laughed. An actual, real laugh, not a mean-spirited chuckle. “Not fired, no. Given a recommendation for employment elsewhere, perhaps.”


“Why?” Andy asked, crossing the fingers on her other hand.


“Well,” Miranda said slowly, “sleeping with coworkers is generally frowned upon these days.”


“Yes,” Andy agreed, stifling a disappointed sigh.


“And,” Miranda continued, “so are romantic relationships between subordinates and their superiors.”


“Also true,” Andy agreed cautiously, daring for the first time to make eye contact. Miranda was looking back at her with something that might, just maybe, have been tenderness.


“Andrea,” she said, as she cupped Andy’s chin, “I accept the terms of your surrender.” Miranda reached behind Andy and brought out the (rather damp) white scarf. She draped it around her neck and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on Andy’s lips. “And I offer my own surrender in return. Do you accept?”


“Yes,” Andy said happily, and pressed Miranda back into the pillows with a broad grin. “Let the peace negotiations begin!”


Miranda sniffed haughtily, eyes twinkling, and kissed her.