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Sink With Me

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You want me? I walk down the hallway
You like it? The bedroom's my runway
Slap me! I'm pinned to the doorway
Kiss, bite, foreplay.

- Haunted, Beyoncé.



Self-righteousness: the fuel of the foolish and the naïve. 

It burned so hot and so bright, pumping warmly into Andy’s beating heart. It couldn’t sustain itself for long but it felt so good as it propelled her out of Miranda’s orbit. With liberating leisure, Andy tossed her Sidekick into the nearby Fontaines de la Concorde

“I see a great deal of myself in you.”

There wasn’t a single drop of Miranda Priestly in her. Andy would never be Miranda. For all the admiration Andy felt—had felt—for Miranda, there were some lines in the sand that shouldn’t be crossed. There had to be limits, boundaries. It had taken her far too long to realize Miranda would do anything, absolutely anything, to get what she wanted. Andy refused to become that type of person. She would never stab a beloved friend in the back to save her own skin. 

“You already did. To Emily.”

What Miranda had done to Nigel was unforgivable. A betrayal of their decades-long friendship. All for a magazine. A magazine that was Miranda’s lifeblood—the very center of her universe—even her beloved twins were nothing more than diminutive satellites orbiting Runway. And what was Andy? A mere assistant, a speck of dust in Miranda’s cold eyes. 

What Miranda would do to Andy to get what she desired was untold, unthinkable.

“When the time is right, she’ll pay me back.”

Andy would pay Emily back. Because she wasn’t like Miranda, who took, and took, and took. Andy would give. Every single skirt, dress, blouse, and belt she had received during the last week would fill up Emily’s closet. Penance for taking the opportunity of a lifetime that hadn’t belonged to Andy. 

As for Nigel, his downfall wouldn’t be shared. Andy would learn from his mistake. He had let Miranda sink her stiletto heel in his back, trapped him under her foot with a fool’s hope to receive her compassion. Andy would learn from his mistake. And from Miranda’s, too.

Miranda Priestly would hold no power over Andy by the end of the day.

The cold Parisian drizzle dampened her hair, a reminder of how far away she was from New York City, her home, and, more importantly, her hotel suite. She had no desire to endure whatever tongue-lashing Miranda had to be fantasizing about at that very moment. It would be best to avoid Miranda’s direct wrath. Except it had suddenly become impossible to find an available taxi as if every single driver had decided to take a break at the same time. 

The event was slated to last two hours, plus the afterparty which Miranda wouldn’t attend even on the best of days. However, Miranda was already fashionably late, arriving well over twenty minutes after its starting time, and she always left rudely early. No one but Miranda could get away with such appalling behavior. Knowing her, Andy had less than an hour to go back to her hotel suite, pack her things, buy a plane ticket, and leave Paris for good.

In hindsight, Andy’s decision to throw her cellphone into a fountain had been completely stupid. Now she was stranded with no means to call a cab or book a plane ticket. Not to mention she was starting to second-guess her impulsive decision.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered after another taxi ignored her. Why didn’t these people want her money? Andy was willing to pay twice the usual fare or donate one of her organs. Anything to get back to her hotel. “Let me give you money, you dipshit!” she yelled at a passing cab.

A shudder ran down Andy’s spine as she thought of the face-melting glare Miranda would bestow her if she saw her again. Not to mention the very real possibility of being blacklisted from every Elias-Clarke publication. Every magazine, newspaper, printed press. Even those outside Elias-Clarke's sphere. Miranda’s reach in the publishing world went far and wide, and her pettiness went further still. Andy would be forced out of New York City, run out of town like a leper. An army of Emilys hunting her down the streets. A million girls would kill to get Andy’s head.

Why exactly hadn’t she waited until they made it back to New York to give her two weeks’ notice?

“Finally!” she cried with relief when a taxi stopped right next to her. She gave the driver the hotel’s address and prayed for a bit of luck. It had been over twenty minutes since she had turned her back on Miranda.

It was enough time. It had to be.

Traffic moved at a snail’s pace, every second lost making her anxiousness grow more and more. Heat and ice twisted in her stomach at every red light. Andy was half-convinced the cabbie had taken the long way back or had gotten lost or both. She was practically sweating ice when she paid her fare. Then, at the hotel, the universe conspired to make her lose even more time. She had stepped out of the elevator when she realized she couldn’t find her key and had to go back to the lobby. The desk clerk took his sweet time getting her a copy. Andy wondered if it had anything to do with all the times she had called to make sure Miranda’s Presidential Suite was up to her impossible standards. Andy almost sobbed with relief when she got a new key. 

This time, there were no stops when Andy rushed into her suite. Not bothering to turn on the lights, she went straight into the en-suite bathroom, ignoring the hallway which led into the living area and had most of her luggage. She grabbed all her crap from the bathroom—plus some things that belonged to the hotel—and threw it into an open suitcase. She could sort it later. She dragged it into the living area entrance and turned around back to the bedroom to get the rest of her things.

“You seem to be in a rush, Andrea,” a murmur came from behind her, and Andy almost died on the spot. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. No one else could speak so softly and with such authority. 

“I have a plane to catch,” was the only thing she could say. Her knees felt like jelly, her heart beat wildly in her chest, her blood pulsed and pumped at her neck. She had felt so much braver forty minutes ago but she would not fall apart. She would leave Paris with her head held high.

“Already got a flight? My, aren’t you resourceful?” Miranda said lightly, as if she were talking about the unseasonal weather or making conversation about the dryness of the hors d’oeuvres, except each word had more venom than the last. 

Andy took a deep breath. I won’t cower. I’m not Emily, I’m not Nigel. I won’t answer to her cruelty, I’m not like her. I won’t sink to her level, she thought, strengthening her resolve and turning around. 

Sitting in the dark by the window, a single lamp illuminating her, Miranda looked unbothered. The light wrapped itself around her as if she had the power to bend it to her will. Her legs crossed at the knee, the skirt of her dress falling mid-thigh—she wasn’t wearing any stockings—her elbow on the table, one single finger resting under her chin with practiced ease. Her head tilted to one side in bland interest. A single strand of her silver forelock rebelliously falling over one of her eyes. A queen waiting for her loyal subject to prostrate on the floor and beg for forgiveness. The dip of her portrait neckline hung lower than before, opening up to show her décolletage and shoulders—not a single piece of jewelry breaking the expanse of luminous white skin. The serenity of her pose betrayed by the storm in her eyes—so dark and intense as they moved up and down Andy’s body. Dissecting her, judging her, marking her thumping jugular with her steely eyes, preparing for the kill. 

Would Miranda scream at her? Could Miranda scream? Was she capable of such a feat? 

“I haven’t yet. I need to call and make a reservation,” Andy said. If Miranda wanted a confrontation, Andy would deny her the pleasure. 

“What a shame, Andrea,” Miranda said dryly, barely moving her mouth. Everything about her was very still. Her face, her hair, her hands, her legs, her chest: all in stasis. Except for her eyes. There was something dark and frantic lurking behind her gaze. Something that sent a chill down Andy’s spine. Something she neither could nor would name. “Maybe you should have kept your phone.”

Well, of course Miranda would find out about that. Andy didn’t know what else to say, so she nodded. “I should”—she swallowed her words—“I should finish packing. I’ll leave in ten minutes, tops.”

“Ten minutes,” Miranda repeated, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Five,” Andy corrected. “Five minutes and you’ll never see me again, I swear. Just please, let me—”

“I never took you for a coward, Andrea,” Miranda said, tapping her lips with a finger. “Although, you always did seem a tad ungrateful.”

Andy refused to be baited. Gritting her teeth she said, “I’ve always been grateful for the opportunities Runway offers.”

“Offered,” Miranda clarified. “Or are you under the impression I’d allow you to remain within my employment?”

“Of course n—”

“But I’m not without a heart, Andrea,” Miranda said. Andy was certain she had never heard her name—Miranda’s version of her name—repeated so many times in such a short amount of time. It sounded less and less like a name and more like the beginning of an incantation. Every single syllable was pronounced perfectly, with precision and care. A spell binding her to Miranda. It made her shiver every time she heard it. “I can be quite merciful when it’s appropriate.”

“You didn’t seem very merciful today,” Andy said, straightening her shoulders and holding her head high. Then, she shrank just a bit under the heavy weight of Miranda’s burning glare. It’d be stupid to provoke her. “How many people’s dreams did you crush today?”

Andy wasn’t feeling particularly smart today.

“Excuse me,” she said leaning away, shrouding herself in the shadows of the room. But Andy had seen it: a flash of emotion in her face. Just a glimpse. It wasn’t outrage at the accusations leveled against her, nor guilt at her actions. It was something just as intense. “You know nothing about what happened today.”

“I know plenty,” Andy said with a snort, turning on the lights. It felt defiant, denying Miranda the chance to hide in the dark. But why should she? Miranda clearly had something to say—something so important she couldn’t wait even one hour to come back to the hotel—some little gem of wisdom so crucial that she had left an important party to rip into her ex-assistant.

Ex-assistant. No longer under her thumb, under her power. 

If Miranda had something to say, then she would have to say it to Andy’s face. No hiding, no concealing. Showing it all.

Miranda Priestly would bare it all tonight.

“I saw Nigel’s face. He was heartbroken, Miranda. Crushed,” Andy said, shaking her head in disappointment. At some point, in her head, Andy had replaced ‘Miranda Priestly, legendary and ruthless editor-in-chief of Runway’, with ‘Miranda Priestly, fascinating and imperfect woman’. That had been her mistake. “Of all the ways to do it—”

“Save me your tepid benevolence, Andrea,” Miranda snapped, her eyes flashing, her cheeks flushing with anger. Anger and more: an emotion Miranda visibly struggled to push down. 

A little crack in her composed facade. 

In the partially lit living area, Andy could see all of Miranda, every movement, every twitch, every emotion swirling in her eyes. Andy couldn’t help but stare at the rare sight. 

“There’s no kind way to take a golden opportunity from someone who deserves it,” Miranda explained, a look of utter frustration twisting her features as if Andy had been the one who took something from her. “Pretending otherwise is dishonest and pathetic.”

“He was blindsided,” Andy snapped back, adrenaline surging as she met Miranda’s glare head-on. She didn’t back down, didn’t look away. She wouldn't bend nor submit to Miranda Priestly. “How could you pull the rug from under him like that? In public of all places?”

The hypocrisy of her words wouldn't have been lost on Miranda but she said nothing about it.

“I did what I had to,” Miranda breathed out, her words deadly air. 

Andy took off her gloves, throwing them on the coffee table behind her. She didn’t feel put together and she wasn’t going to pretend she was.

Miranda pressed her lips in a thin line and looked at her up and down. And Andy saw another little crack in her armor.

“You had a choice,” Andy said with a sigh, tiredly taking off her wrap so it would join her gloves. 

Perspiration pooled at the base of her neck. All the running around and panicking had made her hot and sweaty. A single bead of cool sweat ran down her throat to her chest and she chased it with her thumb. She wiped it with her wrap before it could sneak into the front of her dress. All the while, Miranda’s gaze followed the movement with unnerving interest as if Andy’s borrowed wrap was a precious Chanel dress Miranda couldn’t bear to lose. But when Andy dropped it on the floor, she didn’t spare it a second glance; the intensity of her scrutiny was for Andy alone.

“Of course I did, Andrea,” she said, her eyes settling on Andy’s pulsing neck again, making her shiver in the suddenly oppressive heat of the room. “I don’t regret it for a moment. No one takes what belongs to me.” She paused for a long beat—eyes boring into Andy’s own, searching for something—until Andy took a step back. “No one, Andrea.”

“Then I won’t take any more of your time,” Andy said, swallowing tightly, feeling exposed.

“A million girls would kill to be in your position,” Miranda said, as if Andy hadn’t spoken at all. “The job of a lifetime and you throw it away for a man who knows the game better than you do.”

“I’m not leaving because of Nigel. I’m leaving because”—because of you, because of me—“I have to. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want—”

“What do you wish to have?” Miranda said, plowing through without hesitation.

“What?” Andy sputtered, struggling to catch up. Usually, Miranda was nearly impossible to understand or predict. Nearly. After many months, Andy had learned how to read her moods, to decipher her often unclear demands, and how to anticipate her needs and desires. Tonight, Miranda had become an impossible mystery, again. “‘What do I wish to have?’ What do I want? What do you mean?”

Miranda pierced Andy with her eyes, rooting her where she stood. “To stay. What do you wish to have to stay?”

“I can’t stay,” Andy said, searching Miranda’s eyes for answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask. 

Miranda stood up abruptly, her face white as a sheet. Her hands shook while she curled and uncurled her fingers like she was struggling to control her desire to wrap them around Andy’s vulnerable neck. “What is it you want, Andrea? You need to tell me so I may give it to you.”

Andy shook her head, truly not understanding. She didn’t want to know what game Miranda was playing, but she wanted to know why. For months, she had strived to understand Miranda, for her job, to finish her tenure in Runway, and get the job she truly wanted. 

And because Miranda was infuriating, complicated, confusing. Fascinating.

A haughty woman who never raised her voice to command her employees to do her bidding. Someone whose whispery voice was more powerful than thunder and storm. A self-possessed woman who ruled the fashion industry with an iron fist and a purse of her lips. Mercurial yet cold. So cold her presence burned. Her eyes ice, which scorched when she issued a challenge. 

“And you can do anything, right?” Miranda said, tilting her head, a cruel little smirk on her face. A challenge blazing in her eyes. 

A challenge she thought Andy would fail. But Andy didn’t fail. She rose to it, gave Miranda what she wanted, and more. Andy had anticipated it all. Triumph and pride fluttered in her stomach as she struggled to contain her smile. And her reward was worth it all; Miranda speechless, impressed as she looked at Andy up and down. 


Miranda dismissed her with a soft, “that’s all.” 

Andy felt Miranda’s eyes on her as she walked back to her desk. For a second, her back burned. 

Air, she needed air. 

Andy turned around, needing to create some distance between them. Miranda’s presence had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. It made her head pound. It made her heart pound. She walked over to the couch and sat down, letting out a long, tired sigh. 

“Why? Why do you want me to stay?” she asked, taking off the pins holding her hair up, and threw them on the coffee table. She shook her hair loose while Miranda stared at her with an inscrutable look on her face. 

“Tell me now, please,” Miranda said, pushing the words out with such force her forelock fell over her eyes. Her wild, frantic eyes. An animal trapped in a corner, clawing for a way out. “I’m more than able to give you everything you’ve wished for.”

Since when did Miranda ask for anything? She informed people of what would happen and they’d better turn the world upside-down to please her. Now, here she was, pleading for an explanation, a reason. So unlike herself. A look of utter disgust twisted her features as if Andy were the one to blame.

Another crack, breaking her steel facade in half.

“I don’t want anything from you, Miranda,” Andy said with finality, leaning back, smoothing out her bangs. Close to finality because she did want to know, to understand, why Miranda wanted her to stay. What could Andy have that Miranda wanted so desperately to keep?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed mirthlessly, biting her lip and pushing her silver hair back in place. The dark something Andy had noticed before wasn’t anger, she came to realize. It was pure fear. “Everyone wants something from me. Even you.”

How dare she? The gall of this woman. Not once had Andy asked for anything, not even when she could have or should have. Andy gave, and Miranda took. Loyal even in the face of impending doom, and Miranda had noticed, had been impressed. Or she hadn’t. Because Miranda thought she was like those vultures circling overhead, waiting for a moment of weakness to tear her apart. 

“No, I don’t,” Andy said, swallowing thickly, unable to hide her hurt. This might have been the cruelest thing Miranda had ever said to her. “You have no idea what I want.”

“Then tell me and I’ll give it to you,” she said, raising her voice, grabbing her ring finger, and twisting the skin there, as if to play with the ring that was no longer there. “I know you want to be a journalist,” she said after a moment, the promises in her tone clear. “I know everyone in publications. I could open so many doors for you. You wouldn’t have to start from the bottom.”


“I can be generous. I can give you—”

“I don’t want it like that!” Andy snapped. Miranda had no shame, she was willing to taint what Andy held most dear to get whatever she wanted. Andy wanted to believe journalism still held some integrity, even if she had learned how cut-throat the world of publications could be. 

She had hope.

“Then, what do you want? Now. Tell me, now, please,” Miranda said, her voice and lips trembling. Andy didn’t need to see the tears in her eyes to know they were there. Miranda pushed her hair back over and over again without elegance, creating tangled waves of silver. 

Andy looked at her. This woman who once had seemed untouchable, a titan in a multi-billion dollar industry; she looked so small now—too raw and broken to hold herself together—just as she had last night, when she had shown such vulnerability Andy’s heart had ached, and it kept aching until the James Holton luncheon. Now, it ached for Miranda, again. No make-up could hide the tint of anguish, no tailored dress could protect her from her own humanity. Just Miranda, the woman: cold, ruthless, unstoppable, unyielding, flawed, fragile—

“I don’tI don’t really care what anyone writes about me. But my girls… I justit’s so unfair to the girls.” Her voice trembled, a whisper of unspoken despair. Her blue eyes full of tears she wouldn’t let fall. Her face scrubbed clean, bare. No armor tonight: only a pair of glasses, a gray robe, and a wedding ring that should have been long gone. 

Lovely. She had looked lovely. Real. Approachable. Not the Machiavellian editor-in-chief who had overcome a hostile takeover with a shark’s smile and the poise of a queen. And now, she looked lovelier still: her white hair wild and messy, her lipstick slightly smudged, her skin blushing with desperation, her eyes shimmering, her face conveying every emotion coursing through her. It wasn’t Valentino, Donna Karan, Fendi, or Prada that made Miranda captivating in her beauty. It was what she hid underneath.

“Andrea, tell me, please,” Miranda said in a rush of air, pressing a hand to her own sternum, the neckline opening up even more. Miranda’s hand traveled up and down her chest as she breathed hard and fast, her nails leaving rapidly fading pink lines on her skin. 

And Andy couldn’t help but feast her eyes on the sight, heart racing as she greedily drank up every drop. A glimpse under the armor. More than a glimpse. Her skin looked so soft, so delicate—made to be treated with a featherlight touch—every part of Miranda required a gentle touch. A touch Andy could provide. 

I should’ve kissed her last night, Andy thought without censure, looking at Miranda’s trembling lips. They looked so full, so kissable. I should’ve kissed her, canceled her evening, and made her forget.


Andy blinked rapidly at the sound Miranda made, trying to break the spell in which she had fallen. 

But Miranda was still there, still looking as she did: effortlessly enchanting in her rawness. That was Miranda’s power, what made people bow down in admiration and awe. No one was immune, not even Andy. Even if she had never worshiped the ground Miranda walked on like Emily did, she still craved the precious gift of her approval. Her legs had buckled under the weight of Miranda’s rare, unspoken praise more than once. So if Miranda demanded it, Andy got it for her, wanted to give it to her—anything, everything—except this. Miranda had seen what Andy had never meant to show; a desire reserved only for Andy to indulge in when she was alone. No one else was meant to know, let alone Miranda herself.

Oh, shit. Andy sat up, stiff as a board, eyes widening as Miranda’s lips parted in realization. Oh, shit, shit, shit.

“I see,” Miranda said, a grin slowly spreading on her face. Triumph shining in the steel of her eyes as Andy’s panic grew. “I see what you wish to have, Andrea,” she said, her voice a low murmur, dark, heady, sleek. 

All the blood in Andy’s body rushed to her head. The tips of her ears on fire as she blushed furiously, her head palpitating. Her heartbeat echoed throughout her body—hard, and loud, and deep—until it settled between her legs. She sank deeply on the couch, wishing it would swallow her whole. 

Andy sputtered, “I don’t know what you think—”

Miranda didn’t grant Andy even one second to come up with some half-baked excuse. “I know what you wish to have. And you do, too,” she said with a smirk, lifting one shoulder coquettishly, making Andy’s heart stop. The gleam in her eyes dimmed slightly as they settled on Andy’s parted lips. Her fingers, which had been clawing at her own skin mere moments before, now caressed it, playing with the edge of her neckline, guiding Andy’s gaze from her clavicle to the dip between her breasts—lingering—and then moving back up again. Over and over again in a dizzying dance. “And I’m willing to give it to you.” 

Andy shook her head in denial, opening up her mouth to defend herself but no words would come out. 

A single moment of weakness was all Miranda had needed, her eyes too sharp, too perceptive to miss the clues Andy had let fall from her careless hands. Nothing escaped Miranda’s astute mind, and once she saw a soft spot, she pounced. 

"Do you wish to see me beg, Andrea?” Miranda said with a playful smile, her tongue twisting around each word like silk wrapped around feverish skin. Cool, smooth, sinful. 

“Beg?” Andy repeated dumbly, her throat going dry as the temperature in the room started to rise to a melting point. 

Miranda begging. Andy could picture it, so easily, vividly. She had pictured it before, in the shower when she was alone, her hand between her legs. The memory of that pleasure—the promise of that pleasure—nearly brought Andy to her knees.

“Beg you to stay, Andrea,” Miranda said, sauntering toward her—the fabric of her black dress clinging to her like a glove, cupping every curve. Nothing about the sway of her hips or the smoothness of her stride betrayed nervousness or doubt. Confident that what she was offering would be wanted, Miranda recovered her usual serene coolness.

Yes, Andy’s mind said, and Miranda chuckled as if she could see it all over her face.

“Do you wish to see the depths I'd sink to keep you?” Miranda asked, coming to a stop right in front of Andy, looming over her, eclipsing the light coming from the lamps. Eclipsing any thought. Miranda tilted her head to the side, regarding Andy calmly, her eyes a dark storm. “Is that what you want?” She placed a hand on Andy’s leg and knelt regally in front of her. “Do you wish to see contrition, Andrea?" 

Yes, Andy’s mind demanded, her body ached for it. Yes, yes, yes.

Through the thick layers of her dress, Andy felt the heat of Miranda’s hands. They slowly moved down Andy’s legs, sneaking under the hem of her skirt—Miranda dragged the blunt ends of her fingernails over the bare skin of Andy’s calves—leaving goosebumps in her wake. Curls of heat spread out from under Miranda’s fingers, traveling up Andy’s legs and settling between her thighs.

“Miranda,” Andy said with a groan, licking her lips. 

And said nothing else when Miranda smiled, grabbed Andy’s heels, took them off, and laid them carefully on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands went back to Andy’s legs as she looked up at her. A deceivingly angelical expression adorning her face as she tilted her head to the side, the gleam in her eyes devilish. A nudge from her fingertips and Andy’s legs parted out of their own volition. 

“Miranda.” Not a plea, not a word, a carnal sound of need. Andy gripped the edge of the couch until her fingers hurt. It was the only thing keeping her grounded. She held fast but her sense of prudence and rationality started to crack under her palms—“Miranda”—they crumbled between her fingertips. 

Her world tilted forward. Balance lost, sanity lost. She couldn’t stop falling.

“I can be so gentle,” Miranda murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at her. She leaned forward and grabbed Andy’s stiff hand, bringing it to her lips and depositing a lingering kiss on Andy's wrist, making her gasp. How would it feel elsewhere? “I can be harsh,” she said, nipping at the same spot, her teeth sharp. “Which one do you prefer, Andrea?” 

Falling headfirst into a sea of promises. 

“Gentle,” Andy said, exhaling. When Miranda smiled at her again—a glow of triumph in her eyes—Andy nearly moaned. 

Sinking into lust.

Miranda dragged her bottom lip down Andy’s palm, leaving a wet kiss right at the center, never breaking eye contact. “Gentle, so gentle. I can be gentle, for you,” she said, her lips lingering before kissing the skin again. And another. Her mouth was so soft, so hot, all over Andy’s hand. Another kiss, and another, until Andy had to bite back a groan. She took Andy’s other hand and gave it the same treatment. A swirl of unspoken promises dancing in her eyes, leaving Andy already so wet. “What do you want, Andrea?”

She wanted to drown.

She wanted Miranda on her knees, pinned against the door, on her back, legs spread wide, writhing on the bed, face buried in the sheets. Begging, pleading. And she would have her, Andy realized. 

Andy would have Miranda, again and again. She would try to get her fill, but it wouldn’t be enough. She'd never stop wanting more. She’d want it all.

I want you, Andy thought but didn’t say it. Instead, she said, “Kiss me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Miranda put her hands on Andy’s knees, surged forward, and kissed her firmly on the lips. Andy closed her eyes with a sigh and moved her lips gently, warmth spreading all over her body. Miranda’s lips were softer than she had imagined, much more yielding. Controlled yet soft and delicate.

A tongue ran along Andy’s bottom lip, and she opened her mouth with a moan. The moment their tongues touched, heat engulfed Andy’s head, searing away whatever was left of her sanity. A shudder ran through Miranda’s frame and she gasped, breaking the kiss. 

Eyes glazed, hands squeezing Andy’s knees, Miranda blinked at her with wide eyes, looking surprised. She opened her mouth, like she wanted to say something but she couldn’t articulate a single sound. Then she exhaled, threw herself at Andy again—this time not so controlled—and kissed her again. 

Miranda kissed like she did everything else: with confidence, without hesitation, without censure. With the knowledge she did everything perfectly. With the single-minded goal to get what she wanted. No matter the cost.

So Miranda kissed her exactly how Andy wanted to be kissed: slow, deep, unhurried. Tongue begging—not demanding—entrance. Her mouth was so hot, her tongue so gentle. A languid kiss followed another and another. 

Miranda’s lips hot against her own, her perfume invading Andy’s senses. Miranda’s body pressing firmly against her legs, pushing herself closer, closer, and closer. It was enough to make Andy’s head spin. She felt drunk. Drunk with Miranda’s kisses, with her scent, with the taste of promise on her tongue. 

It was impossible to think, all she could do was feel, want, crave. 


Their lips separated for a moment. “Will you stay?” Miranda’s voice: low and warm, barely a breathless whisper, more like a caress. Her eyes: hooded, dark as they bore into Andy’s, and growing darker still when she looked down at Andy’s mouth. It appeared like Miranda couldn’t contain herself nor her desire, and she joined their lips again. “I’ll give you everything you want, Andrea. This and more,” she said between short kisses and sighs.

Stay, but stay where? she wondered. Not at Runway. How could she after all of this? Her good sense and pride wouldn’t let her. But stay with Miranda? Be by Miranda’s side? 

Maybe Miranda didn’t know what she was offering, too eager to keep Andy by her side. Maybe she did. It didn’t matter, Andy would take the deal. Only an idiot would reject such a precious gift. Andy wouldn’t stay in Runway; she would stay with Miranda. They would both get exactly what Miranda was offering, and what Andy wanted.

Miranda’s hands moved under the skirt of Andy’s dress again, grabbed her knees, and spread her legs open. More than enough space for her, and Andy could have come right then and there. “You only need to say the word, and it’ll be yours.”

A promise. A deal, signed with a pen full of lust, sealed with a kiss.

Grabbing Miranda’s jaw, Andy kissed her deeply, thoroughly until Miranda moaned into her mouth. “I want you, Miranda,” she said against her lips, nipping and biting—drunk with every little sound she could tease from Miranda’s mouth. She broke off the kiss to take off her necklace, baring her neck for Miranda. “I want your mouth.”

“Yes, Andrea,” she hissed, sounding almost relieved as she began to kiss every inch of Andy’s neck, her mouth gentle and eager. Her breath cool as it ghosted over the patches of skin her lips had heated up. “Everything you want.”

Everything? Then Andy would take it all.

Miranda gently scraped her teeth on the side of Andy’s throat, making her groan. She nipped at the sensitive point where her neck and clavicle met, and then she soothed away any harshness with a slow lick of her tongue. Andy tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and moaned, giving Miranda more room to fulfill her promises. 

Oh, it felt so good already. She was so wet already. 

Then Miranda started to lick and kiss her way down Andy’s chest, lingering between her breasts. She kissed the swell of one, nuzzled the other, while she rubbed Andy’s thighs, pulling the skirt of her dress higher and higher with each pass of her hand. Andy slid her fingers in Miranda’s hair and pulled her closer, moaning as Miranda rained a thousand little kisses all over her exposed skin. 

Not enough. Her dress covered so much, offered so little. 

She reached back and unzipped it as far as she could while Miranda pulled the collar down with eager hands, mouthing every inch of skin she hadn’t been able to kiss before. God, she kissed Andy’s skin like she was starved for it. Like she would die if she stopped.

There would be no stopping tonight.

Andy didn’t waste one second and took off her bra the moment her arms were free of the bodice of her dress. Miranda looked down and let out a shaky hiss, her breathing growing faster when Andy arched her back toward her. The cool air of the room made her nipples harden, and Miranda’s warm breath ghosting over her breast made them harder still. They ached. She ached.

“Andrea,” Miranda said, a moan from deep within her throat escaping her mouth as her lips closed around one of Andy’s nipples. She sucked it gently—Andy cried out and tossed her head back—her teeth barely touching the tender flesh. 

“Like that, just like that.” Andy slid her fingers through Miranda’s soft hair and pulled her closer.

Andy moaned in appreciation when Miranda’s tongue painted a lazy circle around the nipple. Her tongue rough, her mouth gentle. Perfect, absolutely perfect. Then, she moved to the other one and gave it the same treatment. Over and over again, from one nipple to other, until Andy could only moan and gasp. 

Through the haze of pleasure, Andy opened her eyes to look at Miranda, and nearly came at the sight. Miranda was looking at her through hooded eyes, her pupils huge, her irises thin rings of blue. Her cheeks glowing a beautiful shade of pink, her lips had lost all traces of lipstick. Her hair was ruffled and messy. She looked turned on beyond belief, like what she was doing to Andy gave her pleasure, too.

God, Miranda,” Andy moaned, opening her legs wide. She couldn’t wait one second longer, she was so turned on she had to be dripping down onto the couch. She needed Miranda’s mouth now. And Miranda must have read it on her face because she moaned in response, pulled Andy’s dress up and out of the way, and buried her face between Andy’s spread legs.

“Everything you want, Andrea,” Miranda said, her voice low and hoarse. She pressed a kiss against Andy’s soaked underwear. Andy arched her back and moaned. “Everything, Andrea.” The tip of her tongue gently circled Andy’s entrance through the fabric, making Andy cry out in pleasure. 

Without wasting one more second, Miranda grabbed Andy’s underwear and took it off, nearly ripped it off her body. She grabbed Andy’s thighs, spread them open, and pressed her tongue against her. Andy threw her head back and cried out, “Miranda!” and almost came on the spot. 

Her tongue moved up and down gently, so gently—barely ghosting over Andy’s slick flesh—every movement slow and measured. There was a certain lack of finesse in her movements, a clear inexperience in the tongue that licked and searched. But she was careful, so gentle, paying attention to Andy’s reactions, to what Andy liked. She deliberately savored Andy with every pass of her tongue, with every swirl over her sensitive clit. Miranda’s mouth became less cautious every time Andy bucked up her hips and moaned for her. 

Miranda murmured against her, “Andrea,” and dragged her tongue so tenderly between Andy’s lips she nearly hyperventilated.

If Miranda Priestly decided to do something, then she put her whole body, soul, and heart into it. Nothing half-measured, no hesitation, no doubt. She poured herself empty with an unnerving focus that could only yield perfection. 

And she begged just as well. 

Begged with every broken sigh as she paused for breath. Begged with her fingers as they caressed Andy’s spread legs. Begged with her mouth. Begged, and begged, and begged. Growing hungry, ravenous as she licked, lapped, and sucked with such desperation Andy wasn’t sure who wanted it more.

The answer became clear as day when Miranda murmured, “please,” so quietly against her hot flesh that Andy nearly missed it. Then Miranda opened her mouth wide and lost whatever was left of her self-control as she devoured Andy like she was starving, like she had been craving Andy’s need dripping on her tongue for far too long. Maybe she had been.

Maybe they both had been hungering for this for months.

“God, Miranda,” she moaned, bucking against Miranda’s mouth. Tension coiled in her belly, in her legs, in the base of her head. Her legs started to shake as she struggled to keep from grinding on Miranda’s wicked tongue. She wanted to enjoy it one moment longer, to feel her between her legs for one moment longer because it was Miranda. 

But she couldn’t last. Andy was going to come and Miranda’s mouth was to blame. Miranda’s tongue. Miranda’s mouth. Miranda, Miranda, Miranda.

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy grabbed the back of Miranda’s head, pulled her close, and demanded, “make me come.”

With a moan, Miranda latched onto her clit and swirled her tongue over it, and then sucked gently. Perfectly. She did it perfectly, just like Andy needed it, as if Miranda could read her mind and give her everything she could possibly want. 

Her mouth was perfect. 

Between Andy's legs, she was perfect. Miranda belonged there, between Andy's legs, giving her pleasure.

Gripping the edge of the couch as if she was about to fly away, Andy threw her head back, bucked her hips, and came with a silent wail. Every muscle clenched hard—robbing her of her breath, her mind, her heart—until there was nothing left in the world but Miranda’s mouth. Wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her body. It was too good to be real. But it was, and the realization made her tremble even harder as Miranda lapped at her entrance, greedily drinking her prize. 

“Amazing, so amazing, so good,” she gasped, finally able to breathe. Panting, Andy looked down and felt a shiver of pleasure at the sight. She expected to see Miranda looking smug and triumphant, relishing in her conquest. Instead, Miranda’s dark, hooded eyes looked up at her pleadingly, glazed with want. Her high cheekbones were pink and feverish with desire. Her hair was a messy tangle of white and silver. Her beautiful black gown falling off her shoulders. Her lipstick all but gone, rubbed away from her swollen lips. Her mouth, nose, and chin were shiny with Andy's need. 

Miranda Priestly was the picture of debauchery.

“I need—Andrea,” Miranda started to say and then swallowed hard, licking her lips. Her fingers dug into Andy’s legs as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Please.”

Andy grabbed her by the shoulders, dragged Miranda onto her lap, and kissed her hard, tasting herself on Miranda’s tongue. Far from sated, Andy’s appetite had been awakened. This had been the appetizer. One single orgasm couldn’t satisfy months of secret fantasies. Miranda had far more to give, and Andy wanted to take it all.

Miranda moaned gratefully into the kiss, wrapping her arms around Andy’s neck, unaware of what she had stirred in Andy.

“Tell me what you want,” Andy said against Miranda’s lips, her voice hoarse and adamant. Miranda said nothing and kissed her instead, as if that was enough.

It wasn’t.

“You need to beg, remember?” Andy said between kisses, smiling when Miranda pulled back to stare at her. Miranda’s kiss-swollen lips formed a perfect ‘o’ as she blinked at Andy surprised, impressed. Aroused. “A deal is a deal,” she reminded Miranda and pushed her off her lap with little patience.

“No, wait, please—” Miranda stumbled backward but Andy was on her again, grabbing her by the waist and kissing her. She couldn’t stop kissing her, not when she could still taste herself on her lips. Not when Miranda moaned and groaned against her mouth and kissed her back with complete abandon.

“Let’s go.” Andy had meant to take her to the bedroom, but they made it no further than a few steps into the hallway before she had Miranda pinned against the wall as she kissed her throat and her shoulders. She couldn’t control herself, she wanted Miranda so much she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. 

Her skin was so hot, but Miranda’s was hotter still, she could feel it even with all the fabric between them. She pulled away just long enough to shove her own dress down her hips—not caring when she heard the distinctive rip of mishandled fabric—and pushed her naked body against Miranda. Immediately, she felt Miranda’s hands grabbing her backside, pulling her closer still. The dress felt rough and scratchy against her sensitive skin. She sighed in pleasure as she dragged her nipples against Miranda’s still-clothed breasts. 

“You feel so good,” she murmured against the shell of Miranda’s ear, earning a little groan when she traced it with her tongue. She chuckled when Miranda took off her earrings and let them drop on the floor as if they meant nothing. 

Careless about jewelry, about clothes, about her pride.

Who knew there was something Miranda cared about more than her pride?

Andy sucked her earlobe and Miranda groaned again, a high-pitched sound Andy felt in her bones. 

She wanted to hear more, to feel more.

Andy nuzzled Miranda’s throat, breathing her in. Andy recognized the scent, an exclusive Dior fragrance, which had no name because it belonged to Miranda alone. Spicy, dark, a hint of flowers and wood. Slightly musky. Made to complement Miranda's natural smell. A unique perfume, reserved for parties like the James Holt luncheon, or benefits. 

That had been the first time Andy had noticed it, during the Met Gala. She had leaned in close to whisper in Miranda’s ear the name of a man who didn't matter and the scent had enveloped her senses. Even then, she had found it dizzying, a whisper of forbidden desire. She had tried to stay away, hovering over Miranda’s shoulder from a safe distance. But she had smelled her all night long, even when she stood under the weak stream of her shower and touched herself. It hadn’t been the first time she had done so with Miranda in her mind's eye, nor it had been the last one.

Andy had been grateful Miranda had gone back to her usual fragrance the next day. 

She was more grateful still, Miranda had chosen to wear it today—only a few drops on her neck, elbows, wrists, and between her breasts. So Andy followed the path marked so generously for her. Kissing and nipping at the skin, finding spots that made Miranda sigh and moan and groan, and beg.

“Oh, please, there,” she said with a low moan when Andy sucked in the juncture where her shoulder and neck met. So Andy did it again before kissing down between her breasts, pulling down the bodice of the dress as she went. Miranda let out a breathy moan when Andy cupped one of her breasts and squeezed gently. Andy could feel the hard nipple through the thick layers of fabric. She undid her belt, opened up her dress, and pushed her elegant, lacy bra down to expose her breasts. Andy bent down and swirled her tongue around a rosy nipple and Miranda threw her head back.

Miranda was so responsive, every single thing Andy did to her earned her a moan or a sigh or, best of all, the word ‘please’.

It sounded so good coming from Miranda. She had been made to plead for pleasure, made to beg Andy to fuck her, take her, devour her.

Hunger clawed at her as she sank on her knees and pulled Miranda's underwear—a soaked slip of silk—down her legs. 

Miranda frantically pulled her skirt up around her hips, opened her legs wide, and put one hand on Andy’s shoulder. She let out a pitiful little sigh when Andy kissed her stomach and ran her fingers up her legs. Soaked didn't do it justice. Wetness ran down the inside of Miranda’s thighs. It was a miracle she hadn’t come yet.

Andy looked up at her, making sure their eyes met, and carefully bit under her ribcage.

“Oh, God, please, Andrea.” A whimper. A needy, desperate little whimper. Miranda went red and pressed her lips together, as if she could take back the needful sound that had escaped.

Andy wanted to hear it again, so she sucked and nipped at the skin under Miranda’s breasts, down her stomach, around her navel. Ruthlessly finding every sensitive spot, she used her lips, tongue, and teeth to lavish them with attention. Miranda whimpered again when Andy pulled the dress down to nip at her hip bone. 

“God, I—Andrea.” Miranda choked around the words. Miranda couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe. Every muscle in her body was tight with tension as she struggled to regain her self-control. But it was long gone, all there was left was unfulfilled desire. “I can’t—”

“You are not done begging, are you?” Andy smiled at Miranda’s wide-eyed look. She dragged her thumbs up Miranda’s trembling legs, from her knees to the inside of her thighs. “You know what I want.”

Miranda shook her head in denial and grabbed Andy’s shoulders for support. Her legs were shaking now. “I can’t—”

“Can’t beg anymore?” Andy asked, tilting her head in mock interest. She almost laughed when Miranda shook her head and bit her lip. 

Using the tips of her thumbs, Andy traced little circles on the hollow where her thigh and hip met. Inches away from her center, Andy felt the searing heat coming from her.

And could smell her, too. The scent of sex permeated the air. Dark and heady. Mouthwatering. Better than her perfume.

"Beg me." Andy licked from her knee to her inner-thigh, tasting her, needing to devour her whole. It was the only way to sate her hunger. "Beg me," Andy demanded again, looking into Miranda’s lustful gaze. She cupped Miranda between her legs, feeling moisture against her palm. She growled, “I want to hear how much you want it.” 

Miranda cried out in a wordless plea, squeezing her eyes shut, digging her nails in Andy’s shoulders, making her hiss in pleasure. The pain barely registered in Andy’s overheated brain. If she was lucky, those would be some of the many marks Miranda would leave on her body tonight.

Andy leaned forward and dragged her tongue through Miranda's sex. The taste was a bit tangy, maybe a little bitter. It might have been because it was the physical manifestation of Miranda's arousal, because it was the highest praise Andy could ever get from her, but Andy was sure she had never tasted anything nearly as delicious.

She wanted it.

Andy looked up at her, her eyes met Miranda's widened ones. She looked stunned. She grabbed Miranda's hips and tilted them forward so she could slide her tongue further back, into her entrance, from where all that dizzying wetness flowed.

The moment the tip of Andy's tongue penetrated her, Miranda let go of her shoulder, slapped a hand over her own mouth, and shrieked—the sound muffled but loud.

The first time Miranda had been loud.

Andy pulled back, looked at her, licked her lips, and smiled. Miranda whimpered in frustration and Andy’s smile widened. “Good?”

Miranda swallowed heavily, her throat working as she breathed out, “don’t stop,” through her parted fingers. Her body tense and stretched taut as she visibly fought to regain control of herself. It was the last thing Andy wanted. She wanted her wild, uninhibited, desire overriding her judgment.

"I want to hear you,” she said, leaning forward and nuzzling the fine hairs between her legs. Miranda’s legs trembled. “I want to see you.” She let her breath wash over the soaked lips. “I want you to come for me.” She firmly dragged her tongue up and down Miranda's sex, earning another muffled sound. “I want you to beg for it.”

For once, Miranda did as she was told. “Please,” Miranda whimpered, then cried out when Andy rewarded her pleading by rolling her tongue over her clit.

It would be so easy to get her off like this, pinned against the wall, dress still on, underwear off. It wouldn’t take more than a few licks. It’d be so quick. Andy didn’t want quick.

Andy stood up at once, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her hard. “Come here,” she managed to say before dragging Miranda into the bedroom. They stumbled around, unable to stop kissing. When they got to the foot of the bed, Andy broke the kiss to pull the duvet and sheets down while Miranda took off her shoes. She made a motion as if to sit on the bed but Andy grabbed her arm, spun her around, wrapped her arms around her waist, and pressed her bare breasts against Miranda’s still clothed back.

They both sighed and melted against each other. Miranda tilted her head to the side, presenting her long, beautiful neck as if it were a precious gift. Who could turn down such an offer? Andy left a slow, wet kiss just below Miranda’s ear, making her shiver. Slowly, carefully, Andy kissed her way down the side of Miranda’s elegant throat—the softest skin she had ever touched—over the smoothness of her exposed shoulder, and back again.

They could take their time. Andy could slow down, regain some of her composure, and savor the moment. In this room, in this hotel suite in Paris, time stood still for them.

Andy searched and found the side zipper of Miranda’s dress and pulled it down without a hurry. She unbuttoned every single little button holding the skirt and bodice together with more care than necessary. No rush, there was no rush. Miranda reached back and grabbed Andy’s hips, pulling tightly with a hiss. Andy dragged her tongue to Miranda’s beating pulse point and gently sucked at it, careful not to leave a bruise. It wasn’t the right spot to leave her mark. Anyone could have seen it there. It had to be lower, under her clothes, where only Andy could see it, could touch, and kiss it.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Andy said, pulling the collar of her dress over her shoulder so she could kiss her upper back and shoulder blades, too. So soft. Miranda was so soft everywhere. She felt so good, smelled so good, tasted even better.

Miranda opened her mouth to retort—something witty and cutting no doubt—so Andy grabbed one of her nipples and twisted it gently. The only sound that came out of Miranda’s lips was, “ah!” So Andy did it again, as her other hand sneaked under the skirt of Miranda’s dress and rubbed there, right there, where Miranda was so hot and wet that Andy’s fingers tingled pleasantly. 

Finally losing her patience, Miranda growled and freed herself from the bodice of the dress with jerky movements and shoved it all—bodice, skirt, belt—down her hips and kicked it away. She took off her bra and tossed it aside carelessly, leaving herself completely naked. If Miranda thought that would speed things along, she was mistaken. 

For once, Miranda would have to be patient, she would have to wait.

At a leisurely pace, Andy kissed her way down Miranda’s sweaty spine, dragging her hard nipples against Miranda’s back, making them both hiss in pleasure. Andy kissed the small of her back, nipped at her hips, licked her way down her thighs, and then went back up and gently bit her backside, holding onto the strong muscle with her teeth for a few seconds, just to kiss away any harshness. All the while Miranda trembled and sighed and swayed, letting Andy take her time without a single complaint. 

She deserved a small reward for her good behavior. 

Andy stood up and wrapped Miranda in her arms again. Nuzzled the back of her neck, letting Miranda’s short hair tickle her nose. Once again, Andy took one of Miranda’s nipples between her fingers and twisted it, enjoying how it hardened under her caresses. Her other hand snaked its way down Miranda’s stomach to her pubic bone, and lower still, right to where Miranda needed her most.

“Ah—Andrea, please,” Miranda pleaded as Andy’s fingers found her clit and ghosted over it. Barely touching, tickling, teasing. Miranda rolled her hips forward, begging for more without a single word.

And then it became a game only Andy would win. 

Every time Miranda cried out, “please,” Andy caressed her clit with the softest of touches, not allowing more than the slightest of pressures. Every time Miranda bucked her hips forward, Andy moved her fingers downward, around her soaking entrance, not going inside, just circling it, dipping her fingertips in the silky wetness that flowed without stopping. And then she did it all over again, back and forth while Miranda lost her mind. It wasn’t enough to get her off, it was a tease, torment. And Miranda loved it, moaning and whimpering and biting her lip to stifle the sounds Andy so wanted to hear. As punishment, Andy kept her there—trapped in the pleasure of being denied—for minutes to end. Edging her closer and closer to the orgasm she needed so much, just to pull back and start the game all over again. Sweet, wanted torture for a woman who couldn’t stand not getting her way.

“You love this,” Andy murmured against Miranda’s ear. A shudder ran through Miranda as she shook her head in denial; her hips chasing Andy’s fleeting caresses. “Look at you, look how much you want it.” Now she was the one relentlessly going after what she wanted, plowing through without hesitation. Another shake of her head but Andy’s hands were as persistent as her words. “No? Then maybe I should stop. Maybe I should leave you like this.” 

“No, please, don’t stop,” Miranda cried out, pushing against Andy’s hand with such force they almost lost their balance. 

They stumbled onto the bed, all the while Andy teased Miranda into incoherence, not letting up for a second. She couldn’t stop, she couldn’t stop.

Hands twisting the sheets, Miranda shoved her face on the mattress, thrust her backside against Andy, and sobbed loudly, “please, Andrea!” 

The angle was awkward and painful. Andy’s wrist felt like it was about to pop under the pressure of Miranda’s weight, so she pulled her hand away, grabbed Miranda’s hips, and turned her around. Impatient as ever, Miranda grabbed the back of Andy’s head and forced their lips into a savage kiss as she crawled further up the bed. Andy chased after her willingly, desperately. 

When Miranda laid her head on the pillow, Andy wasted no time and kissed her way down Miranda’s body again. Once again, she was out of control, out of her mind, hungry. She took one of Miranda’s nipples in her mouth and sucked, and licked, and bit until Miranda arched her back and covered her mouth with her hand again to muffled her cries. Then she moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment, pulling the tender flesh with her teeth, nuzzling it to give her a small break, and then doing it all over again. Again, again, and again, while Miranda writhed on the bed and clawed at the sheets, and cried out, “please, please, please!” against her own hand.

Christ! Did she know what she was doing to Andy? She must have. She had to know.

Another whimper from Miranda, her name on Miranda’s lips like a prayer. And Andy’s body clenched in sympathy, in pleasure. Again, she wanted to come again. She needed to come again. 

Andy slid a finger inside herself and moaned. It wouldn’t take anything at all, she was already there. So closed because of Miranda. She curled it back and forth, in time with her sucking: pleasuring herself while she pleasured Miranda. But making herself come wouldn’t be nearly as good as Miranda doing it.

Using her soaked hand, she moved Miranda’s hand from her own mouth, and traced her gasping lips, painting them with her wetness. Miranda moaned and sucked the digit into her mouth.

Letting Miranda lick her finger clean, Andy moved her mouth lower—Miranda grabbed her wrist and kept Andy’s finger in her mouth—and bit Miranda’s hip bone, making her cry out. Andy sucked and licked at the skin until it turned a beautiful shade of red. A mark that would last days.

“Ah—Andrea, I want—my mouth,” Miranda moaned around Andy’s finger, sounding delirious, unable to string a single coherent thought.

“What do you want to do with your mouth?” Andy asked, smiling against Miranda’s sternum. She kissed her there, too. She removed her finger, smiling when Miranda let out a pitiful little moan. “You need to tell me.” She kissed Miranda’s cheek. “And I’ll give it to you.”

“My mouth—I want—you. My mouth, again,” she babbled, kissing Andy’s lips, cheeks, forehead, everywhere she could reach. She grabbed Andy’s hips and started to pull her up her body, her intentions clear as day.

“Fuck, Miranda,” Andy moaned, her body clenching hard. Oh, this time it would take nothing at all to make Andy come.

Carefully, with more self-control Andy thought she possessed, she straddled Miranda’s chest. She had meant to tease Miranda a bit, to hover just beyond her reach, but Miranda finally managed to pull one over her. She grabbed Andy’s backside and pulled hard, her tongue making contact with her clit before Andy could scramble to grab the headboard.

“Christ!” Andy cried out, arching her back as Miranda lapped at her without missing a beat.

If Miranda’s mouth had been hungry before, now it was famished as she set on making Andy come. Her tongue was everywhere at once, sliding inside her, moving up to suck her clit, up and down her labia, swirling over her entrance. Her hands held onto Andy’s backside tightly, not letting her get away as she drank greedily. But Andy didn’t want to get away, she wanted to come all over Miranda’s face

“So good, Miranda,” Andy moaned. Then she gasped when she felt Miranda’s answering moan against her sensitive flesh. She liked that, she liked Andy complimenting her, praising her. So Andy looked down, saw Miranda watching her—an expression of pure pleasure gleaming in her hooded eyes—and said, “you’re so good. Your mouth is so good,” sounding drunk. Miranda’s eyelashes fluttered in response and she pushed harder with her mouth. Miranda kept looking at her, her eyes requesting more. So Andy gave her more as she gently rocked her hips. Praise after praise, compliment after compliment: “I love your mouth,” and, “you’re amazing,” and, “you make me feel so good,” and, “I’m going to come for you.”

Pleasure climbing up her body, tension gathered between her legs as Miranda sucked at her clit with utter abandon. Her pleasure and Andy’s pleasure were one and the same. Every muscle in her body tensed up as the pressure built up, and built, and built. Pleasure coiling tight and tighter still as Miranda dug her fingertips on her backside and pulled her hard against her mouth, slid her tongue downward, and circled her soaking entrance. Andy gripped the headboard so hard her hands tingled, threw her head back, and opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Wave after wave of hot pleasure washing over her as Miranda moved to gently suck on her clit. Fire spread out from where Miranda’s mouth still worked her sensitive flesh to the very tip of her fingers and toes. Her legs shook with pleasure and the effort to not collapse on top of Miranda. 

“God, Miranda, you’re so good,” she moaned. Absolutely spent, she rested her forehead against the headboard. Miranda rewarded her praise by dragging the flat of her tongue between Andy’s lips, sending electric aftershocks all over her body. 

Andy whimpered and lifted her hips, Miranda’s mouth chasing after her. But she was too sensitive for more, even sitting on Miranda’s hips made her wince. Far, far too sensitive.

“Oh, please, please, don’t leave me like this,” Miranda begged, breathing hard, her body twitching under Andy. Twice, thrice Andy had left her wanting and unsatisfied. How much waiting could Miranda take? “Please, Andrea—”

Oh, what a sight she was. Naked and trembling. Eyes dark and glazed with unfulfilled need as she looked up at Andy with the neediest expression. Lips swollen and red, and shining with Andy’s need. Her skin was flushed and sweaty. Her breasts heaving with every breath she took. Her nipples were wet and red from Andy’s attention.  Little red and pink bruises adorned her hips and thighs where Andy’s mouth had showered her with attention. Marks of Andy’s desire, marks that would last days.

Miranda let out a shuddering breath and licked her lips, closing her eyes in pleasure.

Steel self-control gone. Uninhibited.

“Look at you." She didn’t mean to sound so awed or breathless. "God, Miranda, you’re so…”

Beautiful, sexy, fuckable.  

Andy could eat her up. Devour her whole until Miranda had nothing left to give. 

“God, I want to make you come,” Andy said with renewed energy. She wanted it. And Miranda would give it to her.

The sound that came out of Miranda’s throat was feral and urgent. 

Shifting around, Andy spread Miranda’s eager legs wide open, settling between them, as close as she could. Skin against skin, feeling Miranda’s wetness against her lower stomach. Soaked, she was absolutely soaked, a slick river flowing between her thighs. Miranda wrapped her legs around Andy’s hips and slid her arms around Andy’s neck, and pulled her closer, even if closer was impossible. Not even air could fit between their bodies, there was only room for the heat, the electricity of their skin rubbing as they moved against each other. 

Closer, closer.

Sliding her fingers through Miranda’s mussed hair, Andy kissed her. A deep, slow kiss. Reveling in the sensation, in tasting herself on Miranda’s tongue. She growled, feeling Miranda shiver under her, and kissed her again. Licked Miranda’s lips, sucked her bottom lip, kissed her chin, nipped at her jawline. And kissed her again, so deeply and thoroughly Miranda could barely kiss her back, whimpering as she breathed through her nose.

Miranda had waited long enough. She was so ready, so wet, her hips shifted restlessly against Andy. So desperate for it, so needy. 

She deserved it.

Andy broke the kiss. Her mouth descended on Miranda’s nipples again.

“Oh please, please,” Miranda chanted, arching into Andy’s mouth. Moaning and hissing when Andy bit and sucked over and over again. The skin already so sensitive. “I can’t—please, please,” she choked over the words, rocking her hips, spreading her legs wide. Baring it all. Her body begging to be taken.

“This is what I want,” Andy whispered, kissing her way down Miranda’s body. She kissed and licked every little bruise she found. An apology for her previous roughness, a promise to give the same treatment if it were wanted. She kissed the spot on Miranda's hip bone she had marked as her own. “You’re going to give it to me.”

Miranda clawed at Andy’s shoulders and back, leaving her marks, too. Tomorrow, they would hurt; tonight, they enhanced her pleasure. She would cherish both.

Andy buried her face between Miranda’s thighs, drowning in the heat and the wetness. She licked and sucked, alternating between focusing on her clit and then avoiding it altogether, unable to decide if she wanted to draw it out or make Miranda come now. But she wanted it so much, too much to keep denying herself.

Andy used her thumb to toy with her entrance and Miranda let out a choked cry. Andy dipped the very tip of her middle finger inside and swirled it around until it was nice and wet, and then spread all that wonderful, hot, silky wetness everywhere else. 

Miranda let out another high-pitched whimper—oh, she loved that sound. Uninhibited, feral. 

Andy slid one finger inside, it took no pressure at all, Miranda was so wet. Reveling in the feeling of Miranda clenching hard around her finger, in the whimpers that Miranda couldn’t hold back anymore, Andy pulled back and pushed in again, all the way in until she was knuckle-deep. Then, the sounds were suddenly muffled. Andy looked up and saw Miranda shaking her head from side to side, one hand over her mouth, the other one twisting one of her nipples.

Fire engulfed Andy’s head at the sight.

Surging upwards, Andy grabbed the hand Miranda had over her mouth, pinned it next to her head, and slid two fingers inside her at the same time. This time, Miranda couldn’t stifle her desperate cry. “Andrea!”

“Let me hear you,” she said, ruthlessly moving her fingers, twisting them up and down, back and forth. Miranda cried out in response, then threw her head back in a silent wail. “I know you want to,” she said, nuzzling Miranda’s throat, licking the salty skin. She intertwined their fingers and pressed their hands on the mattress. “You don’t need to be loud.”

“I can’t—”

“No one will know.” She twisted her fingers, searching. “Everyone is still at the party. This floor is empty.” She rubbed with her fingertips and Miranda whimpered. “And I want it,” she murmured in Miranda’s ear. Andy ghosted her thumb over Miranda’s clit. She was going to torture Miranda until she got what she wanted. “Give it to me, Miranda.”


“Give me what I want.” She bit her shoulder, her throat, her earlobe.


Andy twisted her fingers up and towards herself, and Miranda’s hips jerked up. Miranda gasped, her eyes wide with shock. Andy found it. She started to rub there, right there, in tight little circles, harder, faster. After such a build-up, after being edged so close so many times, Miranda deserved all the pleasure Andy could possibly give her.

“I’m not going to stop until I get it.” Miranda pulsed around her fingers, her wetness started to run down Andy’s wrist. Her fingers squeezed Andy’s hand so tightly until it hurt. “So you’d better give it to me now before everyone comes back—”

“Ah—” Miranda’s legs started to tremble, her breathing turning hysterical.

“And hears you begging me—”

Please!” Miranda let go of Andy’s hand and clawed at Andy’s back and shoulders, tossed her head back, out of control, drowning in lust.

“—to fuck you.” Andy pressed her thumb over Miranda’s swollen clit, and rubbed hard.

Miranda buried her face on Andy’s sweaty shoulder—her body clenching like a vise around Andy’s fingers—and keened in pleasure. She let out a series of high-pitched, “ah, ah, ah!” as she came, writhing on the bed, rocking her hips while Andy kept rubbing with her thumb, extending her pleasure, keeping her there. 

Coming, coming, coming.

“That’s so good.” She kissed Miranda’s cheek and pulled her head back to watch her, while she kept moving her fingers. Miranda trembled in delight, her lips mouthing silently, her chest heaving as she gasped for air, her back arched up, her body locked in tight, her hands scrambling on the rumpled sheets. Beautiful, so beautiful. The most beautiful woman Andy had ever seen. More beautiful still in the grips of pleasure.

Jerking her hips, Miranda sobbed, “Andrea,” as her face twisted in something that started to look like pain. Andy eased up and stilled her hand. The last thing she wanted was pleasure becoming pain. She felt the flutters of aftershock around her fingers before she slipped them out. She caressed Miranda’s sweaty stomach with her sticky hand.

Miranda collapsed on the bed, her head lolling to the side, completely spent. She covered her face with her hands as she wheezed through her nose. She swallowed hard and licked her lips, shivering. 

Closing her eyes, Andy stretched out next to Miranda, enjoying the release of the lingering tension. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Only an hour had passed since she had set foot in her suite. She closed her eyes, relaxing on the mattress. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such good sex. Then, she remembered she had sex with Christian just last night. Well, that had been okay, this had been the best hour of her life. It figured that Miranda would beat Christian in every aspect. In both business and in pleasure.

Feeling observed, Andy opened her eyes and saw Miranda sitting up, staring at her, an impassive expression on her face, her eyes icy and intense as she looked at Andy up and down. It was much more intimidating when Miranda was fully clothed in haute couture. Her forelock fell on her face and she blew it away. It fell on the same spot again and she scowled, clearly annoyed. Andy grinned in response and smoothed it out of her face, tracing her cheekbones and jawline with a finger. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Andy said, beaming when Miranda blinked at her, fluttering her eyelashes, clearly taken aback. 

Miranda cleared her throat, leaned over Andy, and murmured, “you will stay, won’t you?” Vulnerability flashed through her eyes before her expression became inscrutable. She had that look down to a science, but Andy knew better.

Andy took Miranda by the chin and brought their lips together in a lingering kiss. The flames that had consumed them just a few moments ago lit up for a moment. Satiated but not quenched, the ambers still glowing brightly, just as Andy had suspected they would. 

“You won’t be able to get rid of me,” Andy said, pulling back and looking into Miranda’s eyes. Miranda nodded, looking relieved and Andy’s heart ached. “I’ll stay by your side until you send me away.”

“Why would I ever do that?” Miranda inquired, tilting her head to the side. Had that gesture always been that cute?

Andy laughed. Why indeed. 

“I need to get a new phone,” Andy said, shrugging guiltily. For at least a few weeks, she’d need it for work.

Miranda sighed. “You do that. I should leave.” She glanced at Andy.

“Yeah, people are gonna start coming back.” Andy sighed. So much for afterglow. Maybe next time.

“Oh, not for another hour,” Miranda said, sliding out of the bed and stretching her arms up. She looked so good, so relaxed. It suited her. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”

“What did you do?” 

Miranda looked at Andy over her shoulder, a devilish gleam in her eyes. She shrugged in a way that begged to be dragged back to bed. She stuck her nose in the air and said in her most haughty tone, “I simply reminded them it was their job to be at the party, to talk with every single designer and photographer. It’d be quite upsetting if Runway suffered just because they couldn’t stay until the end.”

Andy decided that shouldn’t be sexy, but it was. Extremely.

“Help me find my earrings,” Miranda said.

“Okay,” Andy said, stood up, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her slowly, breathing her in. Miranda made a little noise at the back of her throat and wrapped her arms around Andy’s neck. 

Andy pulled back and looked into Miranda’s eyes, so blue, so dark, full of promises. Once again, pulling her in.

Miranda let out a shaky breath, looked at Andy’s lips, and leaned in for another kiss.

Andy sank back into the kiss and took Miranda down with her.



Miranda on her knees in front of Andy.

Artist: angel-march