Work Text:
The thing with supposedly hating your co-worker, who made you cry often, is not realizing that they made you cry in ways that also involved them on their knees and their mouth on you.
Andrea had cried in the bathroom after Emily tore into her about the Chanel samples. Had cried in the elevator after Emily called her "utterly useless" in front of Nigel. Had cried on the phone to her parents about how awful, how impossible, how mean Emily was.
And now Emily was on her knees on the closet floor, Andrea's thigh hooked over her shoulder, and Andrea was crying again—different, gasping, her hand twisted in Emily's hair while Emily's tongue worked against her.
"Emily—" Andrea choked out, and Emily made a satisfied hum that vibrated through her.
Emily pulled back just enough to say, "Shut up," before diving back in, and Andrea had to bite down on her own hand to keep quiet. The runway samples hung above them in neat rows. The closet smelled like leather and Emily's perfume and, well, sex.
When Andrea came, Emily held her hips steady with both hands and didn't stop until Andrea was pulling at her hair, oversensitive, pleading.
Emily wiped her mouth. Looked up at Andrea with that sharp, satisfied expression.
"Better?" she asked, like she'd just somehow fixed a scheduling conflict.
Andrea nodded.
Emily stood, smoothed her skirt, and checked her reflection in the mirror by the door.
"Good," she said crisply. "Now go home to your boyfriend."