Chapter Text
Andy hadn’t slept with a woman before.
Of course, her time during university had brought her into blips of curiosity with girls. It was the 21st century, for God’s sake, experimentation shouldn’t have been off the table. There’d been an incident here and there of a drunken makeout, or all the uproar during games of spin the bottle. She was ever polite, but she wasn’t a prude.
But things can change with time, especially at first jobs. She’d had her fair share of internships, school organization work, but her family always warned her that first jobs were a whole other beast in themselves. That’s why ending up at Runway made her wonder just how drastic of a transformation she’d have. It was upon meeting Miranda that the hows of her shift became a matter of when.
Everyone was stuck-up, that was the truth of the matter that didn’t help her situation. Stuck-up sycophants who bowed down to the great Miranda Priestly, or at least tolerated her to a greater degree. So she learned to dress up. She learned to stop scurrying about and sulking. She held her breath, and told herself to suck it up, because it would be a year. Just a year, whole life falling apart be damned.
And clearly Miranda caught wind of it all. To an extent, Andy hadn’t thought it would happen at all; every time she threw that coat down, it was like getting her soul sucked out of her body. But in between all that dismissal and indifference were those glances at something else: lingering fingers during accidental caresses while taking a stack of photographs; breath hitched when Andy handed her morning coffee; a quick look up and the body, longer than usual, like she could see through the pure cotton and cashmere. Hesitations mid-command. Moments of softness corrected in seconds.
Andy had noticed it all. It made her cheeks flush, but all that had been hidden underneath the makeup she so meticulously put on in the mornings. The woman was a goddamn pain, no one could deny that. She’d kill anyone to get an easy out of the grunt work. Yet as she adjusted to all the fantasy of Runway, there was part of her mystified about Miranda in that morbid way. What made this woman tick? Those old interviews could only tell her so much. A master of style, a fierce woman who aged like wine. What else?
Then came another late night in the office. Andy was all alone, her computer screen blaring light right into her eyes as she made the final rounds of seemingly endless calls. Versace this, Fendi that, six in the evening reservations, updates on an order of couture dresses from an up-and-coming-who–knew. Nate called her an hour ago. Her voice was near hoarse. At least she could slip off her sky high Louboutin wedges, the cream pleats of her Ferregamo dress hitched higher up as she slumped in front of her desk. She’d taken every accessory off, her desk littered with bangles and necklaces.
As she rushed to write down every reminder she would have to hand to Miranda, there was a moment where she thought she’d gone mad—it was the noise of clacking heels, growing ever louder. What followed was her rational mind telling her that it was just Emily again; she’d come back in a few times. It wouldn’t surprise her one bit.
The lights didn’t need to turn on for Andy to realize her wrong assumption. Her stomach dropped when Miranda came into view, still in the same clothing as earlier: white blouse, navy blue trousers, high, high heels. Hermes, Jean Paul Gaultier, vintage Gucci—it was easy for Andy to identify these things now. Even against her will, even amidst scrambling to slip her wedges on and tie them around her ankles.
Andy’s words came out clumsy at best: “Miranda, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting–”
“Come speak to me in my office,” Miranda said, detached as ever as she walked into the office. No bag, no coat, no turning on the lights. There was nothing but cool moonlight shining through the large windows of that ever clean space. She picked up a pile of photographs on her desk, eyeing them as best as anyone could in near darkness.
And despite the growing comfort wearing heels, despite all the support of a well-made wedge, Andy nearly fell flat on her face as she rushed into Miranda’s office. She’d never heard of any incident of this sort making the rounds. What did this spell out to her? She was in deep shit. That squint of Miranda’s as she found her footing and stood up straight seemed like a nail in the coffin.
Though that hadn’t been the case. No, not at all.
It started with mundane discussions of any updates that occurred before Miranda stepped out for her 6 PM appointment. Updates on the calls Andy made earlier in the evening. Updates on what tomorrow’s schedule looked like. Miranda never looked up from the images she cycled through. It had all been so mundane that Andy could feel her stomach twist and turn, wrung like a washcloth as this is how it always went. Get through all the light stuff before letting the other shoe drop. Her nails dug into her palms. She was one wrong look away from dropping to her knees and apologizing to Miranda for nothing at all.
Then Miranda dropped them back onto her desk. “Remind me to discuss that Chloé shoot with Nigel,” she said with a sigh. Mediocre.
“Right, I’ll jot that down,” Andy said, hands clasped together as Miranda took a step closer. “Is… is–” No questions. She gulped. “I–”
“And Andrea, with Anna Sui. Have you called?” Miranda took another step.
Andy nodded. “Yes, we’ll get the new bags by…” Her words trailed off as Miranda was near as could be. She’d never stood so near her, and the perfume wafted into her nose, the usual hints of it now an attack on the senses instead. Citrus. Amber. It must have been that Guerlain scent, Shalimar. She’d been asked to buy a bottle before. Though amidst this distraction still came out the quiet murmur of: “Miranda…?”
The wedges brought Andy an inch or two taller than Miranda. But that hadn’t stopped Miranda from holding her by the back of her head, and pulling her in for a kiss like it was nothing. Not cloying, not fierce—it was mild as could be, like Miranda was merely testing the waters. And despite the initial freeze, Andy found herself kissing back too. She tilted her head down, her hands rushing to Miranda’s waist, her sticky gloss mixing with satin-finished lipstick. There wasn’t a hint of alcohol when Andy felt Miranda’s tongue try to slip past her lips.
Though when they pulled back, Andy’s mind was filled with a thought: they had men back home. There were tabloids. Who knew what would happen had they been caught on the trashiest fringes of journalism? In that silence, Miranda studied Andy with half-lidded eyes.
Andy cleared her throat, licked her lips absentmindedly. “Miranda, this isn’t–I–look–”
“If you’re going to question things, don’t start,” Miranda said as she played with Andy’s hair, fingers trailing down to feel over the exposed skin of her smooth shoulders. “We’re both adults here, Andrea. There’s no need to be so coy.”
Andy wanted to laugh, knowing that similar lines of thinking were what had her experimenting throughout her first few years of adulthood. But with Miranda, there was that aching feeling through her body that this wasn’t some silly fling. No, this was…
“Okay,” Andy said, eyes following the well-manicured fingers dragging down against her skin as she shivered. “But… it’s late, Miranda. I’m sure we have better things to–”
There was a firm grasp on Andy’s arm, and she gasped out as Miranda’s command slipped out: “Andrea, stay.”
All protest was lost, stuck in Andy’s throat as she took a deep breath.
It wasn’t long before Andy was bent over Miranda’s desk. Both palms and her cheek pressed against the glass.
Though it didn’t happen like it did in all those romance movies; frenzied was the last word to describe the lead up. Once the order to bend over came, more came to follow. Andy cleared the desk of its documents, placing them in a neat stack on one of the chairs before them. Breakables were placed on the table off to the side. All technology was pushed to the far edges of the table. When Andy's hands rushed to pull off her clothing, Miranda held a hand up.
"Keep it on. You’ll leave a mark on the glass.” Miranda’s nose twitched. “And be careful with your dress.” A pause. “And take off your shoes, unless you want your back to ache…”
When Miranda pulled up her skirt, Andy gasped at the gentleness with which Miranda’s hands moved, soon revealing the soft white cotton panties underneath. The fashion may have changed, she may have more lingerie than usual, but she still had to keep hints of her practicality.
“Right,” Miranda murmured to herself as she pulled the panties down to Andy’s ankles, and the cool air hitting her wetness made her whimper out loud. She’d been soaking this whole time, and she wouldn’t notice had it not been for Miranda’s comment: “Well, you’re clearly excited.”
Andy's face scrunched up in her embarrassment before she tried to relax against the chill of the glass, nodding as best as she could in her position. “I… I am,” she said, unsure how else to respond. She felt like she was a goddamn virgin again.
When the silk of her dress began to slide down her back, Miranda ordered: “Hold your skirt up.”
Andy’s hands rushed to keep the skirt hitched up to her waist. Though there was that incoming realization. So how many women had Miranda–?
Out came Andy’s whine as Miranda’s fingers ran over her cunt, dragging over to coat them in her wetness. The sensation itself hadn’t differed from other lovers before, though now there was the thought that this was Miranda Priestly, in the middle of the Runway offices, late at night, an affair…
Andy lost her train of thought as Miranda smacked her cunt, and her instincts had her pressing back as she cried, the sting in her center bringing about a sting of heat in her cheeks. Another smack. Another cry.
“Fuck,” Andy muttered just as Miranda’s fingers rubbed small circles against her clit. Out came small moans, out came murmurs of, “Oh god”. Her fingertips were like heaven, and Andy couldn’t help herself, her hips rolling back against the touch.
Behind her, Miranda scoffed and soon after gave a harsh smack on the side of her thigh. Andy let in a sharp breath, and yet she never stopped rocking. “Are you always this… reactive?” She never slowed the movements of her fingers, her free hand now rubbing Andy’s hips. “You act as if you’ve never been touched.”
It was one of those moments where Andy wanted to let out some snark of her own. Yet all that came now were her shaky breaths as her mind was seemingly ridding itself of every single word she knew, one by one. “No one’s–” She went slack-jawed as Miranda quickened her pace, adding more pressure against her throbbing clit. Her moans grew louder. “No one’s touched me like you–”
“Not even that boyfriend of yours?” Miranda asked.
How did she even remember I had one? Andy couldn’t help but wonder even as she debauched herself without hesitance. And as if on command, her cellphone in the other room began to ring out loud. “Shit,” she murmured to herself, pressing herself up. “I got to–” She gasped as Miranda forced her back against the glass, knocking all the air out of her. “Miranda–”
“I don’t like being interrupted,” Miranda snapped as she gave Andy’s cunt another smack. “You are well aware of that.”
Andy took a deep breath, raising her head as best as she could to stare in the vague direction of her phone. “I… I know,” she said. “I apologize.”
“Good.”
Miranda continued without warning (but when would she ever warn?). She added more pressure to her touch, up and down now, and Andy melted against her. In the other room, there came the ringing. It was relentless, going on for minutes of its shrill ring. But Miranda always proved herself more relenting, still keeping Andy in place as she never faltered one second in pleasuring her. In those minutes—and those to follow—Nate wasn’t important. Not at all. The room was all heat, the mixing scent of citrus and sweat, and it was all her mind could focus on.
But then Miranda paused, pulled back. Silent. All Andy could do was whine.
Andy, raising her head, was quick to ask: “Why did you stop…?”
“Reach your hand around. Touch yourself for me, Andrea.” In that simple request remained that tone of sternness, yet it also wavered for a moment. Andy hadn’t misheard; there was lust in the way her voice lowered. Miranda Priestly was still human after all.
“Touch myself,” Andy repeated as she slid down, down, down until she had her clit between her fingers. She always touched herself in this odd little way—little pinches and tugs on herself, rolling her clit between her digits. And when the motion began, matching Miranda’s earlier speed, another scoff graced Andy’s ears. All she could do was whimper in response. She could imagine that subtle disdain in Miranda’s gaze, the confident stance—she was already soaked, yet she swore it made her wetter.
“Keep that pace,” Miranda directed as one pressed against the warmth of Andy’s entrance. Uncharacteristic, a question slipped past her lips: “You don’t mind, do you…?”
Andy quivered at the brief lapse of harshness, and her response came in a whisper: “I don’t mind.” A whisper was all she could handle.
When Miranda pressed a finger in, Andy had to do everything in her power not to come right then and there. She sobbed out even at the smallest intrusion, and her other hang rushed to cling to the edge of the desk. Before she knew it, she was fucking her without a hitch, in and out and matching her speed. They were in perfect rhythm.
Clarity hit Andy for a second. She wondered how she would look Miranda in the eye later, if this was all a one-time fling, if this office would become a sacred space in the odd hours, and maybe she would stay back at Runway just a bit longer. A month more. Two. Others would look at them strange, especially Emily. Nigel. Maybe it would evolve, turn into more than this… game. If this continued on the way it had–
Another finger in, and Andy's knees were trembling. She could barely keep up with Miranda, who fucked her like nothing else in the world mattered. Suddenly the ruthlessness came in her speed, that push to go deeper, pressing Andy harder against the glass. If Andy hadn’t lost her mind, she knew she’d repeat it like a mantra: Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…
Only then had it hit Andy: she was growing closer than ever. It was building up within her in a way that it never had—like she was reaching a boiling point, her body scorching all over, and she was preparing to burst. Trying to match Miranda’s mercilessness, she grew sloppy as she rubbed her clit, and what gloss remained on her lips began to leave peachy marks on the glass, and she tried to fuck herself back on Miranda who was oh so generous to add another finger. Had any other man made her feel this way? Had anyone else made her feel so dizzy, so out of her mind, so stretched?
“Oh my god, Miranda–”
“Come for me, Andrea.”
And what else could Andy do? Succumbing to all the pressure, her orgasm came in a burst, one that had her sobbing out so loud that it echoed through the empty floor. She shook and shuddered as each wave of her orgasm hit her. And all the while, Miranda never stopped her relentless thrusts, and her cunt clenched down against all three fingers that stretched her beyond belief. In all its force, it could have lasted for ages. But all it took was a few more seconds before Andy was a panting, tired mess atop the glass desk.
Andy’s mind was quick to slip back into its prior state. She could read the headlines now… though she couldn’t think of anything crass or clever at the moment. Not when she’d just been fucked out of her mind, and her cellphone began to ring again in the other room. How long had they been at it? It didn’t feel like it took ages, but it was definitely nearing midnight now.
Out slipped Miranda’s fingers and the rustling of clothing, a sigh. Not a word, though it wasn’t a surprise to Andy that she could be so cold even post-coitus. Unsure what else to do, Andy forced herself back up on her feet, straightening herself out as best as she could, bending down for her shoes she unceremoniously tossed aside. In the middle of getting herself together, she swore she caught Miranda taking her own fingers out of her mouth.
Do I taste good? Andy mouthed to herself, and Miranda hummed not long after. She smiled to herself as she was soon back to standing tall. If she could get back to her desk, get her comb, gloss, she’d look fine. “Well–”
“Don’t forget to put everything back,” Miranda said as she waved around at everything rearranged. “Oh, and is there an update on the dinner?”
“The dinner?”
Miranda sighed. “In preparation for the William Klein retrospective.”
Andy gulped. “No.” She couldn’t recall that. Maybe she could ask Emily in the morning, much to Emily’s chagrin.
“Then get that settled as soon as possible,” Miranda said with a roll of her eyes. She reached forward, tugged on the smooth silk of Andy’s dress that had gotten stuck in the rush of putting on her underwear. “That’s all.”
And with that, Miranda was out the door and all Andy could do was put everything in its right place.
The next morning was going to be an odd one. There was part of Andy that wondered what she’d gotten herself into. But at least Andy knew now that in the morning, when she’d look Miranda in the eye, there was something only the two of them could share.