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I thought I had Miranda pegged, and as heartbreaking as that was, from my point of view, it gave me a frame of reference for how to act around her. After a full year as her second assistant, which was mostly errands and waiting around for the Book, I could now make my sixth notch in my belt for the sixth month as her first assistant. Six additional months and I will get my highly coveted sparkling letter of recommendation from her, Nigel, and, as it turns out, perhaps even one from Serena, who has risen in the ranks. She insists on crediting me for being ‘instrumental’ in her promotion. If by that she means that I kept Miranda from micromanaging her, then perhaps.
What I hadn’t counted on was signs of Miranda acting out of character—or perhaps not quite that, but lately I have found her staring at me, both surreptitiously and openly. In the beginning, I was certain I had screwed up in a major way, but as she never came outright and said anything, and who has ever known Miranda Priestly, Devil in Prada, hold back for any reason. Unless it was about politics with the brace and being all corporate, which turned her into a stealthy barracuda.
“Andrea.”
I flinch at her sotto voce tone as I grab my pen and pad. I'd better not regress into easily startled and shocked Andy, or she’ll bite my head off.
“Yes, Miranda?” I stand at her desk, but ever since I got my promotion, I don’t stand at attention. I leave that to my successor, Penelope, who still cannot breathe properly around Miranda.
“Tonight I need you to escort me to the charity gala. It is massive and I loathe it.” Miranda keeps her eyes on her laptop, but she isn’t reading or typing. A thought hits me. She’s using it as a shield. When the hell did she start doing that? I try to think back.
I only realize I forgot to answer when she snaps her eyes up to meet mine. “Andrea? Please. don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Of course I’ll—” I stumble on the word escort, as that’s not one she uses when she brings her assistants to a function. We’re just expected to be there, as her memory, and to be sent on even more errands. “I’ll be there. Dress code?”
If it’s my question about what to wear that distracts her, I don’t know, but now she taps her bottom lip with the pad of her right index finger. At the same time, she pulls off her reading glasses and narrows her eyes at me. She looks more calculating than annoyed, which makes me draw a non-trembling breath.
“It’s not a fashion crowd, per se, but I still want you to pick something from the closet—come to think of it, I have half an hour before my two o’clock, I believe. I’ll go with you. You must wear something suitable.” Miranda stands and adjusts the hem of her wrap-around blouse.
Am I not always? I want to huff but know it’s futile. Miranda doesn’t take kindly to demonstrative expressions. Instead, I retaliate by smiling broadly—too broadly—and thank her for taking the time. If she thinks I’m going to object or show any kind of awkwardness, she’s mistaken.
Miranda’s only reaction is subtle, but obvious. Her eyes widen slightly and she blinks rapidly twice.
When we reach the Closet where Runway keeps the clothes sent to them by designers, fashion houses, and retailers, it goes from bustling to empty as soon as we step through the door. I think I hear Miranda snort and have to smile again.
“It’s like a magic trick,” I say before I have time to edit my words.
“Good. It means I have something to fall back on if this editor-in-chief gig doesn’t work in the end,” Miranda deadpans, and I chuckle. I’ve always known that Miranda has a sense of humor, but she rarely shows it.
Miranda has me trying on one evening dress after another. She doesn’t let me leave the dressing room, and I hear her staccato heels clack against the marble floor. I stand there, shivering a little in my white La Perla lingerie while I wait for the next dress. Miranda takes longer than before and just as I begin to debate if I should get dressed again, I hear her return, but this time her steps are slower, almost lingering.
I poke my head out as this concerns me for some reason, and I see her walk toward me with a red dress hanging over her arm and holding her phone in the other hand. I slip back inside before she sees me, but study her closely as she pushes the hanger at me, her eyes still on the phone.
“Something come up?” I ask as I hang the dress on the wall. I don’t wear four-inch heels to work, mainly for self-preservation reasons, like the risk of slipping on the floor when I hurry through Elias Clarke’s corridors, and I will have to go on my tippy-toes for this dress, I can tell. It’s vintage Valentino, and I don’t reflect any longer how I can see that at a mere glance. Having studied back issues of Runway for almost eighteen months has given even me, who normally isn’t all that into fashion, a good eye for the masters.
“Mm? What?” Miranda blinks and then tucks her phone back into the small pocket on her pencil skirt. “Nothing work-related.” She doesn’t elaborate, and neither does she leave the dressing room when I pull the dress on. How can it be that it feels as intimate when I dress in front of her as it would feel while disrobing?
Miranda leans her hip against a narrow dresser and folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes are eating me up, there is no other way to describe how she follows my every move. I should just let it go and pretend I haven’t noticed, but I barely let those words pass through my brain when the more analytical part of me reminds me that she has to know that I can tell. And if I don’t say anything, she will know I know, and I don’t even mention it. That I just let her.
“You’re staring,” I murmur, rather proud that I manage to sound matter-of-fact. When I realize I can’t reach the zipper in the back, I simply turn around, but I don’t walk closer to Miranda, who instead must close the distance between us.
“Of course, I do, Andrea,” Miranda says calmly, but she remains close behind me, her hands on my waist. She nudges me so I face the mirror. “Now this is it, don’t you think?”
“You’re asking me?” I want to turn my head, but all I can manage is to meet her gaze in the mirror.
“Just look.” To my utter shock, Miranda slides her hands down my sides, and they end up resting on my hips. “It could have been made for you, for your figure and colors.” She lets go of my left hip and uses that hand to gather my long ponytail and twirls it up on top of my head. “Like this, with locks framing your face and neck. Black Pradas.”
“All right.” I can do all that, but she must let go of me. “I’ll take care of it. Now, don’t let me keep you, Miranda—”
Miranda’s raised eyebrows shut me up, and I merely stand there with one of her hands in my hair and the other on my hip. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get rid of me.” Apparently, I am rubbish at subtle hints, or they’re simply complete flybys over Miranda’s head, as she steps even closer, and, oh my God, the hand on my right hip ends up against my stomach. “You’re blushing.”
“Can you blame me?” I clear my throat and refuse to let it tremble. There have to be limits to the effects of this…whatever this is? A power game? Flirtation? Or is she simply bored?
“No. I suppose I can’t.” Miranda still doesn’t move. I can’t keep looking at myself with her body whispering against my back. I avert my eyes. “But you’re not alone, Andrea.”
What now? I blink and return my gaze and at first, I only see myself and my pink cheeks in the full-length mirror. Then she shifts, once again barely brushing against my back, and that’s when I spot it. She’s as flustered as I am, and on her creamy skin, it’s even more visible.
“Oh.” I can’t say anything more than that one syllable. My lips part, my tongue attempts to form letters and construct words—any words—but the next thing I manage is a gasp.
“Exactly.” Miranda lets go of my hair but keeps her right hand against me as she rounds me, and, thankfully, stands between me and the mirror. But then I make the mistake of looking up into her eyes and she walks me back until my back is pressed against the wall to my left. “I do need to get back to the office, but you make it very difficult, Andrea. As much as I would thoroughly enjoy assisting you, we both know why that can’t happen in the Closet.” She lets go of me, and I nearly whimper from the loss of her touch. She startles me by pulling down my zipper.
“And Andrea?” Miranda turns as she is about to exit. She rakes her blue-gray and storm-ridden eyes at me. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
I remain very still for a minute, taking her advice as I’ve actually held my breath for longer than is advisable. I pull off the Valentino with careful hands and hang it. I fold it gently over my arm, and then I go hunting for the Prada heels Miranda wanted me to get. Red lingerie, pale silk stockings, and a clutch to match the black heels.
Walking back to the office, I call Serena and ask her to help me, something she is only happy to do. I hear Emily in the background saying something like “oh, your favorite before-and-after subject,” and I have to laugh. She reminds me of Nigel’s quip after my interview, which she happily retold to me on several occasions. Serena hushes at her girlfriend, and then she sounds closer, as if she presses her phone closer to her ear.
“So, you are Miranda’s secret date?” Serena hums in what can only be deciphered as an ‘I told you so’ kind of delight.
“What?” I hiss. “What the hell are you on about? Secret date?”
“She’s been dodging the question of who was taking her to this hottest-ticket-event for a couple of months. Even people in my department have dared to ask her and instead of getting all huffy, and sending them jumping out the window voluntarily, she’s just smiled and shaken her head. And of course—it’s you.” Serena’s voice is kind rather than teasing now. “Something tells me she waited until the last moment and made it sound like a job assignment at first.”
That is so accurate I begin to sweat. “Um. I did take it like that. At first.”
“And now?”
I stop before I reach the office and step into one of the storage rooms. Standing among office supplies, I grip the phone harder. “Now I’m freaking out! How do you think I’m doing? She’s chosen my dress, no surprise there, but she went with me to the closet herself, and I swear, Serena, if she had stood one inch closer, I would have passed out.” I turn to the wall and thud my forehead. “I forgot to breathe.”
“The way she looked when Emily passed her on her way into my department, and which my girl described so vividly, I’d say she had problems breathing too fast. Right, Em?”
“She wasn’t hyperventilating, that’s taking it too far, but she never walks with one hand pressed to her chest like that.” Emily sounded closer. “So, pull your big girl La Perlas on and go be her bloody date, Andy. If you don’t, she’s going to go alone. I just know it.”
Can that be true? I hang up with Serena and Emily and then continue into the office. I’m not sure if I am relieved or envious when I see Miranda talking to her two o’clock behind closed doors. Probably both.
#
The venue wasn’t hosted at any place as iconic as the Met, but it was going to be held at the top of one of the tallest skyscrapers in Manhattan, overlooking the city, which would rival all the bling around female necks, wrists, and hair. I had debated wearing jewelry, but had opted for just a thin, gold chain around my right wrist. The dress fits me perfectly, which I knew of course from trying it on, but the heels elevated it in more ways than one.
When Roy collected me from Runway and drove up town and pulled up at Miranda’s townhouse, he waved at me to remain in the car. I was relieved, as the dress's perfect fit also made it a bit cumbersome to get in and out of the town car.
Miranda exits the townhouse and walks down the stairs. She’s a vision in her midnight blue, a custom-made Alexander McQueen gown that I know leaves her right shoulder bare under her faux mink stole and is all lace and satin. Forfeited but not tight and with a slight train. I know she will outdress every single woman at the charity event.
Roy rounds her and opens the door, and she smiles at him in a very personable way and then slips inside.
“Good evening, Andrea.” She presses the button for the privacy screen and then turns on the seat and looks at me, and only the fact that her pupils dilate helps settle my sudden onset of nerves. I have been to functions with Miranda in various assistant capacities but tonight it is different. Either I’m delusional, or the air between us is thick with anticipation and, oh damn, some dread, as well as those dark, sweet feelings that make me reverberate whenever I see her. I know I’m rather pathetic, but I refuse to feel guilty about it. I’m single, and as long as I’m not hurting anyone, my feelings for Miranda are my own.
Her feelings, or attitude, as it is sometimes hard to separate the two when it comes to Miranda, are entirely different. Yes, there’s attraction, and there’s quite often appreciation. That’s nice. It isn’t anything that remotely touches on what my brain sometimes allows me to feel. Like when I’m inebriated, or if I’m so tired that my self-preserving filters malfunction. Then, I’m so wrapped up in the vortex of my unrequited love, I can’t see straight. Good thing Miranda’s not into barhopping with her subordinates—that’d be the last straw for me.
And then the dressing room. I was sober, not tired, but in such proximity, it easily leveled even the protection of what being in semi-public at work normally provides. I know how I feel about Miranda, but I also know that I have put the locks in place around my heart and mind to keep me from screwing up—and from bleeding out.
If Miranda would only keep her fucking distance, but she doesn’t. She studies me so closely, it’s as if her eyes are suddenly tactile. And then she licks her bottom lip, so deliciously painted with mauve lipstick, a shade she’d never wear in the office.
“You’re playing with fire,” I say, and I’m not being deliberately bold, it’s merely a stopgap measure. My fingertips tingle to brush against her perfectly done hair, which is more swept away from her face and sprayed into submission by her stylist. I can only imagine the ASMR of it crinkling.
“How so, Andrea?” Miranda draws the words out, and that too is deliberate, I’m sure. What isn’t deliberate, and of this I’m even more sure, is the faint tremor in her hands as she turns her black, small clutch around, over and over.
“No games,” I warn and her eyes widen. “We both know.” I want to look away but can’t. This is what ‘going all in’ means in real life. I speak to Miranda as if there is an understanding, something we’ve addressed, when really, there’s only me and my perception of her words and actions.
I can tell she’s forcing back a catch-phrase or something else. She wants to put me in my place so badly, but she can’t. “You.” That’s all she says. That one word, but within the three letters there is room for a lot of interpretation.
I might as well forge on. She won’t fire me—of that, I’m sure. “I’m your date for this event, right? I’m not dressed in the ‘chic-and-discreet’ way you like your assistants to be. I’m very loud in this dress. It’s all on purpose…I just need to figure out exactly what that purpose is.” It could be anything. She could be using me as some smokescreen for something, or someone, or to create a buzz, which is crazy, of course. She’s not happy about being in the tabloids, but normally she just ignores their speculations. After tonight, they won’t speculate. They will write about the girl in red who is on Miranda’s arm.
“Yes?” I now answer Miranda’s one-syllable sentence with another one. Balance at all costs, after all.
“Don’t leave my side tonight, Andrea. Please.” She’s not being the Miranda I see at work every day. This is not like her, as she sounds close to pleading. That’s not something she does. I have only heard her do it once before and that was before her divorce when she tried to placate Steven. He was inebriated and angry, and she tried to reach him. At least the tone is different.
“Of course not, Miranda,” I say gently, and then I overstep completely by taking her hand. She grips my hand hard, but not so hard it hurts, and then she pulls me closer. I put my free hand up to create a bit of distance in case she suddenly forgets to be mindful of our dresses. Instead, my hand ends up half against her ribs and half on the underside of her right breast. I yank it away, knowing full well that I’m blushing. The soft weight of her breast works like a magnet for me, and I can’t move my hand no matter how much my brain screams for me to do so.
“I suppose that’s only fair,” Miranda whispers huskily. “When we considered earlier today.”
“In the dressing room,” I add, and my voice is clear.
“Yes. That.” Miranda narrows her eyes and then brings her free hand into whatever game this is and ends up pressed against my decolletage. “Good choice to go without jewelry. You’re far too beautiful to need any such accessories that would only come second compared to your skin.”
The low hum between my legs that I’ve so far managed to keep in check decides to bring it up to a five rather than a two. I wear briefs made of satin and lace, and the risk of seeping through them is imminent if she keeps that up. Then it dawns on me that I may just have put her in the same position. I stop my thoughts right then and there. If I think of Miranda potentially getting wet, I will lose it.
Instead, and I admit I’m panicking, I opt to slip my arm around her and remove it from her breast. I look her straight in the eye and say, “Are you nervous about tonight?”
This is one question too far, which I know, of course, and it prevents her from stoking the fire. “Nervous, Andrea? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I possibly be nervous? It’s a gala—one of many—and all I must do is show up and…” The look on her face when she realizes that she rambles is heartbreaking. “Well, yes, perhaps.” Raising her chin, she challenges me without words, and I merely give her a gentle squeeze before I break the connection between us and slide back into my seat. We’re about two minutes from our destination and I need every single one of those hundred and twenty seconds to find my bearings. Whether I’m a date, eye candy, a distraction…or something that I can’t even wrap my head around right now—I need to focus.
#
No wonder the gala is the hottest ticket in town. I would wager that it’s the hottest ticket on the entire Eastern seaboard. Every celebrity known to mankind from all professions, mill around the room, but despite their Hollywood glow or Broadway stardom, there can only be one queen.
Miranda steps out of the car to roaring applause and cheers, both of which she ignores, and into the foyer. I am by her side, not two steps behind, and somewhere among the cheering and shouting, I hear questions from reporters being hurled at Miranda, but also at me.
“Who’s the chick, Miranda?”
“Is the girl in red your date, Miranda?”
“Hey girl! What’s your name?”
“Girl in red! Who are you to Miranda Priestly?”
“Robbing the cradle now, are we?”
“Trying something new and see if it sticks, Miranda?”
“Is it love this time, Miranda?”
The last question from the press, which consists mostly of paparazzi out on the sidewalk, lands smack in the middle of my belly. I file it away and keep walking close to Miranda. From a certain angle, we could give the impression that we’re holding hands, and I feel her right hand touch mine with increasing frequency.
Inside, it’s controlled mayhem. Miranda gives a muted huff, but then her professional smile is on, and she places a firm hand at the small of my back. She has done so before, to guide me through crowds for speed, but this time she keeps it in place.
“Miranda, darling!” A voice breaks through the wall of voice, and a woman of Miranda’s age, whom I recognize as the editor of a literary magazine, makes a beeline for us. “It’s quite insane in here ever since several of the A-listers arrived all at the same time. You, my dear, are of course in a bracket of your own, so let’s get you over to the right in the big hall. There, you’ll be able to breathe and move.” She casts a glance at me, and then at our joined hands. “And of course, bring your…date. Plus one.”
“Linda, you’re a lifesaver. This is Andrea, indeed my date.” She air-kisses Linda.
And I gawk. Not ‘date for the evening,’ or ‘date for the occasion. Just date. I’m at a precipice, I know it.
“Andrea.” Linda air-kisses me before I have a chance to speak.
“Please,” I eventually murmur, “call me Andy. Almost everyone else does.” I shoot Miranda a glance, but she looks entirely casual.
“Andy. Of course.” As Linda weaves in and out through the throng of people, Miranda creates her own eddies and deltas as she passes through the people like an icebreaker vessel at the North Pole. Her hair glimmers in the light from the massive sconces and the art installation lights above us. Miranda keeps a firm grip on my hand and squeezes her hand gently to make her understand I won’t be the one letting go first.
When we reach the calmer section that holds more of Miranda’s, well, not peers exactly, but similar, she stops by the panoramic window. She definitely gives the impression that she looks out over her domains, and in a true way. Runway is the flagship that carries all the other publications under Elias Clarke's umbrella. Without it, no, without her, only a sliver of the proud company would remain. Irving Ravitz, the President of the conglomerate, knows it—and hates it since he loathes her. If Miranda could be bothered to do so, I think she’d loathe him right back.
The evening consists of greetings and air-kisses, and I suppose, networking. I have heard Miranda mention stats from my resume, and how I will go on to become the journalist I always dreamed of being. This creates even more interest in me and people flock around me, complimenting my vintage Valentino dress. Nobody seems to realize that Andrea Sachs is the same anonymous assistant Andy that many of them have barely glanced at what feels like a thousand functions.
At first, I’m flattered, I mean, it’s hard not to be when the editor-in-chief of the Washington Post fawns over you and gives you their business card. I feel ridiculous about not having any of my own, but Miranda casually mentions that I can be reached via her office.
Just then, a diminutive man and a much taller woman approach us, and my heart sinks when I see it’s Irving Ravitz, my boss's boss, and his wife. She is nice enough, but he is a true boardroom barracuda. He wears a mask of geniality, but it’s barely skin deep.
Miranda bares her teeth as she greets him, and I merely smile politely and hope he won’t recognize me. I feel Miranda grip my hand, and I nearly panic again. She’s goading him, surely that must be it? Then I see her set her jaw, and I understand that holding my hand gives her strength, no matter how unreal that sounds.
Irv’s eyes bug out, but his wife merely seems to notice Miranda’s grip on me with a surprised glance. Irv looks between Miranda and me, and his expression clearly states that he’s shocked, he does not approve, and he’s obviously trying to decipher where he’s seen me. I find this as fascinating as I would a dancing cobra, and I wonder how a dress, some makeup and hair trickery, and most important of all, a change in status, can make the one percent see you in a way they never did before.
I press my hand to my stomach as it all gets too much, even though I’m more pissed than ill at ease. Either way, my stomach is still rolling, and I swallow hard as I look for a waiter with something drinkable on a tray. As if conjured up by my thoughts, a waiter does show up, but he only carries champagne. So be it. I take a glass with my free hand and drink it far too fast.
Miranda’s alarmed expression is unmistakable, but then she looks around the people who have circled us, and she takes action. “You’re pale. I did plan to stay a few moments longer, as I have had more than enough of this. I have spoken to the ones I needed to and smiled enough for a year.” Despite her last words, she smirks at me. “Now you have been a trooper and played your part well. Let’s go home.”
She tucks my arm under hers and nods regally to her minions, in which she clearly counts Irv Ravits. She bids them a cordial, if a bit cold and rushed, goodbye, and we move like a steady stream of water among trees in a forest. She pulls out her phone from her clutch and summons Roy. Even that is, or was, my task, and now it’s being stripped from me. I feel so out of it for a moment. I wonder if I’m hypoglycemic, which has been known to happen while forgetting to eat. But I did eat a small pre-event meal, so that can’t be it.
“I cannot endure the vultures outside. Roy is picking us up at the side entrance. It won’t be completely deserted, but there will be fewer of those fools.” Miranda stops by the wardrobe, and I start to feel more myself and not so crowded as soon as we move to the side entrance.
Roy is already there, and I smile so broadly at him that he nearly loses his grip on the car door. I dive in and slip into my seat. Miranda is almost as fast, and we manage to dodge all but a few paparazzi. When Roy pulls into Manhattan evening traffic, I sigh and relax.
“Do you regret joining me?” Miranda asks and I can’t tell a damn thing from her blank face.
“Not a thing. I got stressed when they crowded us, but no. No regrets.” It’s true. If my time on Runway is really at an end at this very moment, I am glad to suck the marrow of what is left of this part of my life.
“Good.” Miranda relaxes marginally. Pressing another button, she clears her voice. “Townhouse, Roy.”
“Yes, Miranda. It will take a while though. Traffic is packed,” Roy says over the speaker.
“So be it.” Miranda lets go of the button and then stares into nothing for a while. As I’m busy gathering my thoughts myself, I don’t rush her by asking something that might just annoy her.
She finally turns to me, and even if it is just a minute of silence, I find it hard not to tap my foot.
“You seemed lost in thought,” I say gently.
“A lot rides on what I do next, so you can hardly blame me.” Again, with the raised chin.
“I would never. We take the time we need when we can.” I shrug and unbutton my coat as the town car is a bit too warm for my taste. Considering how Miranda takes her latte, I’m not surprised.
“What are you doing?” Miranda flinches, and her eyes widen.
“It’s hot in here. This dress is heavy, and my coat isn’t helping.” I straighten the skirt and kick off my heels. Moaning at the liberation of my toes, I tip my head back. Before I even have the chance to open them again, Miranda tugs me into her arms and holds me so close that I can feel her ribs move against mine, even through her coat.
“Miranda!” Her name gushes from my lips, but she buries her face against my neck, and it silences me. No matter her reason for pressing against me, I know I’ll take it. I fling my arms around her, secure that we are obscured from the world, and hold her just as tight.
“I never thought this evening would end. And I certainly didn’t expect my peers to lose all decorum and storm you like that. If I had known, I would have brought reinforcements.”
“I’m fine. Didn’t I handle it?” I bury my face in her hair and finally—finally—I get to experience that hairspray crinkling sensation against my skin.
“You did. I have no complaints. I worry you may have, though.” Miranda sighs against my neck, and I feel her lips move against my now dampening skin as she speaks. It sends shivers down my arms and my sides, and I hold her with all the tenderness I can muster. More than anything, I need her to feel that I’m here. Whether she truly wants me or not, if she cares for me or not, I—am—here.
“Andrea. Darling.” Miranda pulls back enough to frame my face with her hands. “This is happening too fast, and yet not fast enough. You are too much for me. Too beautiful. Too brilliant, and too young. Even your damn smile is too bright. I can never allow myself to relax around you, because if I do… You saw what happened in the dressing room today. I told myself that I would simply help you choose, and I had seen the Valentino hanging in the locked cabinet and I wanted you to try it on and you wouldn’t have been able to if I wasn’t there with one of the keys and—” She gasps and then hyperventilates when she runs out of air.
I can only stare at her. She actually sounded like she scolded me for things I cannot possibly help, and now her eyes burn me since she doesn’t look away for a second. If I didn’t know before, I would be certain now that I will never meet anyone like Miranda no matter how long I live. No one will ever make me feel like I’m to blame for the universe and still regard me as if devouring me with her eyes is what she has to settle for.
I know I must say something. Miranda is ready to burst, and all I can think of to say is, “You’re one to talk.”
Miranda doesn’t ease her grip, but her lips part and her eyes blink repeatedly. “I beg your pardon?” she asks quietly.
“You speak of beauty, of being overwhelmed. What do you think I’ve been doing for the eighteen months I’ve worked for you? Immune to you? Able to not ogle you as soon as you pass my desk?
Now Miranda’s lips describe a perfect ‘o’, but no sound comes out. I can’t resist her. I press my lips against hers and then find I have to struggle with myself not to deepen the kiss.
Miranda’s lips are like damp silk. She moves them slightly under mine and her hands slide down along my neck, shoulders, and whisper over my breasts before they grip my waist. I keep the chaste kiss going, and as chaste kisses go, this one borders on a lot more.
We sit in this embrace together, kissing occasionally, but mostly with our arms around each other and listening to the sound of Manhattan on a Friday evening. It becomes the back beat to this instant, carved out in time with Miranda, and I inhale it, taste it, and absorb it through my pores. The day will come when this is all I’ll have, and I want it all.
Roy pulls up at the townhouse and opens Miranda’s door after rounding the car. He respectfully pulls back after daring to offer her his hand. I wonder if he sees the faint traces of my lipstick on Miranda’s lips, or that her hair is in slight disarray. Roy’s one of the good ones. If he does, he’ll take it to his grave.
Miranda hasn’t said goodnight or goodbye yet and I fully expect her to do so. When she turns around, she has her work persona in place and yet she asks, “A nightcap, Andrea? To summarize the day?”
Hell, yeah. “Of course. I nearly stumble when I get out of the car, not having had time to put on my Pradas properly. Roy’s quick hand keeps me from doing a faceplant on the sidewalk. Miranda is already up the stairs and is opening the door, and I follow her, taking it a lot slower as I can’t be seen running after her into her house.
In the foyer, the room I have been to countless times to deliver the book, I pull off my coat and hand it to Miranda, who hangs it in the closet. When she turns back, I see on her face that she’s done pretending. There will be no drinks. No coffee. There will only be us.
She moves quickly and silently when she has to. I’m still in the foyer part of the hallway when she is suddenly back in my arms, one hand cupping my cheek and the other around my waist.”
“Enough, Andrea. Enough pretense.” She presses her lips against mine and then her tongue is in my mouth. I fire on so many cylinders, I’m unable to catch up at first. Then I moan and meet her tongue with mine. This. This is the right way, the right thing, and the right woman. I have no doubt when she presses me against the foyer wall and begins to unzip my dress. Her lips don’t let up. Her tongue punishes me again for something that’s not my fault, but I understand she has to go through this. She needs to show me. And what can I do when she kisses my world all blurry?
When she unhooks my strapless bra and the dress has irreverently been allowed to pool at my feet, Miranda steps back to look at me. It’s similar to the looks she has given me while at work, and which I interpret as her appraising my outfits. Apparently, it was this, just dialed down from this heat to one that is almost suitable for work.
“This will have to do,” she murmurs and unzips her own dress on her left side. When she discards it, she tosses it over the staircase banister, and then she tugs me up a few steps. We don’t make it more than six until she nudges me to sit down on a step. “Objections, Andrea?” Her eyes radiate a warning, and it’s just one sign of several that this is indeed Miranda Priestly at her most dangerous.
“No.” I’m only dressed in the silk lingerie and stockings that seem to stay up by sheer willpower, and she shocks me by kneeling in front of me and rolling them down my legs. Miranda is dressed in navy lingerie, a navy lingerie set. I see the bra has a front clasp and inspired by her boldness and hunger, I open it with trembling fingers. I’m not nervous but filled with nerves and I tell myself there’s a difference.
Miranda moans as the lace bra falls down her arms. I…just look. Pale, creamy skin, pink nipples that harden before my eyes, and I let my hand hover just a fraction of an inch in front of them when I lift my head to seek her consent.
“Touch me, Andrea.” It’s as much a plea as it is an order, and I heed both. I cup her breasts, and my eyes dart between them and her expression. At first, she studies me just as intently, but when I roll her nipples between my fingertips, she tips her head back and exhales with a moan. This sends more moisture between my legs.
Miranda lifts her head and then finds my lips. She deftly unhooks my bra, and it falls until it hangs in the creases of my arms. I don’t care—I’m not going to let go of her breasts.
“God, Andrea.” Miranda licks her lips at the sight of my breasts, and I shudder, expecting, dreading, and wishing for her touch, all at once. She flicks her thumbs across my nipples, and the electric charge from her touch is ridiculously intense.
“Miranda…” I moan her name and arch against her. “I swear…I’m too far gone for all this…” It’s true. I’m not even fully naked, and neither is she, but I’m trembling, and my labia are so swollen and, God, I’m wet. I’m going to come right here on her stairs, and there is so much I want to tell her, do with her…
Then Miranda’s hands are on my cheeks, and she kisses me, and now it’s not that voracious kiss that stole what breath I had and made me ache. Instead, it’s infused with tenderness, even if I can tell from Miranda’s breathing that she might just be far too aroused for this.
“Andrea,” she murmurs against my lips. “It’s not just you. I don’t think I can even manage to walk up the stairs.” She places a trail of hungry kisses along my neck and down to my collarbones. “Why don’t you tell me what you need—right now?” She pulls back and looks sharply at me. “There’s nothing you can’t ask for.”
I whimper. What the hell did she just say? And what can I possibly ask her for? I’m not accustomed to wishing for anything from Miranda, no matter how much I love her. I’m trained to be at her beck and call, and that’s a lot different… My thoughts trail off and then return with more clarity. I really don’t have to think. I just have to act.
“I want us to switch places.” I eye Miranda carefully, but she merely nods and moves two steps above me. Progress, I suppose, I think and smile.
“And?” Miranda tilts her head where she sits leaning on the step behind her on her elbows.
“And then I want to remove this.” I grow bolder by the second and tug at the waistband of her thong.
Miranda merely raises her hips. I don’t hesitate but pull them off and down her long, stocking-clad legs. I take the chance to remove her stockings as she did mine. She’s naked now, and my mind will implode if I give that more thought, so I launch at her and kiss her as she kissed me earlier. I manage to still be mindful of her back, so I don’t press it into the edge of the step behind her. She clearly doesn’t think about any potential injury but pulls me closer and devours me right back.
My head buzzes, and I feel moisture pool between my legs and seep through my briefs. I move back and pull Miranda with me. She scoots forward, and for a dreadful moment I think we might fall. I grip the railing, and somehow, we end up with Miranda one step further up again, and me straddling her.
She arches and looks at me from my eyes all the way down, and I can tell when she sees the state of my satin briefs since she smiles—no, smirks—and hooks her fingers in them. “Guess these are ruined for now.”
“Your fault,” I say calmly even if my heart is racing painfully hard.
“Get rid of them.”
Blinking at the sharp order, because there’s no damn plea in Miranda’s tone this time, I do as she says before straddling her again. Her eyes are aglow, and she doesn’t hesitate before placing a hand between my spread legs. She cups my drenched, swollen folds, and that’s when I see just how it affects her and understand why she sounded harsh just now.
Her fingers spread my folds as she tips her head back and rolls her hips up off the step. She’s shaking now.
“Andrea. Won’t you touch me?” she whispers, and I place one hand next to her and then one between her legs. A trim, silver-white tuft of hair, slick with moisture, and then swollen folds that I part as I’m as greedy for her as she is for me.
Miranda cried out, and it’s not loud, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was from pain. I bend and lean on my elbow instead now that we have found a position that works. “That’s it, do you like this?” I move my fingers further in and up and going past her inner labia I find her clit. She jerks and she’s not as careful when she slides her hand into position and rubs the back of her thumb against mine. I jerk and then my hips begin to move against her on their own.
“Inside, Andrea?” She looks up at me, her mouth half open as she keeps her gaze on me.
“Yes.” And then I realize I don’t know if she means her or me. I chance it and find her opening. I slide two fingers inside her, and she cries out again. As she seems too preoccupied to reciprocate right now, I slip away from her a step and bend down between her legs. She’s gorgeous and spreads her legs willingly while sobbing my name.
I start moving my fingers and then I can’t wait to taste her. I close my mouth around her clit and work my tongue against it, and she comes so fast, she must have been in a state of arousal for every bit as long as I have. Since the dressing room.
Miranda convulses and grasps for something to hold onto and her fumbling hands find the railing on either side of her. I coax one more orgasm from her, but then I’m shaking so badly, I can barely keep upright.
Miranda pulls me into her arms and holds me as she calms down. “Darling,” she says when she can finally speak. “Show me how to love you.”
I flinch at her choice of words but then take her hand and place it between my legs. I’m so sensitive I flinch a second time, and this makes Miranda draw a sharp breath.
“So close.”
“Been close since the car,” I say and press my face into her neck. “So, um, like this.” I place two of her fingers on either side of my clit, and she catches on quickly.
“Like this?” She moves her fingers in a circle, and I can’t believe it is her touch, her fingers against me, her fast breathing against my hair, and her scent that engulfs me.
“Perfect,” I manage to whisper before I explode into an orgasm that is close to painful. I whimper against her, and she holds me tight and lets her fingers explore as she helps bring up from the precipice I just fell into.
“Are you able to move upstairs?” Miranda murmurs after a while, and I nod slowly.
We get up, and it’s oddly non-embarrassing to stand naked next to Miranda. Her beauty is more ethereal than I could have guessed, and I wrap my arm around her waist as we make our way up to her bedroom.
#
Miranda’s bed is soft and smells of her. I would never have pictured her as the type that snuggles up, but she is with me. She pulled the pins from my hair and brought makeup wipes and cleaned both our faces. Now she’s playing with my hair and runs it over her lips and doesn’t hide that she smells it.
“I rushed us.” She looks up at me and for the first time she’s utterly vulnerable. After her passion, her dominance in most aspects of my life up to this point, her wide, troubled eyes are like a punch in my stomach.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully not to make her recoil.
“This. Today. It’s been coming for so long, and I talked myself into thinking I was losing you. I panicked—and rushed this.” She bites into her bottom lip and that’s when I understand that she needs reassurance. Another first.
“You must have noticed that I didn’t seem rushed. Not really.” I smooth her eyebrows and try to physically erase the frown. “I’m in love with you, Miranda. I have been for a long time.”
So many different emotions ghost across Miranda’s face, I can’t decipher them. “You…You are infuriating!” she hisses.
What? I gape but can’t say a single word. Tears form in the corner of my eyes.
When Miranda notices the tears that cling to my lashes, she rolls on top of me, frantically kisses them away. “No, no…please, don’t cry. You infuriate me because I thought it was only me and I’ve been so lonely and so sure that you were either pining for that cook boy, or at the very least another job away from the devil you work for, but then there were times when you looked at me and I couldn’t breathe, and I thought you looked at me and mirrored all the love I have for you, but I was sure I was wrong, and since I was, I thought if I steer you into the path of the best in the business at the gala that you would at least not end up too far away and there would at least be a chance…”
I smile so broadly now, it hurts. Miranda is babbling and explaining, and she never does that with anyone, not even the girls. She’s afraid to lose me and she loves me. I roll us over on our sides again and stop her words with a kiss.
When we part, she looks up at me with a dazed expression. “So…love, Andrea?”
“Yes.” I run my hand down her back. “I love you so much.”
She studies me for all of three seconds, and then she gives that beautiful, authentic smile that very few people ever see. “And I love you.”
We settle down, and I know it won’t be long before I want her again, and being allowed to touch her…I close my eyes, and then I feel her take a tress of my hair and pull it close to her face. Seems Miranda is as fascinated by my hair as I am with hers.
Just before I fall asleep, I feel the bed shift beneath me and crack open my eyes. Miranda pulls the duvet closer around us and then presses her lips against my temple.
“Good night, Andrea. Sleep tight.”
And of all the things she’s said today, done today, this is the most tender. I turn my face toward her and gently kiss the corner of her pretty mouth and whisper, “Night…”
END