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“Stop squirming.”
Andy, naturally, doesn’t listen. The chair she’s sitting in seems to grow more uncomfortable with each of Miranda’s visits, and right now it’s like she’s sitting on red-hot coals mixed with needles, and she wants to get as far away from it as possible. But she cannot escape, not when she needs makeup for the evening, and not when Miranda is leaning over her, a hand on the backrest of Andy’s chair, bracketing her in until squirming is all she can do.
“It tickles,” Andy huffs, trying for levity. “You know this tickles. You can’t blame me for responding to it.” She casts an accusing look at the brush Miranda is holding in her right hand, double-sided, one part packed and flat, the other fluffy and soft. She hates the fluffy one.
Miranda sighs. “We’ve been over this already, Andrea,” she says, and oh, the way she says Andy’s name. The only person who uses the full version; she’s Andy to everyone else, just Andy, and yet Miranda stubbornly sticks with her Andrea. “Close your eyes.”
“It tickles,” Andy pouts again, childishly, though she obediently closes her eyes. It’s all too easy to listen to whatever Miranda tells her to do—and not just because she knows better when it comes to makeup. No, something in Andy is just eager to listen to her, no matter what. She usually doesn’t examine this further, but usually is not when Miranda is in one room with her, which means that right now, all of Andy’s focus is on behaving semi-normal around her.
Miranda exhales slowly and leans closer, close enough that Andy can feel her breath on her face. It’s soft, like a touch of butterfly’s wings, controlled and completely unaffected with their proximity. Of course Miranda is unaffected; she has dozens of clients she tends to in this way. Andy is special in many ways, but not in this one. Not to Miranda.
Her eyes try to flutter in anticipation of the brush despite being closed. Miranda must be seeing that too, given how she huffs out a soft laugh when she touches the brush to Andy’s eyelids. Andy definitely doesn’t flinch at that. She doesn’t.
“You’re so tense,” Miranda whispers. The brush is moving over Andy’s eyes, painting it in shades of silver, grey, and blue, all while her other hand is still on the backrest, close enough to Andy’s body that her body heat seems to burn through the thin robe she’s in. “One could think you are nervous.”
Andy swallows. The sparks under her skin are inconsequential.
“I’m not nervous,” she mutters. Miranda hums, the brush moving in circles now, blending the eyeshadow outwards. She’s leaning even closer now, making soft sounds under her breath, and it takes all strength Andy has to not let anything show up on her face. It’s all professional from Miranda’s side, she knows. She will not make things awkward by letting her realise that to Andy, it does not feel professional at all.
“Open your eyes.” The brush moves away from Andy’s eyelids, giving her space. Andy’s eyes blink open, only to realise that Miranda is close enough that all it’d take from Andy’s side is moving a bit closer, and she’ll learn whether Miranda’s lips are as soft as they look. “See? You can stop squirming when you want to,” Miranda notices, taking a step back. The warmth of her body goes away, too, and Andy misses it immediately, enough so that she has to clench her hand in a fist to not grab Miranda’s hand and pull her close again.
Miranda turns away to the vanity, going through the cosmetics there like she always does. Her fingers grazing everything like it’s nothing special, like Andy’s eyes aren’t fixed on them, imagining them in other, more private places, turning the idea over in her head until her mouth goes dry.
How stupid of her, to have this many people under her—the entirety of Runway, really—and still harbour a childish crush on her makeup artist.
Miranda picks something up, facing Andy again with an innocent smile. “Eyes up,” she requests, like Andy doesn’t remember the order in which Miranda works, like she still needs reminders, even after all these years Miranda has been working for her. Or maybe Miranda just likes ordering Andy around.
Andy wouldn’t complain if that were the case.
She looks up, and then Miranda’s hand is on her face, very careful yet so hot where they touch her cheek, stabilising itself there, the way Miranda always does. Her moves are clinical, professional, but all Andy can focus on are Miranda’s slow inhales and exhales and the smell of her, cold and green and so very Miranda that Andy can’t think straight whenever she’s around it.
She bought the same perfume Miranda wears in a moment of weakness—the very second she smelled it in a store—though she’d never admit that out loud. That, or the fact that she sometimes sprays her clothes with it, or her sheets, so that Miranda accompanies her everywhere.
“Is it too warm?” Miranda’s voice snaps Andy out of her thoughts. She looks at Miranda again, so close to her face, with something like concern painted over her features. “You are flushed.”
Andy’s cheeks burn harder, and it clearly is visible to Miranda given the way she croons. “Poor thing,” she muses, and Andy’s insides turn to mush with that tone of her. It should be illegal to have a voice like this, and the warmth in it, and the softness, and— “I can go find someone to set the temperature to something lower—”
“No,” Andy chokes out, grabbing Miranda’s free hand before she dares to leave Andy alone like this. “No, it’s—it’s alright.”
Miranda’s brows furrow slightly. “Are you sure?” she asks, tilting her head. Andy is suddenly very aware of the fact that Miranda’s other hand is still resting on her cheek, even though she’s not applying mascara onto her lashes anymore. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
Andy is many things, but uncomfortable is not one of them. Or, well, it is, but definitely not in the way Miranda is imagining.
“I’m okay,” Andy assures her, dutifully ignoring how unconvincingly it sounds with her throat closing. Miranda won’t notice that anything is wrong, and if she will, she’ll blame the temperature.
Miranda clicks her tongue. “Well, then,” she mutters, finally taking a step back—her hand falls from Andy’s cheek, and Andy misses the warmth immediately. “Open your mouth.”
There’s no lipstick in Miranda’s hand, and yet she wants Andy to be ready for it, to wait for her with lips parted. Andy can do nothing but obey, breathing through the way her chest starts to close in that funny way, through the burning deep in her stomach and the flaming cheeks. She is a professional. Miranda is a professional. It’s all fine.
Miranda grabs a lipstick from the vanity, steps right into Andy’s space again, and then nothing is fine anymore. She’s closer than before, close enough that Andy can smell the bitterness of her perfume without fail; it makes her heart stop, just for a moment, because that certain bitterness is present just at the opening. Which means that Miranda put it on just for Andy, and not because it’s something she does at the start of each day. For Andy specifically.
“Look up,” Miranda says quietly. Andy listens, moving her gaze to the ceiling even if it doesn’t make any sense at all—but Miranda meant looking up with her whole head, and so Miranda’s fingers land under her chin, tilting Andy’s head up and guiding her head the way she wants it to.
Andy is very aware of every place Miranda’s fingers press against, of her hold on Andy’s chin, so deceitfully gentle in the way it holds Andy’s head firmly in place, so that even if she wanted to look to the side, she wouldn’t be able to.
Miranda leans closer again, uncaps the lipstick, and then presses it against Andy’s lower lip, slowly moving it to the side. With the speed of it, Andy has time to catalogue everything: Miranda’s eyes, fixed on Andy’s lips with an undivided attention, icy-cold in colour but soft somewhere deeper beneath, the way the corner of Miranda’s lips is twitching, the beautiful wrinkles on her face, framing it instead of ageing her, and the way her breathing tickles Andy’s nose again. Andy is aware she’s staring, in the back of her mind, and yet she cannot stop, not when her eyes catch on the crow’s feet in the corners of Miranda’s eyes, so delicate and so stupidly kissable that she flushes more at the very thought of it.
Miranda, mercifully, ignores Andy’s blush and just moves the lipstick to Andy’s upper lip, tilting her head up more for better access. Andy lets her, gladly so, and then tilts her head further than Miranda pushes it, a small sigh escaping her lips.
Miranda freezes, just for a moment, and then laughs, soft like bells chiming. It goes straight to Andy’s core, burning there together with the mortification at what she’s just done; she wants to hide from Miranda, immediately, except that she can’t because Miranda is still holding her face in place, not letting Andy look down. Or away, for that matter.
“Oh,” Miranda breathes, and the sound seems to curl on her lips, soft and delighted. “Oh, Andrea, you should’ve told me before that you like this.”
Andy makes a half-squeak, half-whimper, immediately biting her lip to prevent any more embarrassing sounds from escaping. Miranda tuts, her finger smoothing out the wrinkle between Andy’s brows, and then moving to Andy’s bottom lip to fix the smudged lipstick there, her touch lingering there. “No ruining your makeup,” she chides, and her voice is sweet enough, amused enough that Andy forgets herself for a moment long enough for her eyes to flutter shut. She snaps them open immediately, to the soft melody of Miranda’s laughter, meeting her gaze square-on.
She licks her lips, catching herself too late; Miranda’s eyes darken, just slightly, and Andy feels her attention like a physical thing, the need to squirm once again growing somewhere deep within her. “What if I want you to ruin it?” she asks quietly, her fingers catching Miranda’s shirt, pulling her close enough that their noses are almost touching.
Miranda’s gaze flickers to where Andy’s tongue was a moment earlier and stays there.
“Then,” she says slowly, her voice low, “you would have to cancel your plans for the night. And call in sick tomorrow, because if I finally have you—” she breaks off with a shrug, as if she’s unaware of the effect she’s having on Andy, though the spark in her eyes and the corner of her lips turning up in a self-satisfied smirk suggest otherwise.
Andy laughs in disbelief, half-delirious with surprise and need, and then she moves her hand from Miranda’s clothes to her hair, tangling her fingers in the silver strands, and then she’s pulling her close, kissing her, tasting the faint sweetness of her lipstick, the scent of her filling her senses until she’s not sure where she ends and Miranda starts.
She fishes out her phone from her pocket without looking, clicking Emily’s speed-dial with muscle memory. The call rings in her ear for exactly two signals: Emily picks up just as Miranda places an open-mouthed kiss on Andy’s neck, and then another. Andy curses her silently, clearing her throat into the phone pressed against her ear.
“Emily,” she says coolly, though keeping that tone up proves harder than expected when Miranda moves even lower, to where Andy’s bathrobe has already fallen open. “Stomach flu. I won’t be coming tonight. Deal with—” She bites down on her lip, hard, to stop herself from moaning as Miranda chooses that exact moment to drag her teeth across Andy’s collarbone. Andy has just enough self-control to squeeze her eyes shut, swallow any improper sounds down, choke out, “Won’t be at work tomorrow either, don’t call me, don’t come to me, just deal with it,” into the phone, and then hang up.
When she opens her eyes, she stares right into Miranda’s blue ones, gleaming with pride, and Andy thinks she’s finally ready to give Miranda her undivided attention for as long as she wants.
Though she cannot promise she won’t squirm. Miranda seems to like it, after all.