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Miranda knows that she's tempting fate when she tells Emily to get the girl—Andrea—back. 

Regardless of her frumpy clothing and poorly maintained hair, this girl has so much potential. Dangerous potential. That look in her eyes when she dared to challenge Miranda…Miranda's scalp prickles with heat just thinking about it. 

Oh yes, this girl has an absolutely ruinous amount of potential. 

Miranda is not unaware of her own attraction to women, of course. She has decades of practice ignoring her own emotions, but she is unable to completely ignore her body, her baser instincts. 

Miranda has even indulged her attraction before—in anonymous bars and no-name motels, far from New York City, far from anyone who would recognize her, or care. But it's been over a decade since it has seemed worth the risk, now that she is a household name. Now that she has a family to think about.

Miranda has only grown more famous over the course of her career. One picture, one tell-all, would have been enough to ruin her image as a model heterosexual, which has been a regrettably important necessity in her rise to power. As long as she maintains that heterosexual veneer, no one needs to know that none of her husbands—no man at all, in fact—will ever be able to touch her heart. Miranda Priestly has more important things to worry about than feelings.

So she doesn't seek out women anymore. She allows herself a few glances, sometimes, when she's out and about. Never at Runway, but sometimes while she's in the car, or at a restaurant, she'll see a curvy woman with intelligent eyes and a confident attitude, and she'll let herself picture it. Later, she'll allow her husband to fuck her, and if she pictures the woman while it happens, well, it's all the same to him. As long as Miranda's wet, as long as she has an orgasm, it's really none of Stephen's business what she's thinking about.

As with many other things in Miranda’s marriage, what Stephen doesn't know won't hurt him.

Usually, she's safe at Runway. Safe from anyone with the courage to spar with her, the intelligence to arouse her interest, and the perceptiveness to notice it. She is especially safe from women with the type of curvy body that she is weak for. 

But Andrea—oh, Andrea is everything Miranda hasn't allowed herself to want for the past thirteen years. Defiant, smart, arrogant, kind, observant, ambitious, passionate. She tests Miranda's patience daily, but there is so much potential.

Miranda knows she's been cruel to her. Crueller than usual, even for someone known for her sharp tongue. But she's just so angry, so infuriated, so frustrated. What will it take, for the girl to finally open her eyes?

Apparently, what it will take is a lecture from Nigel, who has the emotional distance to accomplish what Miranda cannot. She isn't sure whether she wants to curse him or bless him for sending her such a tempting morsel wrapped in those Chanel boots. 

By the next day, Miranda has decided that she definitely wants to curse Nigel. Her fascination was so much easier to contain when Andrea's curves were concealed by lumpy sweaters and hideous skirts. My god, she's breathtaking. Miranda's hands shake so much she almost drops her coffee just looking at those thighs, those hips, those breasts.

Because Andrea is nothing if not an excellent assistant—finally—she eventually notices Miranda's strange behavior. Of course she does. She notices anything and everything, the better to anticipate Miranda's every desire.

Miranda should be terrified, knowing that Andrea is obviously dressing to please her. Knowing that Andrea could claim sexual harassment at any time. But the hemlines are gradually rising, the necklines lowering, the shirts getting tighter and more sheer. And Miranda, who has been successfully masquerading as a paragon of heterosexuality for so long, is helpless before the onslaught. She stares, she bites her lip, she shifts in her chair. She can barely make eye contact some days for fear of what her face will reveal. And Andrea's sharp brown eyes miss nothing.

Miranda makes one attempt to stop the descent into madness, after Andrea foolishly walks up the stairs of the townhouse. Miranda is humiliated to have Andrea, who has only seen her powerful and in charge, witness a moment of such weakness—witness Miranda explaining and justifying and pleading with a man, as she would never do at Runway. 

Furious, Miranda sets her an impossible task, knowing that this is her one opportunity to get rid of the girl for a reason she won't hate herself for later, a reason that won't damage her if it gets out. Andrea is young and inexperienced, but she is learning so quickly. Miranda knows she won't leave an opening like this again.

But instead of failing, Andrea rises to meet the impossible challenge. Miranda takes one look at her flashing eyes and smug smile, and she knows that she is doomed.

Weirdly, after Miranda’s tacit concession of defeat, they seem to grow…closer, somehow. Andrea greets Miranda cheerfully every morning, and bids her an equally genuine farewell every afternoon. She eagerly soaks up each scrap of Miranda’s attention. Oddly enough, Andrea seems to be developing some of the hero worship that most of Miranda’s assistants start with, which would normally be wearing off by now. It's flattering, of course, but she knows it's just about Andrea’s ambition, her thirst for knowledge. Still, Miranda enjoys explaining some of her decisions to Andrea occasionally, in the car or over The Book late at night. The girl always seems so awed, so grateful. Once, Miranda could swear her arms twitched as if she were going to hug Miranda goodnight before she left the townhouse. The girl must be half-delirious with sleep deprivation.

Possibly thanks to these quiet moments together, the two of them develop an uncanny sort of synchronicity—one mind in two bodies. Andrea predicts every reaction, plans for every contingency, averts nearly every disaster. If it weren't for one tiny, minuscule problem, she would be the perfect assistant.

That problem, of course, is the fact that Miranda spends a good portion of every workday gritting her teeth against the urge to rip Andrea’s clothes off and fuck her into next week.

If Miranda thought Andrea was provocative before, it is nothing to the outrageous outfits and challenging stares she is subjected to now. Miranda's glasses bear teeth imprints from the way Andrea grows more and more daring in response to Miranda’s obvious appreciation and distraction.

The first time Miranda gets herself off in her private bathroom during the workday, she can't look at Andrea for the rest of the day. But she had a board meeting that she couldn't risk being distracted for, and Andrea came in wearing that indecent Gucci blouse and leaned over to take notes during a run through, and Miranda nearly lost her mind. 

Andrea knows. Miranda's certain that she can smell it on her, from the way her nostrils flare when Miranda bends over her assistant’s desk to look at the schedule. If she had been in any doubt, the way Andrea's eyes glint at her would have removed it.

From then on, it's almost a game. Andrea flaunts, teases, tempts. Miranda stares, appreciates, very occasionally offers an understated, work-appropriate compliment. Andrea preens, smiles, angles herself just so. Miranda soaks her underwear, squirms in her chair, loses track of her thoughts mid-sentence. Thank god Andrea has the sense (after a few well-placed glares) to only behave like this when they're alone. Irv would have a field day.

Every time Miranda gives up and locks herself in her bathroom for a little too long, Andrea's eyes glow for the rest of the day. If only she were smug about it, it would be so much easier to bear. Miranda could hate her, then. But instead she looks…satisfied. Happy. She seems to revel in bending over Miranda's shoulder afterwards, inhaling the scent of her self-pleasure. No amount of cleaning up afterwards seems to fool her. She always knows.

Miranda knows she's playing with fire. She should shut it down. She's a happily marr—well, she's a married woman, anyway. But the thing is that she doesn't want to shut it down. For some insane reason, even though she is engaging in risky behavior that could jeopardize her career and her public image, she doesn't want to stop. Unbelievably, Miranda is having fun.

And for a straight woman with a boyfriend and some sort of ongoing flirtation with Christian Thompson, Andrea certainly seems invested in driving Miranda out of her mind with lust. Lately, Miranda has fancied that Andrea seems flushed every time Miranda slowly peruses her outfit. Once, Miranda could have sworn she saw Andrea's thighs clench under her mini skirt when Miranda hummed her approval of an outfit just loud enough for Andrea to hear.

Her eyes remain as bright and challenging as ever, her smile as wide, but there is something in the way she blooms under Miranda's gaze that is becoming more and more sexual. The way she breathes deeper, the way her pupils dilate, the way her hands clench. 

Yes, it's unmistakably sexual. But what does it mean? Perhaps she is just an exhibitionist. Perhaps she just enjoys knowing that she has the Miranda Priestly, who once called her fat, wrapped around her little finger. The only thing Miranda knows for certain is that Andrea cannot be attracted to her. She's straight, after all. She has a boyfriend.

This is what Miranda is more or less content to believe—if she can be said to be content with anything, while this girl slowly destroys her sanity—until the night it all changes. Until Paris.

It was the height of foolishness to bring Andrea to Paris. Miranda knew that even as she gave the order. But the thought of showing Andrea something so new and magnificent, such an important part of her world, was too intoxicating to resist.

So when the divorce papers arrive, when she is mourning yet another disruption in her children's lives, yet another friendship she must sacrifice on the altar of her career, it is Andrea who finds her in such a vulnerable state. Andrea, who is kind and sympathetic in a way that would never have occurred to Emily. Andrea, who is wearing a bodysuit cut almost indecently low, bending forward in front of Miranda. Practically offering herself, even if it's unconscious, today, instead of premeditated. 

Miranda, who is no longer beholden to Stephen, who is, for all intents and purposes, free to form new attachments, trembles. She had not intended to be wearing nothing but a robe when Andrea arrived. She had genuinely lost track of time. But now, now that she is here, alone with Miranda in a hotel…oh, how Miranda longs to take advantage. Bare herself completely for that penetrating gaze. Rub herself raw while Andrea watches her every movement.

She's not sure what gives her away. She didn't make a sound, didn't squirm. Perhaps her gaze lingered too long. Regardless, Andrea responds differently today. There's no subtlety, no teasing. 

She drops the seating chart, not even looking to see where it lands. Instead she is kneeling in front of Miranda, close enough to touch. Close enough that she could lean forward and bury her face between Miranda's quivering thighs, if she wanted to.

Miranda has no idea what's happening, what has dropped the veil from Andrea's expression so that she can see her consumed with lust.

Miranda feels a humiliating gush of moisture at that look, is acutely aware that she is going to leave a giant wet spot on her robe. Her scent is probably strong enough to reach Andrea, as close as she is.

Andrea inhales deeply and then gasps, hands balling into fists as she turns her face up towards the ceiling, eyes clenched shut. 

When Andrea opens her eyes again, they burn into Miranda, roving avidly across her face, then down to her neck and the skin bared by the vee of her robe. 

"My boyfriend broke up with me before I left," Andrea finally says, in a voice lower and rougher than Miranda has ever heard. "And Stephen broke up with you this afternoon."

Oh. Oh god. Miranda inhales sharply as her brain instantly begins to reevaluate every single interaction they've had in the past eight months. She throbs with the sudden awareness that Andrea is not, in fact, straight. Not at all. 

A straight woman would not be staring at Miranda like that. A straight woman would not be putting her hands on Miranda's knees, pressing them apart so she can scoot even closer, until she risks uncovering Miranda's nudity. Miranda feels another rush of moisture at the very thought.

"I felt so guilty,” Andrea admits breathlessly, “for lusting after you and dressing up for you. Especially because you were married. But now I don't need to feel guilty anymore. And neither do you."

Miranda squirms under her touch. The heat of Andrea's hands on her body, even through her robe, is enough to drive every single coherent thought from her mind.

"We shouldn't," Miranda says, although she is struggling to remember a single reason why not.

"Miranda, you're so wet that I can smell you. Do you know how crazy you've been driving me? Every time you touch yourself at work, I can smell it on you and I want to die."

Miranda whimpers. It's the most pathetic noise she's ever made in her life—tiny, weak. She would be horribly embarrassed if it hadn't made Andrea moan and clutch her knees in response.

"Miranda, please. I want you so much. You make me so…it's never been like this. I've never been like this, with anyone. You set me on fire. Just your eyes on my body are enough to make me ruin my underwear."

Oh god. It's mutual? This insanity, this ridiculous attraction—Andrea has been right there with her all along? The last remnants of Miranda's resistance crumple like tissue paper.

She lunges forward, hands curving behind Andrea's head to pull her into a kiss eight months in the making.

It's glorious. That warm, generous mouth is soft yet greedy. Andrea presses forward between her legs, close enough that Miranda knows her robe is no longer protecting her modesty to any significant degree. Miranda could not give less of a damn.

She is entirely consumed with the heat, the slick press of Andrea's tongue against her own, the delicious gasp when Miranda bites her lip, the full-body shiver when Miranda's nails scratch her scalp.

Eventually, reluctantly, they come up for air, and Miranda gets to look her fill at Andrea's flushed face and heaving chest. Andrea is looking…lower.

"Oh my god," she says faintly. "Oh my god. Miranda, you're gorgeous. So wet. You're so…oh god. Please let me—I have to get my mouth on you, please."

Miranda quakes under the heat of her regard, the desperation in her voice. She feels herself clench at what Andrea is offering, and she clenches again when Andrea moans in response.

What can she possibly say but "Yes"?

As soon as she gives her consent, Andrea surges forward, hands grasping Miranda's legs, tugging her closer to the edge of the sofa. With no hesitation, Andrea buries her face in Miranda's pussy.

Miranda gasps, hips jerking into the firm, precise pressure of that talented tongue. 

"You've done this before," she accuses, shocked at how good it is, how close she is already.

Andrea nods slightly, a faint "mhmm" vibrating pleasantly against Miranda's clit. God, the knowledge that Andrea has been with a woman before somehow makes it hotter, that she acted so innocent, so calmly teasing, when Miranda was drooling over her. 

Oh, there are so many things she wants to ask, so much she wants to know, but Andrea's gorgeous mouth is driving her ruthlessly toward orgasm, and she doesn't think this is really the time for questions.

Instead, she gives herself over to the warm, wet indulgence of the mouth she has been dreaming of for so long. 

"So good," she says, allowing her hips to buck against Andrea's grip, allowing her fingers to drift through that lovely hair. "I used to think about this, when I was touching myself. Your mouth on me, on the bathroom counter during the workday, trying to stay quiet."

Andrea moans loudly, hands spasming on Miranda's thighs. "Me too," she says, looking up at Miranda with dark eyes and shiny cheeks. "I used to torture myself thinking about it the entire time you were in the bathroom. One time I almost came just from squeezing my thighs together at my desk and picturing what you were doing."

Miranda chuckles ruefully, barely able to talk while Andrea’s mouth continues its assault on her self-control. "It's a good thing I didn't kn-know that at the time. I never w-would have been able to k-keep my hands off you."

Andy moans around Miranda's clit again, and that's all it takes. A few more circles of that wicked tongue and Miranda is lost, eyes shut, hands clenched far too tightly in Andrea's hair, hips grinding into her deadly mouth.

Miranda is panting, still blinking the stars out of her eyes, when Andrea strips her clothes off and climbs into Miranda's lap. 

Miranda immediately loses whatever breath she had managed to catch. Andrea is stunning. Blindingly beautiful and obviously aroused. Her nipples are already stiff, her pubic hair glistening. Miranda grasps her hips with shaking hands and just stares, at a complete loss for words.

Andrea must misinterpret her silence. She shrinks from Miranda's gaze, folding her arms across her stomach protectively. "Um, I'm sorry I don't look Runway perfect, I guess. I thought I'd come pretty far from my days as the smart, fat girl. You seem to like looking at me in my outfits, anyway."

Unaccustomed guilt pierces Miranda. She is suddenly furious with herself for damaging the girl's self-image so severely. "I never should have called you that. I can't tell you how sorry I am that I said it, and that I hurt you. I was upset with your attitude, but I shouldn't have been so cruel. It was never true. You are perfect. You were perfect at a size six, and you're perfect now. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. My god, I haven't been able to stop staring at you since the minute I hired you."

Andrea's eyes grow bigger and bigger with every word out of Miranda's mouth, her eyebrows rising in astonishment. Then she frowns. "You don't have to lie to me, Miranda. Don't pretend I'm more beautiful than the models you hire to be in the magazine."

Miranda shakes her head, staring into Andy's eyes with conviction. "Models do nothing for me. They are easy to drape clothing on, that's all. Models don't have breasts like yours, or hips and thighs like yours, and those are the features I enjoy the most on your body. Believe me, I have never been more attracted to anyone in my life. If I had seen you in a bar in my younger days, I would have done anything and everything to get you into my bed immediately."

Andrea blinks. "Really?"

Miranda has to shake her head at the absurdity of Andrea not understanding the incredible appeal she's had to Miranda this entire time. "You saw how wet I was. You already know that I've masturbated at work because of you, which I promise has never happened before in my career. Do you think I would—or could—make this up?"

Andrea shakes her head in disbelief. “I…wow. Um, that’s…I’m glad I didn’t know all that sooner. I would have barged into your bathroom and put my hand up your skirt months ago.”

Miranda rubs circles on Andrea's hips with her thumbs while Andrea shivers under her touch. 

“You know,” Miranda says, letting her thumbs stroke higher and higher on Andrea’s ribs, “there’s a perfectly good bed in this suite.”

“Oh?” Andrea asks, squirming more and more the closer Miranda gets to her breasts. 

“It’s large enough that I could lay you out on it and eat you for hours in perfect comfort.”

Andrea clambers off her lap with gratifying alacrity. Miranda smirks a little at the flailing of her long limbs.

Miranda precedes her into the bedroom, extending her arm toward the bed. "Please, make yourself at home," she says, with a wry twist of her lips.

Andrea smiles, but her eyes remain intense and laser-focused on Miranda as she climbs onto the bed. "Don't mind if I do," she murmurs, reclining on one side, head propped on her hand.

Miranda steps closer to the bed, hands on the ties of her robe. Miraculously, it is still covering her breasts. Andrea is eyeing Miranda's chest wolfishly.

Finally, Miranda loosens the ties, allowing the robe to fall from her shoulders. 

Andrea bites her lip. "God, I want your mouth on me so much, but I've been dreaming about touching your breasts for the past six months, and they're so fucking gorgeous."

Miranda smiles, feeling ridiculously flattered. "The night is young," she points out, climbing onto the bed and lying down facing Andrea.

Andrea's face suddenly scrunches into the most adorable expression of disappointment. "The event tonight starts in about an hour, doesn't it?"

Miranda startles, having completely forgotten about tonight's dinner. One of those tiresome lifetime achievement banquets. "I'm not going," she decides.

Andrea springs up, heading for the living area at top speed. "Give me two seconds and I'll cancel both of our evenings," she says.

Miranda nods, arranging herself at her best angle. She pauses. "Both?" She is…concerned.

She hears Andrea on the phone with someone, offering Miranda's regrets for the evening's event. Then she hears another call. Andrea sounds different—more casual, flirtier, even though she is canceling at the last minute.

"I was supposed to meet Christian Thompson for dinner," she says as she strides back into the bedroom. 

Miranda is torn between fury and jealousy until she sees Andrea roll her eyes.

"I owe him a huge favor, so I didn't have a good way to get out of it when he asked me out. But I told him you needed me tonight."

Andrea climbs back into bed and grins at her mischievously.

Miranda is instantly charmed. Aroused. She's so swollen still, so sensitive. She feels certain she could come again with two minutes of that sly, grinning mouth between her legs.

But more importantly, she wants to watch Andrea come undone under her touch, as she's been dreaming of for so many months now.

Miranda reaches out and finally, finally, cups one of Andrea's beautiful breasts, slowly running her thumb across her nipple.

Andrea arches toward her, trembling. The grin falls off her face, replaced by something closer to desperation.

"God, you're so…fuck."

"So articulate," Miranda teases. 

Andrea opens her mouth to respond, but then Miranda pinches her nipple, rolling it between her thumb and fingers.

Andrea's body jerks, swaying closer to Miranda. She appears to have forgotten whatever it was she wanted to say. 

"I've spent so long staring at your breasts," Miranda murmurs, "wondering what color your nipples are, how big they are, how sensitive they are. It's going to be so much worse, now that I know."

Andrea moans, trembling as she stares hungrily at Miranda's face. She seems even more affected by Miranda's words than by her touch. It occurs to Miranda, suddenly, that Andrea is a writer. "Would you like to know what else I thought about?"

Andrea gasps, nodding eagerly.

Miranda allows herself a brief smirk of self-congratulation. 

"I thought about your hair. How silky it would feel against my skin. How it would look spread out on my pillows. What noises you would make if I pulled it.

“I thought about your hands. How they would feel wrapped around my hips, or running through my hair. I thought about how long your fingers are, and what they would feel like inside me as you fucked me on my desk.”

Andrea lets out another gasp as the “fuck” slips past Miranda’s lips. Her expression is dazed, spellbound. Miranda feels more powerful than she has in decades of ruling boardrooms and previews and fashion weeks.

"I thought about your lovely thighs—how pale they are, how soft. I wondered what they would feel like against my cheeks."

Andrea moans brokenly. "Oh god. Please. I…please, Miranda, I need it."

Miranda inwardly rejoices, but she moves forward with her plan, unhurried. 

"Do you know how many years it's been since I've tasted a woman, Andrea?"

Andrea shakes her head, eyes huge.

Miranda sighs wistfully. "Thirteen years. I've waited thirteen years to eat pussy again. I can't tell you how much I've missed it. There's nothing like it, is there?"

Andrea sucks in a shocked breath, looking both titillated and aroused. She shakes her head again, apparently struck mute.

"I am not going to rush the experience," Miranda declares. 

Andrea is clearly torn between pleasure at the confirmation she'll get what she wants and despair at having to wait.

Miranda smirks at her. "Don't worry, I won't stretch out the foreplay too much. You look like you're about to explode."

Andrea nods fervently.

"But I hope, for your sake, that you don't have much of a refractory period, because I don't plan on stopping until I'm satisfied."

Oh, that is just the most delicious look on Andrea's face. Disbelief, a little worry, and then nothing but anticipation.

"Lie back and spread your legs for me," Miranda orders, in the same tone she might have said "Get me Starbucks" or "Fetch Nigel." 

Andrea obeys with pleasing haste, but it's the sultry "Yes, Miranda" that hits Miranda right between her legs. She inhales sharply, surprised at the strength of her reaction, at the insistent throb that almost makes her demand another orgasm for herself.

Andrea notices. Of course she does, she's far too good of an assistant not to. Her mouth pulls into a wicked grin.

Miranda is even more surprised to find that she doesn't mind Andrea discovering this apparent…susceptibility of hers. She is far more interested in exploring what other looks she can coax onto Andrea's beautiful, expressive face.

Miranda situates herself slowly, gracefully, between Andrea's legs. When she glides her hands up Andrea's thighs, she feels them almost vibrating with tension, with need. When she pushes them further apart, nudging her shoulders into place between them, Andrea lets out a quiet whine. 

"Shh," she soothes, kissing Andrea's thighs while she stares and stares. 

Andrea smells incredible. Miranda is mildly astonished to see how wet she is, how swollen, without even being touched. Her entire crotch is glistening. 

"So wet for me," Miranda says, glancing up at Andrea's pleading face and bitten lips.

"Only for you," Andrea promises, her voice low and surprisingly firm. "Nobody else can do this to me. Only you."

Every single thing about this girl—woman—appeals to Miranda's baser instincts, the possessiveness that she so rarely allows to surface for anything except the magazine. The thought that only she can pull such a strong response from this glorious creature…well. The final thread of restraint snaps. 

Miranda gorges herself. 

She would like to say that she is thorough and precise in the way she eats Andrea's pussy. She would like to claim that her approach is deliberate, calculated to achieve maximum effect. But in truth, Miranda is only human. And she has been starving for far too long.

Miranda feasts. She revels. She slurps. She doesn't care even the tiniest bit about her makeup, or her dignity, or anything at all except the smell and taste and movements and sounds of the incredibly responsive woman whose thighs are wrapped around her head.

Andrea rewards this wild, undisciplined approach to oral sex by coming almost instantly, bucking and moaning as Miranda presses on without even slowing down.

She thrashes briefly, obviously oversensitive, but Miranda grasps her thighs tighter and keeps going. Soon enough, she is moaning again—even louder than before. 

After three brutally quick orgasms, Andrea is clearly overstimulated, squirming frantically away from Miranda's voracious mouth. Miranda is nowhere near finished, but she decides to take pity on her for a while, now that the worst of her hunger has been sated. 

When Miranda reluctantly pulls away, Andrea slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweaty, makeup streaked across her face. She's never looked lovelier. Miranda quietly preens. 

"You are delicious," Miranda murmurs, licking her lips.

Andrea shivers.

"I hope you don't think we're done yet. We are just taking a short break."

Andrea lifts her head from the pillows to gape at Miranda in disbelief.

"I just came three times," she protests hoarsely. "I'm way too sensitive to come again."

Miranda frowns a little at the sound of her voice. She gets up to fetch a chilled bottle of Pellegrino and a glass.

Andrea looks almost spooked to be handed a beverage by her boss, but she gulps it down anyway.

Miranda settles on the bed next to her, close enough that she can run her fingers through Andrea's disheveled hair, bringing it into some semblance of order.

Andrea's eyes slip closed, and she hums contentedly when Miranda scratches her scalp.

Miranda smiles indulgently, continuing to deliver gentle touches to Andrea's face and neck as Andrea nuzzles trustingly into her hand, eyes still shut.

"Feels good," Andrea mumbles. 

Miranda's hands drift gradually lower, until she is tracing her fingertips down Andrea's chest and across her breasts. She is gentle, careful to avoid her nipples. Eventually, Andrea begins to shift a little, arching into her touch.

Miranda draws delicate spirals from the outside of her breasts toward the center, but never quite reaching her nipples. She repeats this several times, delighted to see Andrea's nipples stiffen, seeking the attention she has denied them. 

Eventually, Miranda lifts her hands away, relishing Andrea's quiet consternation. She waits a few moments more, then pinches both nipples at once. 

"Fuck!" Andrea's eyes pop open.

Miranda smirks at her, rolling her nipples as she watches Andrea squirm under her touch.

"I should have known you would be like this," she accuses.

Miranda chuckles, not bothering to hide the smug satisfaction that she knows must be radiating from every pore. "Yes, you should have. You also should have known you would like it." She gives a hard squeeze and most of Andrea's torso shoots up off the bed, twisting into Miranda’s implacable grip.

Andrea settles back against the pillows, lips curling into a playful pout. "You're right, as usual."

Miranda smiles wider than she can remember smiling in years. "Of course I am, Andrea."

Andrea's hips twitch when Miranda says her name. Curious.

Miranda waits a few moments, teasing Andrea's nipples with gentle scrapes of her fingernails.

"Do you like the way I say your name, Andrea?"

Andrea gasps, writhing even more obviously.

"You're the only one who says it that way," Andrea says. "I didn't like it at first, but now it—"

She hesitates, biting her lip.

"Now what does it do, Andrea?"

Andrea groans, clutching at the bedsheets as she arches toward Miranda. "Fuck. Now it makes me wet."

Miranda feels that knowledge settle hot and liquid between her legs. Another smile stretches her lips. “I hope you know that you’re making it very difficult not to pounce on you again.”

Andrea looks torn. “I need a few more minutes before I’m ready for that, I think. But there’s no reason I can’t touch you instead.”

Miranda hums, considering. She’s normally more selfish in bed than this, but something about Andrea makes her so eager to wring every drop of pleasure, every moan, every squirm out of her. It’s difficult to relinquish this opportunity to touch and taste after so many months of denial.

“You could sit on my face,” Andrea suggests.

Miranda inhales deeply, feeling herself clench around nothing. It’s always been one of her favorite positions. She’s pictured it countless times in the past eight months, and to have Andrea offer it unprompted… “You will be the death of me,” she says, shaking her head fondly even as she crawls farther up the bed, waiting for Andrea to scoot down.

Andrea does so, eyeing her greedily as Miranda swings one leg across to straddle her.

Miranda reaches for the headboard, gasping when Andrea yanks her hips down and wraps her lips around nearly Miranda’s entire vulva. 

One of the things she loves so much about this position is the power and control it gives her—hardly surprising, really. Miranda has long since acknowledged her predictability in this regard.

But she has never before paid this much attention to the intimacy of it. Andrea’s huge brown eyes are staring up at her with unmistakable desire, and equally unmistakable adoration. Miranda is caught and held in that adoring gaze, long past the point when she would normally have let her eyes slip shut. But this wordless connection is so beautiful, so strong, that she forces her eyes to stay open, to let Andrea watch her fall apart once more.

Andrea is gentler this time, licking her slowly, thoroughly. She takes her apart piece by piece instead of shattering her into a million shards of pleasure. But it still takes practically no time at all for Miranda to come undone, hips jerking as she smears herself across that generous mouth. 

Andrea grips her tighter and keeps going before Miranda can muster the strength to move away. The glint in her eyes says this is payback, and Miranda hates how much she loves it. She comes again embarrassingly quickly, and then once more, still staring into Andrea's lovely, expressive eyes in helpless fascination. 

Miranda is in the act of climbing off of Andrea when a very important and blindingly obvious realization strikes her out of nowhere. She gasps, loses her balance, and topples sideways onto the bed.

Andrea scrambles to slow her descent, but Miranda lets her limbs fall where they may. Her entire being is focused on this sudden, devastating realization: she has feelings for Andrea. She doesn't love her—not yet—but she could.

Miranda stares and stares at the concerned face of the woman she is falling in love with. The beautiful, kind, extremely young employee she is falling in love with.

Fuck.

Miranda has never had serious feelings for someone before. In retrospect, there were really quite a lot of signs she'd ignored. But she's new at this, and very, very far out of her depth. This is a disaster—an even bigger disaster than she already thought it was. She has no idea what to do. 

Miranda can feel her body tensing up as a horde of worries takes over her brain.

Andrea's lovely, concerned face comes closer and closer, until Miranda is being wrapped in a warm embrace, their naked bodies pressed tightly together for the first time. Andrea is stroking her hair, rubbing her back, murmuring soothing nonsense in her ear. Andrea is comforting her.

Miranda doesn't remember the last time someone offered her physical comfort. It must have been decades ago, surely. She didn't know how much she apparently needed it.

Miranda bursts into tears.

“Shh,” Andrea soothes, “shh, I’ve got you. You’re fine.”

God, she’s crying all over her second assistant. She’s letting a woman half her age offer her comfort as if she were a small child. Worse, it feels good. She’s comfortable, almost peaceful, in spite of the sudden torrent of emotion. Miranda shakes, sobs, gasps for breath. As the tears begin to slow, she realizes that she must look horrendous, but Andrea won’t let her turn away.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, because of course she can read Miranda like a book, even now. “You’re an amazing, beautiful woman, and I promise I will still think you’re sexy no matter how much you cry, okay? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you secretly have emotions.”

“Cheeky,” Miranda says feebly.

“That’s me!” Andrea agrees cheerfully, still running her fingers through Miranda’s hair. “You okay?”

The crying has stopped now. Miranda hums distractedly, trying to ignore all the thoughts that are making her want to burst into tears again.

“Are you having regrets?” Andrea sounds nervous.

Miranda glances over at her, suddenly fully in the moment again. She sighs. “I probably should, but no. I can’t bring myself to regret such a wonderful experience, no matter how ill-advised.”

Andrea droops as Miranda finishes speaking. “I, um. I guess this…complicates things at work, doesn’t it?”

Miranda nods. “It was bad enough when it was still unspoken, but now…” I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to resist you again.

“Yeah,” Andrea says glumly. “I guess we probably shouldn’t work together anymore. I don’t want to risk messing up the divorce or custody or anything.”

Miranda blinks furiously, willing away the fresh tears. “You are far too selfless for your own good,” she says, when she is certain her voice won’t waver.

“That’s what my mom always says.”

“Well, you’ll put in your notice as soon as we get back, then. You can train your replacement and we’ll line up something else for you. Maybe Vanity Fair. I think Graydon is looking for new talent. I hate to lose you to Condé Nast, but…needs must, I suppose.”

Andrea looks stunned. “Vanity Fair? Me?”

“Would you prefer a newspaper? I think the Mirror is hiring, but I would really like to see you somewhere more solvent than that rag. I can make inquiries at the Times, if you like?”

Andrea’s lower lip is trembling. She looks like she might cry at any moment. 

Miranda panics. “For goodness’ sake, Andrea, don’t cry. If you don’t want Vanity Fair or the Mirror or the Times, just tell me where you want to go.”

Andrea sobs and flings herself at Miranda, burying her face against Miranda’s neck.

Crying women are so far outside Miranda’s comfort zone they might as well be on a different planet. Miranda freezes, then cautiously rubs Andrea’s back. Her throat aches in sympathy when she feels hot tears begin to drip down her neck.

“You—you really th-think I could wr-write for Vanity Fair?” Andrea sobs.

Miranda’s brain stutters and then sets out on a completely different track. She swallows. “I think you will be exceptional at anything you set your mind to, Andrea Sachs.”

Andrea sobs again. 

“You are too talented to spend much longer as my assistant anyway.”

Andrea finally lifts her head from Miranda's shoulder. Even in tears, she's the prettiest thing Miranda’s ever seen.

“Does that mean,” she asks, pausing to suck in a hitching breath, “I mean, after I, after I leave, um, will I see you again?”

Miranda considers carefully. “Do you want to see me again?”

Andrea’s brows draw together into a scowl. “Of course I want to see you again. Do you think I would have risked my job for anything less than something serious? Someone I want to be a big part of my life for a long time?”

Miranda blinks at her, then feels exceptionally dense. “No, I don't think that. I'm sorry, Andrea. I don't encounter people like you very often. I suppose I've forgotten what it's like to deal with someone like you.”

Andrea’s face begins to close down. She looks wary, wounded. “Someone like me?”

Miranda just barely resists the urge to smack herself in the forehead. “Someone genuine,” she clarifies. “Someone kind and selfless, who would not sleep with her boss to get a promotion, or acquire blackmail material, or just scratch an itch.”

Andrea looks shocked. “I would never—”

“I know you wouldn't. I know that, Andrea. I—please forgive me. I am not very good at this. At…” she takes a deep breath,  “...feelings.”

Andrea smiles at her so sweetly that Miranda is stunned into stillness. Andrea seizes the opportunity to swoop in and kiss her. 

“You have feelings for me,” Andrea says. It's a statement, not a question.

Miranda smiles, dazed from the kiss. “I do. I didn't realize it until about fifteen minutes ago, but I do.”

Andrea snorts. “That explains a lot.”

Miranda glares at her. It doesn't seem to have its usual impact.

“You can't fool me with that anymore, Priestly. I know you too well. And if it wasn't already clear, I'm crazy about you.”

In the wake of such a statement, Miranda feels an obligation to be the voice of reason. “You realize that it would be…prudent, not to see each other until the divorce is final.”

Andrea smiles at her knowingly. “Miranda, nothing about our relationship has been prudent since the day we met, and I'm pretty happy with where it's gotten us. Let's not start being prudent now.”

Miranda snorts a decidedly inelegant laugh—her real laugh, which she hasn't let out in decades. “I suppose you may have a point. We’ll just be…discreet, then.”

Andrea nods her assent, leaning in to kiss Miranda quite thoroughly this time.

Miranda frowns slightly, pulling away. “I want you to understand that it will be very risky, for both of us—having a secret lesbian affair while the divorce happens and the press is hounding my footsteps. We’ll be tempting fate. Even if we manage to keep it quiet and eventually come out on our own terms, it will still be risky for you.”

Andrea beams at her. “You would go public with this? With me?”

Miranda takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, marshaling her words. “I have spent my entire life being prudent, romantically speaking, and it has brought me two unhappy marriages and two divorces. This is the first time I've ever had genuine romantic feelings for someone, and I suspect that will make all the difference. If you can weather the divorce and my pre-teen daughters and the reality of dating a workaholic with no meaningful experience of romance…yes, I think I would like to be publicly imprudent with you one day, Andrea Sachs.”

Andrea laughs delightedly and begins kissing Miranda all over her face.

“Really, I should be asking you this, Andrea. Are you prepared to tempt fate with me?”

“Absolutely,” Andrea says, leaning in for another kiss.

Miranda meets her halfway.