Almost Blue 1/1
Almost Blue 1/1
Title: Almost Blue
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer:
Author's claim: Based on the prompt for 'it's five eyes later and they meet in Paris'.
Summary: It's five years later and it all it takes is one night in Paris.
***********
I'm on the road of least Resistance
**********
It's the most beautifully spoken French sentence Andy has ever heard spoken in her life.
"Vous etes completement inutile. Sortir de ma vue, avant que je ma fache." Sure, it's accusing someone of being completely incompetent but it's spoken almost like poetry and Andy can't help but smile at the sound of the silky smooth, but deadly, voice she hasn't heard in years. It's a near whisper and meant for only one pair of ears. Andy considers herself lucky to have heard it. Even if it's weird. Lily would think it weird. Doug would think it romantic.
The insult is followed by an exasperated, overly dramatic sigh that is probably paired with a gigantic eye roll. Andy snickers to herself and smiles secretly into her champagne glass, thumbing her 'press' pass as it hangs loosely from her neck.
A distant fragrance follows. This brings on a a pair of blushing cheeks. And finally she feels a brushing of a shoulder against her own. She shivers. It's embarrassing that she knows who it is without even looking.
"Pardonnez-moi..." Silky. Her voice is silky. And polite.
Miranda Priestley's eyes go wide at spotting the familiar face in front of her, five years foreign now, but still--familiar nonetheless.
"Ne vous inquietez pas--" Andy's French is rusty. Not as smooth. And choppy. Near elementary. But she manages.
Miranda smiles, "Bonjour, Andrea."
"Bonjour," Andy replies. She doesn't know much beyond what's necessary to order at a restaurant or to call a cab, but still, it's fun to pretend and she holds her breath as Miranda leans in for the customary double air kiss. Only She's sure she feels a pair of lips graze her left cheek.
Miranda's eyes scan Andy head to toe, visually approving every item on her body--like a true predator--before sharp blue eyes center on Andy's badge of honor tonight, "You're press?"
Her tone is layered with a hint of disbelieving mirth.
Andy nods and rolls her eyes, "Yes, yes, oh the irony."
Miranda fights back a chuckle and replies, leaning in to speak over the music and chatter, "What are you writing for these days, Andrea? Feminist Today? Writing of the horrors and masochism in wearing four inch heels in broad daylight?"
Andy laughs at this and worries her bottom lip for a second before answering, "No--actually--I uh, I'm writing for Vogue. Believe it or not."
Miranda's brow is raised in honest to god surprise and she does this thing where she straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin when she's properly surprised. Andy finds this appealing and her stomach flip flops at the gesture.
"Really--" The silver haired woman states, "--Vogue."
"Fashion columnist, thank you very much." Andy says proudly. And why not? She's earned the title. A lot of it has to do with the training she received working under Miranda to begin with, "Oh. Check the outfit." It's crammed where they stand and she only manages to step back a fraction of an inch, but she motions smugly at the sleek, floor length gown. It's a modest cut on top, revealing no more than collarbone and a peak of shoulder, with a flirtatious slit down the front, from the knee down. She kicks her foot out, showing off black Blahnik pumps, "Prada and Blahniks. Not borrowed this time."
"Really--" Miranda replies, amused and apparently impressed, "--very nice."
Andy giggles. She actually giggles. And she wonders if it's the third glass of champagne that's made her so bubbly all of a sudden. She's also feeling audaciously brave and what comes out of her mouth next, she's half dreading, half congratulating herself for, "Miranda, would you like to go for a walk with me?"
Miranda seems surprised, but she's pleased. The crinkle in the corner of both her eyes tells Andy so. Politely, she replies, "Yes."
********
Paris nights are cold this time of year. Cold and beautiful.
Andy loves it. But she also hates the way it makes her teeth chatter. Even though she's wearing a hefty coat, gloves and a scarf. The daring slit down the front of her dress makes for an opportune current of a breeze that seeps under the skirt of the expensive gown and blankets her bare legs in a disquieting chill.
They walk for about five minutes in complete silence. Music from the event slowly becomes a distant murmur, until all both women can hear is the calming beat of their shoes against the pavement.
As they round a crowded corner that disperses around Miranda, Andy is awed all over again, by how unaffected she is to every eye she meets, following her until she's gone in the distance.
The slight disturbance in her step has Andy lagging behind a step or two, and from where she's situated now, she has a clear line to Miranda's neck. She has a long, graceful, swan like neck Andy used to stare at during long car rides with her as her assistant. It's completely clear of any blemishes or imperfections. Alabaster skin that is as appealing as it is aesthetically pleasing.
Clavicle shifts under said skin in jagged peaks as she breathes. Andy secretly wants to lick the space between. The thought startles her and her eyes widen. She snaps her head to face forward and becomes slightly stiff, pressing her arms tightly to her sides.
Miranda, very softly, clears her throat beside her and this startles her again. She jerks her shoulders upward and smiles when Miranda looks over briefly, "So--" She scans her mental Rolodex for ideas and conversation starters--or diversions for that matter, "--I saw Emily not too long ago. She's so happy."
"Hmm--" Miranda nods, "--I'm assuming you're referring to her recent promotion?"
"Yeah. She's over the moon about it. She misses you, though."
Miranda chuckles a disbelieving laugh and she replies dryly, "I'm sure that's true."
Andy glances at Miranda's profile briefly, careful not to linger to long before stating softly, "She adores you," She shrugs, "I miss you too sometimes."
They come to a stop under a streetlight and Andy can't help but notice the way it's a lot like a spotlight when it's centered above Miranda's head like that.
It's here that Andy notices she's mindlessly led them to her hotel.
While the realization makes her feel inwardly embarrassed, she keeps silent.
Miranda stares out at the peaceful Parisian street and she seems thoughtful. Her jaw is relaxed and her eyes seem almost dreamy. "I've had too much champagne tonight." She says.
Andy stares, aghast. Slowly, Miranda turns towards her and smiles. Andy shakes her head and laughs wholeheartedly.
Miranda chuckles along and shivers, tucking her hands in her coat before inquiring from her companion, "Andrea, it's freezing out here, would you like to come up for a drink?"
Andy is confused for a moment before realizing they are staying in the same hotel and maybe, she wasn't the one leading tonight. The thought sends a thrill through her and she nearly grows taller with glee, smiling as she replies, "You're staying here, too. I mean--I'm staying here, too."
"Oh," Miranda nods, "Andrea, answer the question." She sounds impatient and maybe a little annoyed.
Andy should be turned off by this, but it's good to know this child like impatience still resides strongly within the complex maze of contradiction that is Miranda Priestley. "I'd love to, Miranda."
Miranda is staying in a suite. On the the top floor. And why wouldn't she be? She's fashion royalty and it's fashion week. Andy is surprised she isn't being carried around everywhere.
"How do you not get lost in here?" Andy asks, once stepping into the enormous, suite. The ceilings are high, the walls seem to be lined in gold leaf, and the furniture and decor reminds Andy of Marie Antoinette. Yes. Miranda is most definitely royalty.
"Oh," Miranda replies offhandedly, switching on light after light as she leads her in and through to what looks like an immense living room, "It comes with a tour guide."
Andy laughs for about the fourth time at it's baffling to her that she'd never noticed what a dry sense of humor Miranda possesses.
For all its glamour, the room is warm and almost cosy. Andy likes it. Somewhere along her silent admiration of the details in the perfect lighting and hand beaded lamp shades, Andy somehow neglects to remember where she is. She feels as though she's in a museum, and when she turns in time to see Miranda shrug off her coat, her lips part in a small, quiet gasp that goes unnoticed as she practically gapes at the older woman. Underneath the surprisingly low key fur coat, Miranda wears a Chanel, fitted lace number that runs to just bellow her knees. It's a three quarter sleeve and the neckline is only low enough to reveal the collarbone Andy recently stared at. As she turns an inch or two, Andy catches a glimpse of the back of the dress and she's undoubtedly taken back to those parties she was lucky enough to attend years ago. Where she would wait, impatiently to see what Miranda had chosen to wear. Her sense of style is still impeccable.
The dress has a zipper that runs from the neckline, centered down a perfectly arched back, and stops behind the knees, where a slit takes over for about three more inches. Small, white pearl buttons hide the zipper and Andy remembers why it was so difficult to stop thinking about her former boss, even years after she had quit. Because of this. Because of the inability to ever find anyone else who could make such a beautiful creation even more beautiful.
"Check the shoes--" Miranda says, breaking Andy's unfiltered observation. "--Louboutin." She jokes and motions briefly towards her shoes smiling when Andy blushes. "Here." She begins, moving forward slowly in the four inch platforms, until she's reached the brunette, and touches her arm, "Let me take your coat."
She's not sure if it's the idea that of Miranda Pristley doing anything not self serving for her, or the graze of the woman's fingers against her arms as she helps her out of her coat that makes her so nervous, but she suddenly feels as though she's on a date. In high school.
The coats are carefully hung in a nearby closet and Andy finds herself forcing her nerves away. She figures there's only one way to feel comfortable around someone she spent so much time trying to please.
"Let me make you a drink, Miranda."
"Very well." Miranda replies, not hesitating to take a seat in the large, well cushioned sofa on the opposite end of the room, which faces the bar cornered near a large window looking out on well lit city. But not before making sure Chet Baker is on in the CD Player Andy had not noticed upon walking in.
"I'll take it easy on your liver tonight."
Miranda watches on, as Andy moves around comfortably. "I had not realized how apt you are around a bar."
"That's because I have never actually made you an alcoholic beverage." She frowns at that, "Surprisingly so." She turns, presenting two cold, red drinks, each with a thin slice of orange pinned to the rim.
Miranda looks absolutely mortified at the sight of the tall glasses, "What on earth is that?"
"It is called a Blood Orange Bellini."
"It looks dreadfully juvenile."
"Excuse me, I had this at the Michael Korrs show yesterday," Andy replies smugly, "You want to tell him that?"
Miranda rolls her eyes and averts her gaze as she holds her hand out for her drink, managing to look almost bored as she takes it.
Andy waits eagerly while she takes her first sip and prompts once she has, "Well?"
Miranda shrugs and replies, "It's not abysmal."
"It's great, I know."
As Andy takes a seat at the other end of the couch, Miranda prompts another taste, which she swirls around her tongue for a bit, "Is this wine?"
"Uh-huh. Red wine and a secret ingredient."
"Is the secret ingredient a roofie?"
Andy chokes and just barely keeps from spitting her drink with laughter, "You think I came up here to date rape you?"
Miranda doesn't reply. Instead, she sips her drink again while Andy watches her with a new found interest she refuses to qualify as lust.
They sit in silence a few moments. It's surprisingly comfortable and slowly becoming a different type of tension.
"This song is unbelievable." Miranda whispers as a melancholy trumpet plays softly.
Andy cannot take her eyes off her. Her skin glows as always, her scent is sweet, as always. And as always, the young fashion columnist has no idea what to do with her desire for this person who is supposed to be horrible. The way her left leg is crossed over her right and the way her arm rests on her lap in a manner that has her hand hanging in the air, with an already half empty glass in her grip. Every angle of her body--every limb is positioned so perfectly that Andy's mouth goes dry.
"Almost Blue." She manages to choke out, almost shyly. Why she should feel bashful at knowing something Miranda does, is beyond her comprehension. But when the older woman turns her head in acknowledgement, takes her in, and smiles, all her pride and whatever the hell it is that was keeping her so frighteningly away from what she wants, melts away with the execution of a note and the swoop of Miranda's smile.
"Yes," The older woman nods once.
It isn't clear if Miranda moves in first. Or if Andy does. Maybe they both do. All either is really sure of, is that they're kissing.
A few of Miranda's little pearl buttons are sent flying about the room and the fabric of the dress Andy had spent time admiring is ripped at the shoulders as it's shoved down roughly before a greedy mouth assaults the smooth skin tempting her throughout the evening.
She doesn't expect Miranda to have much experience. She's never really thought to ask around about Miranda's sex life, really. She was married twice. That much, Andy knows. To men. But once two fingers are expertly dipped inside her core with a firm precision that makes Andy groan with satisfaction, there's no denying that Miranda might have some experience in this department.
Her hips pump against Miranda's hand, the heel of her palm grinding down just right until the younger woman is squirming on the floor, hands holding onto Miranda. They kiss through the pleasurable torture before Andy, chest heaving, flips Miranda onto her back.
In turn, she stares up, bottom lip caught between her teeth, short hair fanned out against the expensive carpet.
"God, you're sexy."
Miranda laughs. More of a giggle than anything. But it's a sound that says 'silly girl, of course I am'. And on anyone else, it would be an ugly trait. But it only makes this particular woman even more appealing.
So, Andy kisses her.
She takes her time, teases her a while, before taking everything she can take with just the meeting of their lips and tongues until Miranda is breathing in deeply and eliciting little sounds that Andy feels in her spine.
She trails her lips over her chin then, down her neck and back up, to an awaiting mouth as she slips a hand between them, skimming the petite body underneath her until her palm is nestled between Miranda's legs. She cups her firmly and presses down once before straddling a firm thigh.
Miranda moans louder this time, tearing away from their kiss to breathe heavily against Andy's cheek, her hand securely on the young woman's hip, urging her forward as she whispers, "I want to feel you--"
Andy's eyes shut momentarily at the request and bites back a moan as she begins to move slowly, her hips gyrating along with with the cadence of her middle finger inside Miranda.
Miranda sighs and digs her fingers into the hip thrusting against her leg, her body aching for release, "More."
"Fuck--" Andy moans, attempting to leverage herself against the floor with the one arm keeping her up, but she finds it difficult to concentrate when Miranda's whispering and moaning like that against her ear.
She adds two fingers and when she hears the responding moans, her own hips drive in faster, harder until they're both panting and in near whimpers.
Everything goes white behind Andy's eyelids and she momentarily loses all senses. Until a gentle, feather light hand skims up and down her back, small kisses fall on her shoulder and she lifts her gaze to look down at a smiling and sated Miranda.
Andy smiles back. They kiss one more time and when she pulls back, ready to say something that she thinks is hilarious, the familiar chirping of her phone alerts them both and she sighs instead against Miranda's sweat slick shoulder, her voice muffled, "I should go."
"Mmm--" Miranda mumbles, hand still idly grazing Andy's lower back as she drops another kiss on her shoulder, "--I've got some things I need to prep before tomorrow anyway. The assistant they lent me from French Runway is absolutely useless.
Andy laughs, "Is that who you were yelling at at the show?"
"I do not yell."
"No, you don't, that's true." Andy replies before slowly getting to her feet.
Before she can turn to help Miranda up, she catches her already on her feet and disappearing towards the bathroom. Minutes later, she returns, hair in place, make up in place--as if she had not just been drilled into the floor.
Slipping on her coat, Andy shakes her head and smiles, "You're unbelievable." The air has shifted and now it's okay and comfortable to be on personal terms. Very personal terms. Andy thinks that maybe, she likes it.
Running an idle hand through her hair, Miranda watches in silence as Andy slips on her shoes and quietly tells her, "It was very good to see you, Andrea."
"Trust me, it was--great--to see you, Miranda."
Miranda rolls her eyes and fights the urge to smile as she begins towards the door, "I'll walk you out now."
Once at the door, they stare, back and forth, neither knowing how to say goodbye. It's odd to have to do it again after so long. Almost inappropriate.
Andy is feeling all too confident still, however, and takes a deep breath before speaking, "You know, I live about ten minutes from Elias Clarke. We could get together sometime. Have a drink."
"I'd like that," Miranda replies, all business.
Andy kisses her. For the first time since they've met, Andy makes Miranda blush. And as she steps into the elevator en route to her own suite, she hopes it isn't the last
end.
Title: Almost Blue
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer:
Author's claim: Based on the prompt for 'it's five eyes later and they meet in Paris'.
Summary: It's five years later and it all it takes is one night in Paris.
***********
I'm on the road of least Resistance
**********
It's the most beautifully spoken French sentence Andy has ever heard spoken in her life.
"Vous etes completement inutile. Sortir de ma vue, avant que je ma fache." Sure, it's accusing someone of being completely incompetent but it's spoken almost like poetry and Andy can't help but smile at the sound of the silky smooth, but deadly, voice she hasn't heard in years. It's a near whisper and meant for only one pair of ears. Andy considers herself lucky to have heard it. Even if it's weird. Lily would think it weird. Doug would think it romantic.
The insult is followed by an exasperated, overly dramatic sigh that is probably paired with a gigantic eye roll. Andy snickers to herself and smiles secretly into her champagne glass, thumbing her 'press' pass as it hangs loosely from her neck.
A distant fragrance follows. This brings on a a pair of blushing cheeks. And finally she feels a brushing of a shoulder against her own. She shivers. It's embarrassing that she knows who it is without even looking.
"Pardonnez-moi..." Silky. Her voice is silky. And polite.
Miranda Priestley's eyes go wide at spotting the familiar face in front of her, five years foreign now, but still--familiar nonetheless.
"Ne vous inquietez pas--" Andy's French is rusty. Not as smooth. And choppy. Near elementary. But she manages.
Miranda smiles, "Bonjour, Andrea."
"Bonjour," Andy replies. She doesn't know much beyond what's necessary to order at a restaurant or to call a cab, but still, it's fun to pretend and she holds her breath as Miranda leans in for the customary double air kiss. Only She's sure she feels a pair of lips graze her left cheek.
Miranda's eyes scan Andy head to toe, visually approving every item on her body--like a true predator--before sharp blue eyes center on Andy's badge of honor tonight, "You're press?"
Her tone is layered with a hint of disbelieving mirth.
Andy nods and rolls her eyes, "Yes, yes, oh the irony."
Miranda fights back a chuckle and replies, leaning in to speak over the music and chatter, "What are you writing for these days, Andrea? Feminist Today? Writing of the horrors and masochism in wearing four inch heels in broad daylight?"
Andy laughs at this and worries her bottom lip for a second before answering, "No--actually--I uh, I'm writing for Vogue. Believe it or not."
Miranda's brow is raised in honest to god surprise and she does this thing where she straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin when she's properly surprised. Andy finds this appealing and her stomach flip flops at the gesture.
"Really--" The silver haired woman states, "--Vogue."
"Fashion columnist, thank you very much." Andy says proudly. And why not? She's earned the title. A lot of it has to do with the training she received working under Miranda to begin with, "Oh. Check the outfit." It's crammed where they stand and she only manages to step back a fraction of an inch, but she motions smugly at the sleek, floor length gown. It's a modest cut on top, revealing no more than collarbone and a peak of shoulder, with a flirtatious slit down the front, from the knee down. She kicks her foot out, showing off black Blahnik pumps, "Prada and Blahniks. Not borrowed this time."
"Really--" Miranda replies, amused and apparently impressed, "--very nice."
Andy giggles. She actually giggles. And she wonders if it's the third glass of champagne that's made her so bubbly all of a sudden. She's also feeling audaciously brave and what comes out of her mouth next, she's half dreading, half congratulating herself for, "Miranda, would you like to go for a walk with me?"
Miranda seems surprised, but she's pleased. The crinkle in the corner of both her eyes tells Andy so. Politely, she replies, "Yes."
********
Paris nights are cold this time of year. Cold and beautiful.
Andy loves it. But she also hates the way it makes her teeth chatter. Even though she's wearing a hefty coat, gloves and a scarf. The daring slit down the front of her dress makes for an opportune current of a breeze that seeps under the skirt of the expensive gown and blankets her bare legs in a disquieting chill.
They walk for about five minutes in complete silence. Music from the event slowly becomes a distant murmur, until all both women can hear is the calming beat of their shoes against the pavement.
As they round a crowded corner that disperses around Miranda, Andy is awed all over again, by how unaffected she is to every eye she meets, following her until she's gone in the distance.
The slight disturbance in her step has Andy lagging behind a step or two, and from where she's situated now, she has a clear line to Miranda's neck. She has a long, graceful, swan like neck Andy used to stare at during long car rides with her as her assistant. It's completely clear of any blemishes or imperfections. Alabaster skin that is as appealing as it is aesthetically pleasing.
Clavicle shifts under said skin in jagged peaks as she breathes. Andy secretly wants to lick the space between. The thought startles her and her eyes widen. She snaps her head to face forward and becomes slightly stiff, pressing her arms tightly to her sides.
Miranda, very softly, clears her throat beside her and this startles her again. She jerks her shoulders upward and smiles when Miranda looks over briefly, "So--" She scans her mental Rolodex for ideas and conversation starters--or diversions for that matter, "--I saw Emily not too long ago. She's so happy."
"Hmm--" Miranda nods, "--I'm assuming you're referring to her recent promotion?"
"Yeah. She's over the moon about it. She misses you, though."
Miranda chuckles a disbelieving laugh and she replies dryly, "I'm sure that's true."
Andy glances at Miranda's profile briefly, careful not to linger to long before stating softly, "She adores you," She shrugs, "I miss you too sometimes."
They come to a stop under a streetlight and Andy can't help but notice the way it's a lot like a spotlight when it's centered above Miranda's head like that.
It's here that Andy notices she's mindlessly led them to her hotel.
While the realization makes her feel inwardly embarrassed, she keeps silent.
Miranda stares out at the peaceful Parisian street and she seems thoughtful. Her jaw is relaxed and her eyes seem almost dreamy. "I've had too much champagne tonight." She says.
Andy stares, aghast. Slowly, Miranda turns towards her and smiles. Andy shakes her head and laughs wholeheartedly.
Miranda chuckles along and shivers, tucking her hands in her coat before inquiring from her companion, "Andrea, it's freezing out here, would you like to come up for a drink?"
Andy is confused for a moment before realizing they are staying in the same hotel and maybe, she wasn't the one leading tonight. The thought sends a thrill through her and she nearly grows taller with glee, smiling as she replies, "You're staying here, too. I mean--I'm staying here, too."
"Oh," Miranda nods, "Andrea, answer the question." She sounds impatient and maybe a little annoyed.
Andy should be turned off by this, but it's good to know this child like impatience still resides strongly within the complex maze of contradiction that is Miranda Priestley. "I'd love to, Miranda."
Miranda is staying in a suite. On the the top floor. And why wouldn't she be? She's fashion royalty and it's fashion week. Andy is surprised she isn't being carried around everywhere.
"How do you not get lost in here?" Andy asks, once stepping into the enormous, suite. The ceilings are high, the walls seem to be lined in gold leaf, and the furniture and decor reminds Andy of Marie Antoinette. Yes. Miranda is most definitely royalty.
"Oh," Miranda replies offhandedly, switching on light after light as she leads her in and through to what looks like an immense living room, "It comes with a tour guide."
Andy laughs for about the fourth time at it's baffling to her that she'd never noticed what a dry sense of humor Miranda possesses.
For all its glamour, the room is warm and almost cosy. Andy likes it. Somewhere along her silent admiration of the details in the perfect lighting and hand beaded lamp shades, Andy somehow neglects to remember where she is. She feels as though she's in a museum, and when she turns in time to see Miranda shrug off her coat, her lips part in a small, quiet gasp that goes unnoticed as she practically gapes at the older woman. Underneath the surprisingly low key fur coat, Miranda wears a Chanel, fitted lace number that runs to just bellow her knees. It's a three quarter sleeve and the neckline is only low enough to reveal the collarbone Andy recently stared at. As she turns an inch or two, Andy catches a glimpse of the back of the dress and she's undoubtedly taken back to those parties she was lucky enough to attend years ago. Where she would wait, impatiently to see what Miranda had chosen to wear. Her sense of style is still impeccable.
The dress has a zipper that runs from the neckline, centered down a perfectly arched back, and stops behind the knees, where a slit takes over for about three more inches. Small, white pearl buttons hide the zipper and Andy remembers why it was so difficult to stop thinking about her former boss, even years after she had quit. Because of this. Because of the inability to ever find anyone else who could make such a beautiful creation even more beautiful.
"Check the shoes--" Miranda says, breaking Andy's unfiltered observation. "--Louboutin." She jokes and motions briefly towards her shoes smiling when Andy blushes. "Here." She begins, moving forward slowly in the four inch platforms, until she's reached the brunette, and touches her arm, "Let me take your coat."
She's not sure if it's the idea that of Miranda Pristley doing anything not self serving for her, or the graze of the woman's fingers against her arms as she helps her out of her coat that makes her so nervous, but she suddenly feels as though she's on a date. In high school.
The coats are carefully hung in a nearby closet and Andy finds herself forcing her nerves away. She figures there's only one way to feel comfortable around someone she spent so much time trying to please.
"Let me make you a drink, Miranda."
"Very well." Miranda replies, not hesitating to take a seat in the large, well cushioned sofa on the opposite end of the room, which faces the bar cornered near a large window looking out on well lit city. But not before making sure Chet Baker is on in the CD Player Andy had not noticed upon walking in.
"I'll take it easy on your liver tonight."
Miranda watches on, as Andy moves around comfortably. "I had not realized how apt you are around a bar."
"That's because I have never actually made you an alcoholic beverage." She frowns at that, "Surprisingly so." She turns, presenting two cold, red drinks, each with a thin slice of orange pinned to the rim.
Miranda looks absolutely mortified at the sight of the tall glasses, "What on earth is that?"
"It is called a Blood Orange Bellini."
"It looks dreadfully juvenile."
"Excuse me, I had this at the Michael Korrs show yesterday," Andy replies smugly, "You want to tell him that?"
Miranda rolls her eyes and averts her gaze as she holds her hand out for her drink, managing to look almost bored as she takes it.
Andy waits eagerly while she takes her first sip and prompts once she has, "Well?"
Miranda shrugs and replies, "It's not abysmal."
"It's great, I know."
As Andy takes a seat at the other end of the couch, Miranda prompts another taste, which she swirls around her tongue for a bit, "Is this wine?"
"Uh-huh. Red wine and a secret ingredient."
"Is the secret ingredient a roofie?"
Andy chokes and just barely keeps from spitting her drink with laughter, "You think I came up here to date rape you?"
Miranda doesn't reply. Instead, she sips her drink again while Andy watches her with a new found interest she refuses to qualify as lust.
They sit in silence a few moments. It's surprisingly comfortable and slowly becoming a different type of tension.
"This song is unbelievable." Miranda whispers as a melancholy trumpet plays softly.
Andy cannot take her eyes off her. Her skin glows as always, her scent is sweet, as always. And as always, the young fashion columnist has no idea what to do with her desire for this person who is supposed to be horrible. The way her left leg is crossed over her right and the way her arm rests on her lap in a manner that has her hand hanging in the air, with an already half empty glass in her grip. Every angle of her body--every limb is positioned so perfectly that Andy's mouth goes dry.
"Almost Blue." She manages to choke out, almost shyly. Why she should feel bashful at knowing something Miranda does, is beyond her comprehension. But when the older woman turns her head in acknowledgement, takes her in, and smiles, all her pride and whatever the hell it is that was keeping her so frighteningly away from what she wants, melts away with the execution of a note and the swoop of Miranda's smile.
"Yes," The older woman nods once.
It isn't clear if Miranda moves in first. Or if Andy does. Maybe they both do. All either is really sure of, is that they're kissing.
A few of Miranda's little pearl buttons are sent flying about the room and the fabric of the dress Andy had spent time admiring is ripped at the shoulders as it's shoved down roughly before a greedy mouth assaults the smooth skin tempting her throughout the evening.
She doesn't expect Miranda to have much experience. She's never really thought to ask around about Miranda's sex life, really. She was married twice. That much, Andy knows. To men. But once two fingers are expertly dipped inside her core with a firm precision that makes Andy groan with satisfaction, there's no denying that Miranda might have some experience in this department.
Her hips pump against Miranda's hand, the heel of her palm grinding down just right until the younger woman is squirming on the floor, hands holding onto Miranda. They kiss through the pleasurable torture before Andy, chest heaving, flips Miranda onto her back.
In turn, she stares up, bottom lip caught between her teeth, short hair fanned out against the expensive carpet.
"God, you're sexy."
Miranda laughs. More of a giggle than anything. But it's a sound that says 'silly girl, of course I am'. And on anyone else, it would be an ugly trait. But it only makes this particular woman even more appealing.
So, Andy kisses her.
She takes her time, teases her a while, before taking everything she can take with just the meeting of their lips and tongues until Miranda is breathing in deeply and eliciting little sounds that Andy feels in her spine.
She trails her lips over her chin then, down her neck and back up, to an awaiting mouth as she slips a hand between them, skimming the petite body underneath her until her palm is nestled between Miranda's legs. She cups her firmly and presses down once before straddling a firm thigh.
Miranda moans louder this time, tearing away from their kiss to breathe heavily against Andy's cheek, her hand securely on the young woman's hip, urging her forward as she whispers, "I want to feel you--"
Andy's eyes shut momentarily at the request and bites back a moan as she begins to move slowly, her hips gyrating along with with the cadence of her middle finger inside Miranda.
Miranda sighs and digs her fingers into the hip thrusting against her leg, her body aching for release, "More."
"Fuck--" Andy moans, attempting to leverage herself against the floor with the one arm keeping her up, but she finds it difficult to concentrate when Miranda's whispering and moaning like that against her ear.
She adds two fingers and when she hears the responding moans, her own hips drive in faster, harder until they're both panting and in near whimpers.
Everything goes white behind Andy's eyelids and she momentarily loses all senses. Until a gentle, feather light hand skims up and down her back, small kisses fall on her shoulder and she lifts her gaze to look down at a smiling and sated Miranda.
Andy smiles back. They kiss one more time and when she pulls back, ready to say something that she thinks is hilarious, the familiar chirping of her phone alerts them both and she sighs instead against Miranda's sweat slick shoulder, her voice muffled, "I should go."
"Mmm--" Miranda mumbles, hand still idly grazing Andy's lower back as she drops another kiss on her shoulder, "--I've got some things I need to prep before tomorrow anyway. The assistant they lent me from French Runway is absolutely useless.
Andy laughs, "Is that who you were yelling at at the show?"
"I do not yell."
"No, you don't, that's true." Andy replies before slowly getting to her feet.
Before she can turn to help Miranda up, she catches her already on her feet and disappearing towards the bathroom. Minutes later, she returns, hair in place, make up in place--as if she had not just been drilled into the floor.
Slipping on her coat, Andy shakes her head and smiles, "You're unbelievable." The air has shifted and now it's okay and comfortable to be on personal terms. Very personal terms. Andy thinks that maybe, she likes it.
Running an idle hand through her hair, Miranda watches in silence as Andy slips on her shoes and quietly tells her, "It was very good to see you, Andrea."
"Trust me, it was--great--to see you, Miranda."
Miranda rolls her eyes and fights the urge to smile as she begins towards the door, "I'll walk you out now."
Once at the door, they stare, back and forth, neither knowing how to say goodbye. It's odd to have to do it again after so long. Almost inappropriate.
Andy is feeling all too confident still, however, and takes a deep breath before speaking, "You know, I live about ten minutes from Elias Clarke. We could get together sometime. Have a drink."
"I'd like that," Miranda replies, all business.
Andy kisses her. For the first time since they've met, Andy makes Miranda blush. And as she steps into the elevator en route to her own suite, she hopes it isn't the last
end.