If You Come Knocking Late at Night 1/1
If You Come Knocking Late at Night 1/1
Title: If You Come Knocking Late at Night
Fandom: Damages/The Devil Wears Prada
Paring: Patty/Miranda
Rating: R/NC17
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They belong to their perspective franchise distributors and production companies.
Author's Notes: Very, VERY, brief mention of Patty/Ellen, Miranda/Andy. VERY. BRIEF.
Summary: Patty Hewes and Miranda Pristley hook up. That's all.
******************
She'll let you in her heart
If you've got a hammer and a vise
-Secret Garden
-----by Bruce Springsteen
******************
First night in two years that she is out of the office before ten. She could have chosen to spend the extra time with her children. But it’s an hour past their bedtime anyway and it would not have been wise, or even worth keeping them up for a couple of minutes of playing catch up. The book was looked over an hour early, and for the first time in who knows how long, her mailbox is empty. She knows this because she’s just checked her blackberry. Again.
Miranda Priestley. Has nothing to do. Miranda Priestly…is going to lose her mind if a problem doesn’t arise soon.
She sighs and pauses her pacing to glance out the window. The city is busy as always. Friday night. She wonders what Friday nights are like for normal people. People who are not relied upon to keep a multi million dollar company afloat.
She looks to her left, at her blank computer screen, Tom Ford’s latest, open simply for viewing purposes, as he is the only designer she doesn’t want to asphyxiate with a silk throw pillow with every single design he sends her.
As if ordering her to blink, the computer screen flicks away into sleep mode.
She rolls her yes up at the ceiling and without another thought, walks the two steps to her desk to shut the laptop with a sharp little smack. Without so much as another glance, she continues through the first set of double glass doors, open for her convenience, and steps around the second assistant’s desk, to grab her coat and purse from the closet. She’s yet to remember the girl’s name. Susie. Or Sandra. Something with an S. At any rate, she won’t last another week, so there’s no point in thinking too much about it. By the time the black Versace coat is on and the white Prada bag is held firmly in her grasp, the thought is gone and her mind is set on a strong drink.
The air is chilling outside, crisp, almost too cold but not quite. Roy is waiting by the car when Miranda comes to stand just past the main entrance and glances up at the night’s sky. She can’t remember the last time she had the opportunity to do that. It could mean one of two things. She’s finally acquired a slightly competent team, or something catastrophic is about to take place. She sighs meets the man’s awaiting--albeit bashful--stare and tells him dryly, “I won’t be going home yet, Roy. I won’t need the car.”
He seems unconvinced as she begins to walk past him, and he asks politely, hesitant, “Are you sure, Ms, Priestley?”
Rather than waste another word on a useless affirmation, she waves her hand once in dismissal and proceeds southward.
A three block walk brings her to her destination and upon entering, she quickly removes her coat. It’s warm inside. But not an oxygen stealing warm. Rather, a nice, take away the chill and settle down warm. She likes it. And she’s thankful that there is an unoccupied table and doesn’t have to search for an empty seat for long.
Ray Charles plays at a tasteful volume and she leans back in her seat as a dry martini is placed in front of her. Slowly, her breathing evens, and inch by inch, muscle by muscle, her body begins to relax. It’s an almost unrecognized sensation. She’s certainly never felt a selfless abandon like this in a while. The alcohol certainly helps.
By the time the second drink arrives and she takes the first sip, she begins to people watch. There are a group of chuckling businessmen toasting with tequila--and they will most certainly become more rowdy as the shots keep rolling in, that’s for sure.
There is a group of about six or seven women, sipping cosmopolitans. Miranda rolls her eyes at this. What pop culture will do. Her eyes travel lower, however, and she registers their shoes. An appreciative nod appears. Well, at least, their shoes are okay.
A man sits alone at the far end, open newspaper in front of him, tie undone and silver haired. Handsome. The male equivalent of herself. She chuckles dryly at the thought, averting her eyes as she brings her glass to her lips and sips the tangy gin with calm.
It’s then that she finally sees something that garners her attention for more than just observant criticism.
She’s blonde. Well dressed, in a Michael Kors skirt. She’s sitting at the bar and Miranda can only see a glimpse here and there, but by the peak of a double leather belt, she instantly knows it is a high waist, double button pencil skirt. It’s charcoal. Paired with a fitted three quarter sleeve, white cashmere top. The shoes are exquisite Christian Louboutin, charcoal suede and patent leather ankle boots. Miranda smirks at the signature red soles and shifts her body slightly to the left, craning her neck a little to see a red and white checkered vintage jacket flung over the empty stool beside her. Ballsy. Not bad at all. A slipping glance strays down over the woman’s drink. Scotch. Maybe bourbon.
The woman flips her hair and Miranda thinks she recognizes her from somewhere. The outfit, while sheer perfection, is too formal for a fashion job, or a job in the entertainment business. She must have seen her somewhere. CNN, maybe. Her eyes narrow in realization and she mumbles quietly to herself, “A lawyer…”
Patricia something or other.
She seems to be around Miranda's age. Her posture is strong, and determined, even from a distance, Miranda can see guards. The woman is nearly unapproachable, but Miranda is definitely intrigued. Another taste of gin allows her to continue to visually read her without shame.
As luck would have it, Patricia something or other does not enjoy the feeling of being watched. With her history, that can never be a good thing in a public setting. Or even a private one for that matter.
At first, it's a fleeting tingle in the back of her head, which she ignores, until it becomes a full blown paranoid antic that nibbles at the recesses of her mind like a rodent. She absolutely despises the feeling and slowly, when it's beginning to interfere with the luxury of her drink, she turns her head to the left, icy blue eyes scanning every inch of the spacious bar, to no avail until her body has to follow and she turns fully, soon being met with a frighteningly astute seeming, beautiful, blue eyed woman.
Their eyes meet and the stranger seems to smirk. Patty smirks back, nods briefly, and holds the woman's gaze for longer than a second before turning back to the paperwork in front of her. This concludes after only a few read sentences, when a velvet like tone calls behind her.
"What are you having?"
Patty stops, looks up and smiles to herself before very carefully peering over her left shoulder to reply amiably, "Bourbon."
The woman shrugs ever so slightly and nods once, "That was my second guess."
"What was the first?"
"Scotch," She replies, the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes.
"No," Patty retorts, reaching for her glass, "--no scotch--" Tipping the glass against her lips, she blinks and pulls it back at tasting only melted ice, "--no bourbon either, as it turns out."
A breathy chuckle escapes the other woman and just as quietly as if she weren't sitting with two tables between she and the bar, manages to get the bartender's attention, "Miss Hewes will have another bourbon," She instructs, then pauses to glance at Patty, who seems amused at the mention of her name. Recognition is definitely a plus with this particular woman, "--on the rocks, am I right?"
"That's right," Patty says.
"Great. On the rocks. Put it on my tab."
"Yes, Miranda." The bartender says instantly and within seconds, Patty's got a fresh drink sitting in front of her.
"Miranda Priestley."
Patty smirks against her glass and says smugly as she turns her back to the other woman, "I'm well aware of who you are, Miss Priestley."
"Miranda," She corrects, then adds sweetly, "Please."
Patty instantly doesn't trust the fabricated warmth in Miranda's voice. All the same, she doesn't see why she can't be pleasant, "Thanks for the drink, Miranda."
"I saw you on CNN last week. You really think you're going to take that man down?"
"You're referring to Mr. Tobin, I presume. Yes, I very much plan on it."
"I hope you do."
Very slowly, Patty's eyes dart upwards and she turns her body to the side until she can see Miranda before asking, "You've been following the case?"
Miranda shrugs, her arm propped on the backrest of her chair, her posture a bit more relaxed now that conversation seems to be moving along, "I'm somewhat of a law news junkie. I can't get enough of it. And it's a nice break from what I have to deal with every day."
Patty gives Miranda the once over, from head to toe, eyeballing the woman's immaculate outfit. Every single item on her body seems to be planned ahead of time, every lining, every button is just right. It's Oscar De La Renta from head to toe. Well, the toes seem to be encased in the same red sole line she herself wears. Four inch peep toe pumps are nothing to sneeze at and Patty lingers appreciatively on one elegant foot as it swings in and out in a careless manner.
When her gaze is lifted, she notes how Miranda's crooked smirk has grown into a small pleasure filled smile. Apparently, SHE enjoys being watched.
Patty takes a sip of her drink and licks her lips before replying, "Don't you like what you do?"
Miranda thinks for a moment before delicately replying, "If you cooked all day for a living, wouldn't you rather come home to a microwave dinner at night?"
Patty smiles sardonically, "I'm not sure if you're calling my case a microwave dinner, but I'm going to say I understand what you mean." They share a chuckle before Patty adds, "At any rate, you're good at what you do, no?"
"What makes you think so?" Miranda's eyes narrow with a flirtatious little tilt of her chin.
Patty notices. "The economy is shit and your magazine is nowhere near being in trouble. You MUST be good at your job."
"I am the best there is," She replies without missing a beat.
At this, patty smiles wider and toasts her glass to the other woman, "Same here."
Miranda nods in a sort of unspoken sisterhood solute and lifts her own drink, watching with interest as Patty downs the entirety of hers. Setting her glass down on the bar, she offers slowly, "Can I buy you a drink, Miranda?"
****
The bar becomes gradually crowded. It's volumes louder and people have taken onto singing along with the jukebox. Moving to a more private table seems like a solution, and soon, the two women as sitting comfortably in a corner booth, three drinks in and reclining against the cushioned seats.
They've engaged in chit chat about the differences and similarities in their jobs. Miranda decides Patty is borderline narcissistic and she likes this. Patty has decided that Miranda is self serving and a borderline opportunist, and this, she likes as well.
"I've got to be honest with you, Miranda--" Patty begins, leaning comfortably on her end of the booth, "--I don't like most women I meet. But I'm dangerously close to not disliking you."
Miranda smiles into a half empty martini glass, sipping languidly before looking up at the other woman over the rim, "I loathe most women I meet."
"It works out perfectly, doesn't it?"
Miranda's eyes narrow. She reminds Patty of a cat. Lithe and elegant--judgmental. She can see her mind working a mile a minute as she taps her index finger to her lips, then points at the blonde with quiet assertiveness, "You were at the Ralph Lauren show last Spring at the Hamptons."
Patty smiles and nods as she leans in and gets more comfortable, her elbows on the table as she stirs a tiny straw around her drink, "Yes, I was. He's an old friend. I try to make it out to see his shows once in a while."
"Once in a great while. I don't believe I've seen you at any show since."
"Busy schedule." She explains, "You have a great memory."
Miranda shrugs, "For certain things." She replies, waving offhandedly before adding curiously, "So, this would be your first night off in..."
"--three weeks. You?"
"More or less the same."
To this, Patty raises her glass and toasts, "To women who--work."
"--with addictive personalities."
"--and an intolerance for mediocrity and idiocy."
Miranda heaves a breathless chuckle, "Here, here."
Their glasses don't touch. But their gazes don't drift as they sip their respective drinks.
"You're uh--" Miranda begins again after licking her lips, "--you're divorced."
Patty laughs, "You know a lot."
Miranda shows her palm as if to say 'enough said', and says instead, "I am over stepping, I apologize."
Patty stops for a moment and thinks. Were it anyone else, the answer would have been yes. But somehow, sitting with another female she doesn't quite detest, is refreshing. "No. You're not over stepping, it's completely fine. It was all over Page 6. There wasn't much I could do to get away from it."
"I hate Page 6."
"So do I."
"Insipid little publishment."
"It really is," Patty nods, then, "So was my ex husband. That's why I tipped them off of the divorce."
Miranda stares back as if Patty's miraculously grown a second head, eyes wide and jaw dropped. "You didn't"
"I didn't want to give--" She draws in a sharp breath and a brief image of Ellen breezes past her, along with a sharp pang of melancholy that is gone as soon as it appears, "--them the satisfaction of my humiliation, so I figured--"
"Humiliate him first?"
"Exactly."
Miranda laughs in between a quiet understanding that stretches out into a comfortable silence as a familiar song plays in the background.
In their contemplation, Patty relaxes and Miranda allows her mind to wander. She wonders if Patty Hewes can really keep a secret or if she's only a giant human vault with an endless capacity to hold information until the very moment when she needs it to her advantage. She sizes her up. She puts herself in her shoes for a moment and smirks to herself as their empty glasses are replaced by fresh drinks and thinks that, yes. That's what she would be, were she Patty Hewes. Exactly that. A vault of convenient information.
Raking in a casual breath, she decides to offer some, herself, "My first husband cheated."
Patty looks up and regards Miranda again with new found interest. A single strand of silver hair has fallen dangerously close to one sharp blue eye, but not quite. Something within her fixed stare flickers, as if retracting a memory. Patty is transfixed.
"Naturally, he blamed me."
"Hmm."
"My second husband--was in all his right to leave me, I suppose. One gets to a point where you have to know what one wants. Anything else that doesn't fit--cut it lose. Why complicate your life more than you should?" She thinks of that night and the way she cried. The way she spoke all too openly to Andrea. Andrea who still doesn't know what she wants. She scoffs, "It was inconvenient. More so for my daughters, but--" She waves off again, "--it doesn't matter anymore."
"You have children." This peaks Patty's interest. She, suddenly, wants to know if Miranda, too, has raised a child as unbalanced as Michael is.
The mention of her children brings a smile to Miranda's face and she nods, "I do. Twin girls. Fourteen and a handful--" She sighs at the incident just a week before when Cassidy arrived home wearing thick black eye liner and enough mascara to prep a fifteen model shoot at Runway, "--but they're great. And yourself? Any children?"
"One. Michael," She smirks tightly and then inhales deeply as she leans in and holds her glass in one hand while the other toys with a stray napkin, desperate for a subject change. "I think you're right. About knowing what you want at some point. Anything else is dead weight."
Miranda laughs at the bold term and her gaze falls upon Patty's hands while the blonde appears to let her attention drift elsewhere. Her nails are bare, save for a shiny coat of something translucent. They're short. Well manicured. Her hands--larger than most. But not abnormally so. They're elegant, but they appear to be strong. A canary diamond sits atop a single ring around the ring finger of her right hand. For a moment, Miranda imagines what it would be like to run her fingers along every knuckle--every vein track, until she can wrap her thumb and index finger around a freckled wrist.
She blinks the thought away and sighs as she slowly looks up to a distracted blonde and garners her attention with one question, "Where do you live?"
**********
It's just what Miranda pictured, Patty's apartment. It's spacious and chic. The space is, really, to be envied. She tells her so as she receives a glass of bourbon. She mentally notes that she owns the same set of glasses and nods her thanks as the other woman seats herself beside her, comfortable lounging against the backrest, "...it's really a great find."
"Thank you." She replies gracefully, eyes flirting over the rim of her glass.
Miranda's never one to second guess herself, and she doesn't think she does that now. However, she does hesitate a moment against her wishes, strong as they might be. But Patricia Hewes really is impeccably dressed and Miranda isn't sure Michael Kors has ever looked that good in her eyes. The blonde turns her head and showcases her profile, her neck and jaw line dramatically molded against the soft shadows as she looks about the room with an air of disinterest. Her legs are crossed comfortably and her foot is rotating casually at the ankle as it hangs in the air. A peak of a thigh as she shifts a little. "You are exquisite in Michael Korrs." Miranda says appreciatively.
Patty turns slowly, and smiles equally so, breathing calmly in and out before sipping her bourbon once more, then rising to her feet.
Not a single word is spoken as she walks past the other woman.
Miranda watches the silhouette of female curves as it proceeds and soon, she's following Patty upstairs. She takes in her bedroom, from wall to wall before leisurely striding forward to sit at the edge of the large King Size bed. There are two things Miranda can appreciate in this woman, one, and the most important one, it seems, is that she doesn't have to speak to let her know what she wants. It takes only a meeting of gazes for the blonde to move to Miranda's accord. It's fantastic. The second thing is, Patty can hold her liquor like a professional. She knocks back the remains of her drink and sets the empty glass down on a nearby dresser before advancing.
Her arms hang casually at her sides when she comes to stand before Miranda, their knees brushing as she looks on expectantly.
Their eyes meet in the dark and a smirk tugs at the corner of Miranda's mouth as she reaches up and her fingers pull at the first leather belt clasped before her. She knows the skirt well. She has it in navy blue. The second leather tongue slides out of its metal barrier almost immediately and the zipper placed securely on the left hip slides open just as easily.
The garment hands loosely, low on shapely hips as Miranda takes the liberty of allowing her eyes and hands to roam. her fingers slip swiftly inside the waist of the skirt, her skin warm against the heat radiating there. Her thumbs dance along hip bones and her hands smooth out against Patty's hips, while Miranda's eyes drink in the friction of breathing, growing ragged, underneath the cashmere top. A toned stomach pulls and pushes with every breath. Her rib cage expands and Miranda's lips part in something that can only be described as awe, as she slips a hand up the fitted blouse and gently brushes her knuckles against Patty's side.
A sigh is elicited and the first kiss takes place. Like a well executed sonata, in its slopes and rises and falls. The mellow exchange of breaths and soft meeting of tongues a well mannered tempo, the taste of Patty's bourbon on Miranda's lips, the uprising melody, and the heady sigh that escapes them both, becomes their undoing.
Miranda isn't easily dominated. It takes Patty a string of well calculated kisses and finally, the actual act of her pinning her wrists down against the mattress, to get the woman on a somewhat submissive position. Still, it takes Patty's teeth and tongue over a rising clavicle to keep Miranda down and writhing softly. She's careful not to leave a mark. She knows better. Still, the quiet sighs and whispered words of encouragement are almost persuasive enough to make her bite down. Almost.
She trails her attention over the rest of every erogenous zone she can find instead. Very low on her left hip, seems to be a particularly sensitive spot, and Patty takes full advantage of that particular find.
She latches on and sucks delicately, while she slowly works two fingers inside silky, wet folds, kneeled between Miranda's legs. The other woman's back arches against the mattress and her fingers curl into the Egyptian cotton beneath her as a stifled moan is released, and a sigh, as her hips begin to move at their own accord against probing fingers. A teasing grazing of teeth against her hip does it and her orgasm erupts in a series of short thrusts and tiny convulsions that root at the pit of her stomach and leave her slightly breathless when it's over.
Patty smiles her victory and works her way up the sated woman's torso with languid kisses along heated skin.
When their lips meet again, it's anything but passive. Patty quickly learns that, while she enjoys using every ounce of knowledge she has of her lovers to kill them with kindness, Miranda isn't quite as kind.
It starts with the distraction of their kiss, which the silver haired woman uses to her advantage without hesitation. She controls the whole thing, from the pressure in between their lips, to pulling back and nibbling whenever she wants. Patty doesn't realize she's been topped until she's flat on her back and panting.
Miranda uses her tongue as if she's indulging in a delectable treat. She licks Patty as if she has all the time in the world, approaching that sensitive spot aching for contact with every lap of her tongue, but never giving the swollen pink nub the attention it demands.
She uses her hands. She touches Patty everywhere, but never lingers long enough. Soon, Patty's moaning breathlessly and gripping the headboard for dear life as she seems to finally be approaching release. Miranda's head bobs ever so slightly between Patty's legs. Her tongue delves inside her, then out and around, everywhere and nowhere all at once, driving Patty insane with every passing second. When the torturous mouth is suddenly denied completely Patty releases a choked cry in protest at the almost painful loss of touch.
"No!" She exclaims, surprising herself. She drops her head back against the pillow and moans at the ceiling.
"No, what?" Miranda asks, almost purrs, already trailing her lips up Patty's torso, not waiting for a reply as their lips meet and she steals a hunger filled kiss before turning her mouth against the blonde's ear and whispering harshly, "Turn over."
Patty's self control is completely gone, and so, within the following moments, she finds herself on her hands and knees, one hand fisted over the edge of the headboard while Miranda Priestley fucks her from behind.
If she weren't so completely overwhelmed, she would laugh.
Page 6 would definitely have a field day with this story. The press wouldn't sleep for months if news broke of it.
Hours later, she wakes up, sore and alone in her bed. It's still dark out when she glances out her bedroom window from where she rests, sprawled under the sheets. She sighs and slowly turns her head in the opposite direction to face what she already knows is an empty side of the bed. She does find, however, a small note, no doubt ripped from a calendar or date book.
She reaches out and lifts it to her eyes. In neat, cursive handwriting, reads a simple message, "If boredom presents itself again..." A phone number follows and a simple, "Miranda Priestley" signs off the note.
Patty chuckles and scoots further along the bed to tuck the note safely in the bedside drawer before hugging the pillow Miranda occupied briefly. Inhaling the lingering scent of perfume, she eventually drifts off to sleep. It's a dreamless sleep. And it suits her just fine.
end.
Title: If You Come Knocking Late at Night
Fandom: Damages/The Devil Wears Prada
Paring: Patty/Miranda
Rating: R/NC17
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They belong to their perspective franchise distributors and production companies.
Author's Notes: Very, VERY, brief mention of Patty/Ellen, Miranda/Andy. VERY. BRIEF.
Summary: Patty Hewes and Miranda Pristley hook up. That's all.
******************
She'll let you in her heart
If you've got a hammer and a vise
-Secret Garden
-----by Bruce Springsteen
******************
First night in two years that she is out of the office before ten. She could have chosen to spend the extra time with her children. But it’s an hour past their bedtime anyway and it would not have been wise, or even worth keeping them up for a couple of minutes of playing catch up. The book was looked over an hour early, and for the first time in who knows how long, her mailbox is empty. She knows this because she’s just checked her blackberry. Again.
Miranda Priestley. Has nothing to do. Miranda Priestly…is going to lose her mind if a problem doesn’t arise soon.
She sighs and pauses her pacing to glance out the window. The city is busy as always. Friday night. She wonders what Friday nights are like for normal people. People who are not relied upon to keep a multi million dollar company afloat.
She looks to her left, at her blank computer screen, Tom Ford’s latest, open simply for viewing purposes, as he is the only designer she doesn’t want to asphyxiate with a silk throw pillow with every single design he sends her.
As if ordering her to blink, the computer screen flicks away into sleep mode.
She rolls her yes up at the ceiling and without another thought, walks the two steps to her desk to shut the laptop with a sharp little smack. Without so much as another glance, she continues through the first set of double glass doors, open for her convenience, and steps around the second assistant’s desk, to grab her coat and purse from the closet. She’s yet to remember the girl’s name. Susie. Or Sandra. Something with an S. At any rate, she won’t last another week, so there’s no point in thinking too much about it. By the time the black Versace coat is on and the white Prada bag is held firmly in her grasp, the thought is gone and her mind is set on a strong drink.
The air is chilling outside, crisp, almost too cold but not quite. Roy is waiting by the car when Miranda comes to stand just past the main entrance and glances up at the night’s sky. She can’t remember the last time she had the opportunity to do that. It could mean one of two things. She’s finally acquired a slightly competent team, or something catastrophic is about to take place. She sighs meets the man’s awaiting--albeit bashful--stare and tells him dryly, “I won’t be going home yet, Roy. I won’t need the car.”
He seems unconvinced as she begins to walk past him, and he asks politely, hesitant, “Are you sure, Ms, Priestley?”
Rather than waste another word on a useless affirmation, she waves her hand once in dismissal and proceeds southward.
A three block walk brings her to her destination and upon entering, she quickly removes her coat. It’s warm inside. But not an oxygen stealing warm. Rather, a nice, take away the chill and settle down warm. She likes it. And she’s thankful that there is an unoccupied table and doesn’t have to search for an empty seat for long.
Ray Charles plays at a tasteful volume and she leans back in her seat as a dry martini is placed in front of her. Slowly, her breathing evens, and inch by inch, muscle by muscle, her body begins to relax. It’s an almost unrecognized sensation. She’s certainly never felt a selfless abandon like this in a while. The alcohol certainly helps.
By the time the second drink arrives and she takes the first sip, she begins to people watch. There are a group of chuckling businessmen toasting with tequila--and they will most certainly become more rowdy as the shots keep rolling in, that’s for sure.
There is a group of about six or seven women, sipping cosmopolitans. Miranda rolls her eyes at this. What pop culture will do. Her eyes travel lower, however, and she registers their shoes. An appreciative nod appears. Well, at least, their shoes are okay.
A man sits alone at the far end, open newspaper in front of him, tie undone and silver haired. Handsome. The male equivalent of herself. She chuckles dryly at the thought, averting her eyes as she brings her glass to her lips and sips the tangy gin with calm.
It’s then that she finally sees something that garners her attention for more than just observant criticism.
She’s blonde. Well dressed, in a Michael Kors skirt. She’s sitting at the bar and Miranda can only see a glimpse here and there, but by the peak of a double leather belt, she instantly knows it is a high waist, double button pencil skirt. It’s charcoal. Paired with a fitted three quarter sleeve, white cashmere top. The shoes are exquisite Christian Louboutin, charcoal suede and patent leather ankle boots. Miranda smirks at the signature red soles and shifts her body slightly to the left, craning her neck a little to see a red and white checkered vintage jacket flung over the empty stool beside her. Ballsy. Not bad at all. A slipping glance strays down over the woman’s drink. Scotch. Maybe bourbon.
The woman flips her hair and Miranda thinks she recognizes her from somewhere. The outfit, while sheer perfection, is too formal for a fashion job, or a job in the entertainment business. She must have seen her somewhere. CNN, maybe. Her eyes narrow in realization and she mumbles quietly to herself, “A lawyer…”
Patricia something or other.
She seems to be around Miranda's age. Her posture is strong, and determined, even from a distance, Miranda can see guards. The woman is nearly unapproachable, but Miranda is definitely intrigued. Another taste of gin allows her to continue to visually read her without shame.
As luck would have it, Patricia something or other does not enjoy the feeling of being watched. With her history, that can never be a good thing in a public setting. Or even a private one for that matter.
At first, it's a fleeting tingle in the back of her head, which she ignores, until it becomes a full blown paranoid antic that nibbles at the recesses of her mind like a rodent. She absolutely despises the feeling and slowly, when it's beginning to interfere with the luxury of her drink, she turns her head to the left, icy blue eyes scanning every inch of the spacious bar, to no avail until her body has to follow and she turns fully, soon being met with a frighteningly astute seeming, beautiful, blue eyed woman.
Their eyes meet and the stranger seems to smirk. Patty smirks back, nods briefly, and holds the woman's gaze for longer than a second before turning back to the paperwork in front of her. This concludes after only a few read sentences, when a velvet like tone calls behind her.
"What are you having?"
Patty stops, looks up and smiles to herself before very carefully peering over her left shoulder to reply amiably, "Bourbon."
The woman shrugs ever so slightly and nods once, "That was my second guess."
"What was the first?"
"Scotch," She replies, the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes.
"No," Patty retorts, reaching for her glass, "--no scotch--" Tipping the glass against her lips, she blinks and pulls it back at tasting only melted ice, "--no bourbon either, as it turns out."
A breathy chuckle escapes the other woman and just as quietly as if she weren't sitting with two tables between she and the bar, manages to get the bartender's attention, "Miss Hewes will have another bourbon," She instructs, then pauses to glance at Patty, who seems amused at the mention of her name. Recognition is definitely a plus with this particular woman, "--on the rocks, am I right?"
"That's right," Patty says.
"Great. On the rocks. Put it on my tab."
"Yes, Miranda." The bartender says instantly and within seconds, Patty's got a fresh drink sitting in front of her.
"Miranda Priestley."
Patty smirks against her glass and says smugly as she turns her back to the other woman, "I'm well aware of who you are, Miss Priestley."
"Miranda," She corrects, then adds sweetly, "Please."
Patty instantly doesn't trust the fabricated warmth in Miranda's voice. All the same, she doesn't see why she can't be pleasant, "Thanks for the drink, Miranda."
"I saw you on CNN last week. You really think you're going to take that man down?"
"You're referring to Mr. Tobin, I presume. Yes, I very much plan on it."
"I hope you do."
Very slowly, Patty's eyes dart upwards and she turns her body to the side until she can see Miranda before asking, "You've been following the case?"
Miranda shrugs, her arm propped on the backrest of her chair, her posture a bit more relaxed now that conversation seems to be moving along, "I'm somewhat of a law news junkie. I can't get enough of it. And it's a nice break from what I have to deal with every day."
Patty gives Miranda the once over, from head to toe, eyeballing the woman's immaculate outfit. Every single item on her body seems to be planned ahead of time, every lining, every button is just right. It's Oscar De La Renta from head to toe. Well, the toes seem to be encased in the same red sole line she herself wears. Four inch peep toe pumps are nothing to sneeze at and Patty lingers appreciatively on one elegant foot as it swings in and out in a careless manner.
When her gaze is lifted, she notes how Miranda's crooked smirk has grown into a small pleasure filled smile. Apparently, SHE enjoys being watched.
Patty takes a sip of her drink and licks her lips before replying, "Don't you like what you do?"
Miranda thinks for a moment before delicately replying, "If you cooked all day for a living, wouldn't you rather come home to a microwave dinner at night?"
Patty smiles sardonically, "I'm not sure if you're calling my case a microwave dinner, but I'm going to say I understand what you mean." They share a chuckle before Patty adds, "At any rate, you're good at what you do, no?"
"What makes you think so?" Miranda's eyes narrow with a flirtatious little tilt of her chin.
Patty notices. "The economy is shit and your magazine is nowhere near being in trouble. You MUST be good at your job."
"I am the best there is," She replies without missing a beat.
At this, patty smiles wider and toasts her glass to the other woman, "Same here."
Miranda nods in a sort of unspoken sisterhood solute and lifts her own drink, watching with interest as Patty downs the entirety of hers. Setting her glass down on the bar, she offers slowly, "Can I buy you a drink, Miranda?"
****
The bar becomes gradually crowded. It's volumes louder and people have taken onto singing along with the jukebox. Moving to a more private table seems like a solution, and soon, the two women as sitting comfortably in a corner booth, three drinks in and reclining against the cushioned seats.
They've engaged in chit chat about the differences and similarities in their jobs. Miranda decides Patty is borderline narcissistic and she likes this. Patty has decided that Miranda is self serving and a borderline opportunist, and this, she likes as well.
"I've got to be honest with you, Miranda--" Patty begins, leaning comfortably on her end of the booth, "--I don't like most women I meet. But I'm dangerously close to not disliking you."
Miranda smiles into a half empty martini glass, sipping languidly before looking up at the other woman over the rim, "I loathe most women I meet."
"It works out perfectly, doesn't it?"
Miranda's eyes narrow. She reminds Patty of a cat. Lithe and elegant--judgmental. She can see her mind working a mile a minute as she taps her index finger to her lips, then points at the blonde with quiet assertiveness, "You were at the Ralph Lauren show last Spring at the Hamptons."
Patty smiles and nods as she leans in and gets more comfortable, her elbows on the table as she stirs a tiny straw around her drink, "Yes, I was. He's an old friend. I try to make it out to see his shows once in a while."
"Once in a great while. I don't believe I've seen you at any show since."
"Busy schedule." She explains, "You have a great memory."
Miranda shrugs, "For certain things." She replies, waving offhandedly before adding curiously, "So, this would be your first night off in..."
"--three weeks. You?"
"More or less the same."
To this, Patty raises her glass and toasts, "To women who--work."
"--with addictive personalities."
"--and an intolerance for mediocrity and idiocy."
Miranda heaves a breathless chuckle, "Here, here."
Their glasses don't touch. But their gazes don't drift as they sip their respective drinks.
"You're uh--" Miranda begins again after licking her lips, "--you're divorced."
Patty laughs, "You know a lot."
Miranda shows her palm as if to say 'enough said', and says instead, "I am over stepping, I apologize."
Patty stops for a moment and thinks. Were it anyone else, the answer would have been yes. But somehow, sitting with another female she doesn't quite detest, is refreshing. "No. You're not over stepping, it's completely fine. It was all over Page 6. There wasn't much I could do to get away from it."
"I hate Page 6."
"So do I."
"Insipid little publishment."
"It really is," Patty nods, then, "So was my ex husband. That's why I tipped them off of the divorce."
Miranda stares back as if Patty's miraculously grown a second head, eyes wide and jaw dropped. "You didn't"
"I didn't want to give--" She draws in a sharp breath and a brief image of Ellen breezes past her, along with a sharp pang of melancholy that is gone as soon as it appears, "--them the satisfaction of my humiliation, so I figured--"
"Humiliate him first?"
"Exactly."
Miranda laughs in between a quiet understanding that stretches out into a comfortable silence as a familiar song plays in the background.
In their contemplation, Patty relaxes and Miranda allows her mind to wander. She wonders if Patty Hewes can really keep a secret or if she's only a giant human vault with an endless capacity to hold information until the very moment when she needs it to her advantage. She sizes her up. She puts herself in her shoes for a moment and smirks to herself as their empty glasses are replaced by fresh drinks and thinks that, yes. That's what she would be, were she Patty Hewes. Exactly that. A vault of convenient information.
Raking in a casual breath, she decides to offer some, herself, "My first husband cheated."
Patty looks up and regards Miranda again with new found interest. A single strand of silver hair has fallen dangerously close to one sharp blue eye, but not quite. Something within her fixed stare flickers, as if retracting a memory. Patty is transfixed.
"Naturally, he blamed me."
"Hmm."
"My second husband--was in all his right to leave me, I suppose. One gets to a point where you have to know what one wants. Anything else that doesn't fit--cut it lose. Why complicate your life more than you should?" She thinks of that night and the way she cried. The way she spoke all too openly to Andrea. Andrea who still doesn't know what she wants. She scoffs, "It was inconvenient. More so for my daughters, but--" She waves off again, "--it doesn't matter anymore."
"You have children." This peaks Patty's interest. She, suddenly, wants to know if Miranda, too, has raised a child as unbalanced as Michael is.
The mention of her children brings a smile to Miranda's face and she nods, "I do. Twin girls. Fourteen and a handful--" She sighs at the incident just a week before when Cassidy arrived home wearing thick black eye liner and enough mascara to prep a fifteen model shoot at Runway, "--but they're great. And yourself? Any children?"
"One. Michael," She smirks tightly and then inhales deeply as she leans in and holds her glass in one hand while the other toys with a stray napkin, desperate for a subject change. "I think you're right. About knowing what you want at some point. Anything else is dead weight."
Miranda laughs at the bold term and her gaze falls upon Patty's hands while the blonde appears to let her attention drift elsewhere. Her nails are bare, save for a shiny coat of something translucent. They're short. Well manicured. Her hands--larger than most. But not abnormally so. They're elegant, but they appear to be strong. A canary diamond sits atop a single ring around the ring finger of her right hand. For a moment, Miranda imagines what it would be like to run her fingers along every knuckle--every vein track, until she can wrap her thumb and index finger around a freckled wrist.
She blinks the thought away and sighs as she slowly looks up to a distracted blonde and garners her attention with one question, "Where do you live?"
**********
It's just what Miranda pictured, Patty's apartment. It's spacious and chic. The space is, really, to be envied. She tells her so as she receives a glass of bourbon. She mentally notes that she owns the same set of glasses and nods her thanks as the other woman seats herself beside her, comfortable lounging against the backrest, "...it's really a great find."
"Thank you." She replies gracefully, eyes flirting over the rim of her glass.
Miranda's never one to second guess herself, and she doesn't think she does that now. However, she does hesitate a moment against her wishes, strong as they might be. But Patricia Hewes really is impeccably dressed and Miranda isn't sure Michael Kors has ever looked that good in her eyes. The blonde turns her head and showcases her profile, her neck and jaw line dramatically molded against the soft shadows as she looks about the room with an air of disinterest. Her legs are crossed comfortably and her foot is rotating casually at the ankle as it hangs in the air. A peak of a thigh as she shifts a little. "You are exquisite in Michael Korrs." Miranda says appreciatively.
Patty turns slowly, and smiles equally so, breathing calmly in and out before sipping her bourbon once more, then rising to her feet.
Not a single word is spoken as she walks past the other woman.
Miranda watches the silhouette of female curves as it proceeds and soon, she's following Patty upstairs. She takes in her bedroom, from wall to wall before leisurely striding forward to sit at the edge of the large King Size bed. There are two things Miranda can appreciate in this woman, one, and the most important one, it seems, is that she doesn't have to speak to let her know what she wants. It takes only a meeting of gazes for the blonde to move to Miranda's accord. It's fantastic. The second thing is, Patty can hold her liquor like a professional. She knocks back the remains of her drink and sets the empty glass down on a nearby dresser before advancing.
Her arms hang casually at her sides when she comes to stand before Miranda, their knees brushing as she looks on expectantly.
Their eyes meet in the dark and a smirk tugs at the corner of Miranda's mouth as she reaches up and her fingers pull at the first leather belt clasped before her. She knows the skirt well. She has it in navy blue. The second leather tongue slides out of its metal barrier almost immediately and the zipper placed securely on the left hip slides open just as easily.
The garment hands loosely, low on shapely hips as Miranda takes the liberty of allowing her eyes and hands to roam. her fingers slip swiftly inside the waist of the skirt, her skin warm against the heat radiating there. Her thumbs dance along hip bones and her hands smooth out against Patty's hips, while Miranda's eyes drink in the friction of breathing, growing ragged, underneath the cashmere top. A toned stomach pulls and pushes with every breath. Her rib cage expands and Miranda's lips part in something that can only be described as awe, as she slips a hand up the fitted blouse and gently brushes her knuckles against Patty's side.
A sigh is elicited and the first kiss takes place. Like a well executed sonata, in its slopes and rises and falls. The mellow exchange of breaths and soft meeting of tongues a well mannered tempo, the taste of Patty's bourbon on Miranda's lips, the uprising melody, and the heady sigh that escapes them both, becomes their undoing.
Miranda isn't easily dominated. It takes Patty a string of well calculated kisses and finally, the actual act of her pinning her wrists down against the mattress, to get the woman on a somewhat submissive position. Still, it takes Patty's teeth and tongue over a rising clavicle to keep Miranda down and writhing softly. She's careful not to leave a mark. She knows better. Still, the quiet sighs and whispered words of encouragement are almost persuasive enough to make her bite down. Almost.
She trails her attention over the rest of every erogenous zone she can find instead. Very low on her left hip, seems to be a particularly sensitive spot, and Patty takes full advantage of that particular find.
She latches on and sucks delicately, while she slowly works two fingers inside silky, wet folds, kneeled between Miranda's legs. The other woman's back arches against the mattress and her fingers curl into the Egyptian cotton beneath her as a stifled moan is released, and a sigh, as her hips begin to move at their own accord against probing fingers. A teasing grazing of teeth against her hip does it and her orgasm erupts in a series of short thrusts and tiny convulsions that root at the pit of her stomach and leave her slightly breathless when it's over.
Patty smiles her victory and works her way up the sated woman's torso with languid kisses along heated skin.
When their lips meet again, it's anything but passive. Patty quickly learns that, while she enjoys using every ounce of knowledge she has of her lovers to kill them with kindness, Miranda isn't quite as kind.
It starts with the distraction of their kiss, which the silver haired woman uses to her advantage without hesitation. She controls the whole thing, from the pressure in between their lips, to pulling back and nibbling whenever she wants. Patty doesn't realize she's been topped until she's flat on her back and panting.
Miranda uses her tongue as if she's indulging in a delectable treat. She licks Patty as if she has all the time in the world, approaching that sensitive spot aching for contact with every lap of her tongue, but never giving the swollen pink nub the attention it demands.
She uses her hands. She touches Patty everywhere, but never lingers long enough. Soon, Patty's moaning breathlessly and gripping the headboard for dear life as she seems to finally be approaching release. Miranda's head bobs ever so slightly between Patty's legs. Her tongue delves inside her, then out and around, everywhere and nowhere all at once, driving Patty insane with every passing second. When the torturous mouth is suddenly denied completely Patty releases a choked cry in protest at the almost painful loss of touch.
"No!" She exclaims, surprising herself. She drops her head back against the pillow and moans at the ceiling.
"No, what?" Miranda asks, almost purrs, already trailing her lips up Patty's torso, not waiting for a reply as their lips meet and she steals a hunger filled kiss before turning her mouth against the blonde's ear and whispering harshly, "Turn over."
Patty's self control is completely gone, and so, within the following moments, she finds herself on her hands and knees, one hand fisted over the edge of the headboard while Miranda Priestley fucks her from behind.
If she weren't so completely overwhelmed, she would laugh.
Page 6 would definitely have a field day with this story. The press wouldn't sleep for months if news broke of it.
Hours later, she wakes up, sore and alone in her bed. It's still dark out when she glances out her bedroom window from where she rests, sprawled under the sheets. She sighs and slowly turns her head in the opposite direction to face what she already knows is an empty side of the bed. She does find, however, a small note, no doubt ripped from a calendar or date book.
She reaches out and lifts it to her eyes. In neat, cursive handwriting, reads a simple message, "If boredom presents itself again..." A phone number follows and a simple, "Miranda Priestley" signs off the note.
Patty chuckles and scoots further along the bed to tuck the note safely in the bedside drawer before hugging the pillow Miranda occupied briefly. Inhaling the lingering scent of perfume, she eventually drifts off to sleep. It's a dreamless sleep. And it suits her just fine.
end.