Hands, Train Ride, and Memories
Title: Hands, Train Ride, and Memories
By Goodbyecoffee
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: M/NC-17
Summary: On the train heading to Hamptons, Miranda let her memories take her away.
A/N: Fluffy and M, and then some more fluff. I found this story on a book a friend gave to me. The original idea was not mine, and I purely give the right to the author. However, I tweaked it here and there, and then tweaked some more to fit our lovely couple. The end product, you be the judge.
As usual, this is beta-virgin, so all mistakes are mine. And of course, am not a native English speaker, so the grammar and all, I just played them by ears.
Please let me know what you think.
When the train entered the tunnel, Miranda paused in her reading. In that dark, unexpected moment, when daylight was swallowed by an underground passage, Andrea’s hands have gone to unexpected places. Even after all their years together, Miranda still hadn’t known where to expect Andrea’s hands to travel. Her breasts, between her legs, sometimes her thigh, down her back, under her ass.
“Touch should occasionally be unexpected.” Andrea would say as her hands caressed Miranda. And with Andrea, it sometimes deliciously was.
Miranda remembered how dislocated her life had become when Andrea entered it. That first night, when the only passion between them was sex. That night, Andrea’s hands had traveled. Miranda would have never dared. She was both taken aback and pleased when Andrea put a hand on her breast. Just like that. Andrea’s hands on Miranda’s breast changed them from previous employer and employee to potential lovers.
The train entered another tunnel, this time, Andrea was on the other end of the train, with the twins who suddenly wanted some fresh air. “Nothing, mom. We just want to see the sights.” As if they couldn’t see anything while comfortably sitting beside the window. Miranda allowed herself the luxury of fondling memories, letting her mind linger on that first rush when the warmth of Andrea’s hand had encompassed her breast. At first, that was all, her hand on her breast, as if asking “Is this alright?” Then Andrea’s fingers began slowly moving, circling, closer and closer. By the time her fingers finally reached Miranda’s nipple, it was hard and erect. As Andrea said later, “Of course I didn’t stop. That nipple of yours was waving a bright red flag in invitation.”
No, Andrea didn’t stop, but she moved slowly, almost teasingly. From one breast to another. Then away to Miranda’s neck or jaw, then back, her fingers hovering inside Miranda’s blouse, resting at that place where the breast begins to rise from the chest.
But the train left the tunnel, exposing Miranda to the sunlight. Her memories created in the night suddenly felt unseemly to subject them to this glaring daylight. Miranda was abashed to notice that her breasts had responded to the memory, her nipples erect and straining against her bra.
She suddenly remembered that harsh sunlight in the doctor’s office, Cancer. A harsh word in the harsh light. That night, she and Andrea had made love in a frenzy. Clinging to touch, getting physical, while she was working her might to not let her tears fall. Seven years together, and that one word reminded them of how quickly things changed, how mortal they were, especially Miranda. Touch could not be held on to. It would leave. So that night, they grasped it as tightly as they could. Andrea’s hands traveled all over Miranda’s body, touching, probing, as if trying to reach some essence of her, to mold a memory that would endure.
Miranda fought the memory. Why she was suddenly reminiscing and overly sentimental, over this train ride to Hamptons, was beyond her.
Back to that first night, Andrea’s simple “Come to my place.” after they leave the restaurant. Odd how Miranda had never thought to say no. Resisting Andrea didn’t seem possible. It was only four blocks from Andrea’s apartment, the little family owned resto was Andrea’s choice, of course. She had taken Miranda’s hand to lead her around the corner, and didn’t release it until they were at her door and Andrea was taking out her keys.
Her memory was clear and pristine up until that point. She could remember all the details, the name of the store in that corner, Andrea’s hand in hers, even the precise color of the car that passed them by just before they took the stairs up to Andrea’s place. But once they were inside, images started cascading, one atop another. Her coat came off. She couldn’t remember Andrea taking her own coat off, but, of course, she did. She blinked and she found herself in Andrea’s arms, and they were kissing.
“I knew you weren’t quite as shy as you seemed all throughout that evening when you put your tongue in my mouth first.” Andrea said later. Miranda, of course, denied this. Andrea had always been the bold one when they embarked on their relationship. Miranda never thought Andrea had it in her. Miranda was the boss, yes, in Elias-Clarke. But when it came to her and Andrea’s relationship, she tended to agree to Andrea more. Bended on the latter’s wishes and demands. She was smitten, hence, the submissive streak in her won. Andrea basked in being ‘the boss’ at home. It worked well with them. How? Love, of course. “I almost came right there and then.” Andrea had added. Miranda still shook her head in denial but couldn’t quite help the smile that tugged on her lips. For what it’s worth, she also felt proud, and smug.
One clear image that surfaced in Miranda’s memory of that night was of them standing together, fiercely kissing, tongues thrusting back and forth as if vying to see who could press deeper, holding each other tightly, all hesitations long gone. She felt Andrea’s arms letting go of her, her own hands finding their way to Andrea’s breasts. This time, Miranda had had the courage to lift Andrea’s shirt, pulling it off of her lover, quite harshly, then tossed it away quickly. In the morning, Andrea was the one who apologized for the wrinkled mess when Miranda had nothing else to wear. But in the night, in that moment of passion, it hadn’t mattered.
Miranda usually worried about her clothes. Obviously. She was maintaining an image. And throughout their relationship, Miranda usually was the one who worried mostly, took care of things. Remembered to turn the lights out and lock the door, and check the heating of their home. But remembering that night, nothing else mattered, all she wanted was Andrea’s hands on her breasts.
“I want to get on top of you.” Another clear moment. Andrea’s command, the coolness of the sheet on her bare back. The sudden warmth and weight as Andrea let herself down onto Miranda. The erotic shock of their bare breasts touching for the first time. Then the visions overlapped each other, fierce kissing, all the places that became wet: her breasts from Andrea’s licking and sucking, the creeping wetness between her legs, Andrea’s fingers immersed in that wetness, then trailing it across her thighs and stomach. The release of orgasm over and over again. She couldn’t clearly remember the first time she came; before the night was over, she came again and again. Miranda wanted to remember the way Andrea had called out her name, for the first time, but it could have been the second time. Andrea had called out Miranda’s name sometime in the night, that Miranda was sure of. Perhaps that was what really counted: her name, the harsh, possessive way Andrea had said it.
“Five times,” Andrea recounted the next morning as they sat for breakfast at an hour better suited to lunch. “I made you come five times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think we had to keep score of the sort. You should have told me first hand, I would’ve taken note..” Miranda said with an air or sarcasm, but inwardly smiling. Really, she wasn’t sure of the number and was a bit abashed that Andrea knew so well what they had done. “I came, you came. Are you complaining?”
“No. I came six times. No complaints, nu-uh, not a one.” Andrea responded while grinning mischievously.
Sometime later, after they had moved in together in Miranda’s townhouse, they tried to puzzle out the sexual charge between them.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck a virgin.” Andrea had said.
Miranda snorted, “I’m not a virgin. That was painfully obvious when you met me.”
“Oh, I know. Not a literal virgin. You were reserved and unattainable. There’s a restraint about you. You scared the shit of me. And you were too damn serious. I wanted to push that aside, to find the passion in you. Take you to erotic places you’d never been before. I imagined it would take years to seduce you.”
“Instead of mere hours? You were always the goofy one. I just.. I never thought you’d want me.” Her insecurities were showing off. She was Miranda Priestly all right, but she’s just like everyone else who fought tooth and nail to shoo her insecurities away.
So thinking beyond her insecurities, was it just that? The sum of their desire? Opposites attract? No, it went beyond that, Miranda thought. Andrea had opened up something in her, gave her permission to be sexual in a way that her previous timid husbands failed miserably. It had been okay to sweat and groan with Andrea. To be dripping wet and mess up the perfectly made bed. To beg and curse and demand more. She opened a door that Miranda had longed to enter, but never really thought of admitting it to herself, nor to anyone, until Andrea.
She remembered the time when Andrea decided to come with her on a business trip to Japan. They were in a crowded elevator, which Miranda had no business, nor the power to complain of. Andrea was behind her and decided to put her hand between Miranda’s legs. Miranda remembered being astonished that she would dare, and helpless that there was nothing she could do to remove Andrea’s hand that wouldn’t bring attention to what was happening. The elevator door had opened and Miranda hurried out, sure that everyone knew. She was furious and embarrassed, to say the least. She saw the nearest washroom and reached for the knob. Before she had had time to react, Andrea was inside the washroom with her.
Once there, with the door shut, she had turned to Andrea. “What time’s your meeting?” Andrea cut her off, before she could splatter her venomous words that Andrea knew was forthcoming. “What?” Miranda was caught off guard and answered without thinking, “In 30 minutes.”
Andrea locked the door.
“I can’t do this here, Andrea.” She said through gritted teeth. “And that stunt in the elevator---“
“No one saw a thing. You know I don’t mind shocking you, but I won’t embarrass you, Miranda.”
Miranda blinked and realized this was true. Andrea played at limits but didn’t violate them. There was that trust between them, the covenant that proclaimed, “I will not knowingly hurt you.” It had built slowly in the years they had been together. But in that moment, in that tiny washroom in Japan, Miranda saw it clearly: how sturdy that protective wall of trust had become. It wasn’t just sex but it encompassed everything. From waking her up in the mornings when she, Miranda Priestly, hated the idea of work, to holding her late at night when tension, insecurities, and vague fears wouldn’t let her sleep. Miranda marked it, that epiphany produced by Andrea’s hand in a crowded elevator in Japan, like a plaque recounting the history of a place that might seem inconsequential.
“What if someone knocks on the door?” Miranda asked skeptically.
“We will not open it, of course.” Andrea now stood close to her, close enough for Miranda to feel the heat of her skin. She could smell that unique scent that belongs only to Andrea. Her Andrea.
“But what if they hear something?” Miranda was already gasping as she semi whispered her words. She only made the protest because she wanted to keep alive the tension that she might say no.
“We’ll be quiet. You should be quiet.” Miranda could only whimper, as she bit her lower lip in response. Andrea had her hands traveling slowly down Miranda’s neck to her cleavage, a tease and a promise.
Then her hand went back to where it had started, between Miranda’s legs, pushing and insistent, rubbing hard against the soft and delicate fabric of Miranda’s slacks.
Miranda closed her eyes, shutting out the mundane world of business and fashion, and the whole lot of Japanese people outside. She let Andrea’s hand become her only focus. First the pushing and rubbing through her slacks, then the slow unzipping of her zipper. Andrea quickly pushed aside the barrier of Miranda’s underwear.
“I love you.” Miranda murmured as Andrea’s hand touched her directly. She had said it before, many times, but she still marveled at how the meaning changed, all the faces and level of love. That it could be so alive here, in this quick sex in a washroom.
“And I love you.” Andrea answered. Then she kissed Miranda as her hand entered her.
Miranda remembered clearly how Andrea’s hand thrust into her. Other details blurred. They had been standing but Miranda ended up plopping down on the small surface beside the sink. Andrea casually lifted her as if Miranda was weightless. She couldn’t remember much, only Andrea’s hand inside her, touching a piece of her soul. And Andrea kept that touch alive, as if she’d sensed that something had changed. Her hand slowed, keeping Miranda on edge, prolonging the moment. Then long, deep thrusts, physical touching that echoed the emotional reach of their lovemaking. Miranda remembered how vulnerable she allowed Andrea to make her, her sweaty ass on that cold surface, her slacks shoved down her ankles, face flushed, panting and gasping, only a door between that and her reputation and professional life. She came hard and used Andrea’s neck to muffle her cry as her hands gripped Andrea’s shoulders like her life depended on it.
The train slowed and Miranda, a little flushed, thanks to her untimely musings, realized she was still alone in the cabin. Just as she was about to stand up to look for her family, the door opened and came in a bouncing Caroline, while Cassidy chanted incessantly in the background.
“I’m so excited! I can’t believe we’re having this trip now.” Caroline said giddily as her twin sister squealed in delight. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe her girls are in their late teens. They still behave so precariously childish at times. She just shook her head and smiled as Andrea sat beside her while the train was still slowing down.
Andrea casually pecked at her smiling lips, and said, “Hello, beautiful. Miss me?”
End.