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Not for the first time, Nigel wondered what the hell was wrong with Miranda Priestly.
He wondered this at least once a day: wondered why she loved making people feel bad about themselves, why her coffee had to be hot enough to hurt her mouth when she drank it (was it a masochist thing?), why she sneered at D&G shoes but not Christian Lous this season, and a million other whys. But he usually didn't wonder at, well…physical symptoms. Strange things she was doing with her body.
But here they were at an Elias-Clarke meeting of heavyweights: editors from all the major magazines (plus a few right-hand men like Nigel), vice presidents, and, of course, at the head of the table, Irv Ravitz himself. And Miranda seemed positively distracted. Usually her focus, her concentration, put everybody else's to shame. She'd probably be able to ask pertinent questions about funding for Runway in the middle of an earthquake. But today her cheekbones were bright red, her eyes were glazed, and she kept licking her lips, or pressing them together. She was watching Irv as he held forth, but Nigel doubted she was actually seeing him, or hearing anything he was saying. She seemed to be a million miles away. Every once in a while she squirmed in her seat, as if restless.
Was she sick? The flush on her cheek and the brightness of her eyes could point to a fever, and there had been a nasty flu strain going around. Great. A little thing like a crippling bout of influenza wouldn't stop Miranda from coming in to work, infecting everyone she didn't manage to kill with her foul temper. But at the same time, she seemed a little too wired to be sick. If you had the flu, you tended to be sluggish and exhausted, didn't you? You probably didn't sit with your shoulders and arms so tense, or with a muscle going in your cheek.
So maybe Miranda was angry. Yeah: bright eyes, red cheeks, quivering shoulders--she looked like that when she was enraged and trying not to show it. Nigel's stomach twisted just at the thought. But what the hell would make her so mad? Surely she couldn't be pissed off that Irv had just ordered a two-percent cut in the operating costs of Auto Universe?
Unless it had nothing to do with business. She might be seething over Stephen's lawyer's latest ridiculous demands, or over a teacher at Dalton who'd dared to give the twins less than an A-plus for something, or even over losing that auction at Sotheby's last night for the Ignat Bednarik watercolor she'd wanted. It might be any number of things with Miranda. You never could tell.
"Miranda?" Irv said, and Nigel realized he wasn't the only one who had noticed.
Miranda jerked out of her trance and gave Irv a bland smile. "Yes?" Then, for some reason, she blinked, squeaked, and dropped her Mont Blanc pen. She cleared her throat, picked the pen back up, and said, "I'm sorry. What?"
"Are you feeling all right?" Irv asked with a frown.
Miranda blushed more. Everyone at the table was staring at her now but, with her usual good grace, she ignored them completely. "Yes, of course. Just a slight headache." She waved her hand, which trembled a little.
"All right," Irv said, giving her a doubtful look, and the meeting resumed.
It concluded twenty minutes later. At least by the time it was over, Miranda appeared to have brought herself back under control. She was still flushed, but her voice was even enough when she said, "Nigel, when you get back to Runway, do please give this to Accounting." She gave him a folder.
"You're not coming back too?" Nigel asked, frowning. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Oh, I'll be coming back, of course," Miranda said. "But there is an errand I have to run first. I've just thought of it."
"Well…okay," Nigel said as they filed out of the room. Who was he to object, if Miranda wanted to take her lousy mood somewhere else for a change?
Andy Sachs was sitting by the door with the other assistants who'd been exiled to the hallway, and she hopped up to join them as they left. She gave Nigel a tight little smile. "Meeting go okay?"
"Just fine," Nigel said out loud, then tilted his head towards Miranda (who was striding in front of them), and mouthed, 'Watch out.' Andy grimaced. They rode an elevator together; Miranda had already taken one down by herself, of course. Nigel exited on Runway's floor, and gave Andy's shoulder a consoling pat as he left. "Chin up," he said.
"Oh, sure," Andy said gloomily, and he watched the doors close between them.
What an odd morning.
It was with profound thankfulness that Roy watched Andy get into the backseat of the car. Miranda, waiting for her, had appeared to be in her usual fever of impatience. No. Worse than usual. The woman could make the air so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife.
"My townhouse," Miranda said, as Andy shut the door. Andy and Roy exchanged a glance in the rear-view mirror, but of course neither of them questioned Miranda. Nobody ever did. Nobody dared.
When Roy pulled up to the curb in front of the townhouse, Miranda said, "Andrea," and Andy followed her out of the car. She and Roy shared one last, spooked look, and then Roy pulled away. Better Andy than him.
Andy couldn't stop trembling as she entered the townhouse behind Miranda. The moment the door closed behind them, Miranda rounded on her. Any semblance of calm she'd had in the car had vanished, and her eyes were wild with fury and something else.
"I'm really sorry," Andy began, holding up her hands pleadingly, but Miranda wasn't listening.
"You're a dead girl," she snarled, clawing at the buttons of her coat before throwing it down onto the floor. "You're dead. I am going to kill you."
Oh, fuck. Miranda had only gotten like this once before, and that had been the scariest thing Andy had ever seen. She reached a shaking hand into her pocket and pulled out the remote. "The, the button got stuck," she said pleadingly. "I didn't notice until--I mean, look, it's just this cheap imported piece of--"
"Stuck?" Miranda said hoarsely. "Stuck?"
Andy began to move, trying to creep past Miranda so she could gain the hallway, since there was no way Miranda would let her get out the door. Maybe she could lock herself in a bedroom. "I didn't notice," she repeated helplessly. "I mean--as soon as I did I poked at it until it got unstuck again--"
"You poked at it," Miranda said. "Yes. Yes, I think I remember that."
"You felt it, huh," Andy mumbled.
"Felt it? Isn't that the point?" Before Andy could make it any farther down the hallway, Miranda grabbed her and shoved her up against the wall. Like a dragon breathing fire into Andy's face, she snarled, "Did you enjoy that? Did you have a good time?"
"No! I told you it wasn't on purpose!" Andy blinked. "Um. Did you?"
Miranda's mouth slammed down on hers in something that wasn't a kiss so much as it was a martial arts blow. Her hands fumbled over Andy's shoulders and breasts as she panted against Andy's mouth, "A good time? With that thing going off inside me like a goddamned fire alarm during an important meeting?"
"Uh," Andy said, her head already starting to spin, and then she kissed Miranda back. Miranda bit her mouth. Hard. "Ow!"
"You deserve it," Miranda said, and pinched Andy's nipples through her blouse. It hurt. "No. You deserve worse. Much worse, and you will get it."
"Miranda--"
"Do you know how long that button was stuck? Because I do. Ten minutes." Miranda ripped open the top two buttons of Andy's blouse, bent down, and bit hard at her collarbone. Andy arched her back and hissed. "Doesn't sound like long, does it?"
"Oh," Andy moaned.
"But if you think about it this way," Miranda said, biting and snapping her way across Andy's chest, leaving red flesh and teeth marks as she went, "if you think about it like this--coming for ten solid minutes, over and over again, unable to do a single thing about it--"
"Oh," Andy moaned again, weak-kneed at the thought of Miranda in orgasm for ten whole minutes, she was so unbelievably hot when it only lasted for one or two--
"--in front of other people, people you face every day, coming for ten minutes while you. Are looking. At Irv Ravitz!" The last two words were practically a shriek, and Miranda never shrieked. Maybe she'd just been storing it up. And from the way she was grabbing and biting Andy, sure to leave marks and bruises and maybe even draw a little blood, Andy would be lucky to get out of this alive. Or at least without a pronounced limp. "Yes, Andrea, I think even you could agree that it's a fucking eternity--"
"Oh Jesus," Andy gasped, and took emergency measures. Miranda had forgotten Andy still held the remote. And now, Andy pressed the button.
Miranda's knees buckled, and she had to grab onto Andy's shoulders for support as she cried out. "Oh! No--don't you dare--I'll--" Andy pushed it again. "Oh my God!"
"Hits you right at the G-spot, doesn't it?" Andy said, and pushed the button one more time. Miranda clawed at her and sobbed. "Isn't that what we figured out?"
"Stop!" Miranda said. And then, "No! No--don't stop--"
"Against the wall," Andy said at once, and flipped Miranda around so that they'd switched positions. Which was good, because the wall was the only thing holding Miranda up as Andy dropped to her knees, reached up under Miranda's skirt, and dragged her soaked panties down her thighs. Her very sticky thighs. The slickness and the sweat and the musk all suggested she'd been getting fucked for hours, but Andy knew better, and she leaned in and began to lick and suck Miranda's clit while the bullet vibe kept going off inside her.
Miranda's fingers grabbed and tugged painfully at Andy's hair as she writhed and wailed, already coming again. And again, and again. She was coming all over Andy's face, dripping down Andy's chin, grinding wildly against Andy's nose and mouth in an effort to get relief that never came because she couldn't stop, and Andy left her clit alone, spreading her vulva apart and licking hungrily at her soaking slit, feeling the movement of the vibe against her own tongue. Miranda screamed, and at the sound of it, Andy had to reach one hand down between her own legs and rub frantically until she was coming too. She pressed her face into Miranda hard, moaning as she came so that Miranda would know what was happening, and that last detail, that last excruciating stimulus, had Miranda slamming her head backwards into the wall as if she was actually trying to knock herself out.
Andy pressed the 'off' button, and pulled her mouth away.
Then, showing amazing presence of mind, she held her arms up to brace Miranda as she fell, collapsing down to the floor on knees that could not support her. Miranda was panting so fast that Andy knew she wasn't getting enough oxygen, and she was shaking like she had hypothermia, her eyes squeezed shut. So Andy took her in her arms and urged her down until they were both lying on the hallway floor together, with Andy curled around Miranda, cradling her while she came back to earth. "Ssh, now," she whispered, and kissed Miranda's temple, wondering if Miranda would be able to forgive her. Sometimes it seemed that she resented pleasure more than anything else, because nothing else could turn her into this. "Ssh," Andy repeated, and kissed her again. "Are you okay?" Are we okay?
Miranda didn't move. She appeared practically insensible. In an orgasm-induced coma. Then she made a tiny little whimpering noise, and Andy felt a pang of remorse. Anybody else would have enjoyed all that. Miranda wasn't anybody else. That was her half her appeal, and more than half of what made her so dangerous.
"I'm sorry," Andy murmured, and kissed her forehead. "I really didn't mean to. With the button. I just wanted to make you feel good." She rubbed one hand soothingly up and down Miranda's back. Miranda's trembles were finally beginning to subside. She was going to kill Andy when she was herself again.
"I have to get back to Runway," Miranda mumbled, sounding totally out of it.
"Okay," Andy said. "You want to change your clothes first?"
"I have to talk to Accounting."
"All right," Andy said, and kissed her temple again.
"Oh, Jesus," Miranda said, and leaned her forehead into Andy's shoulder. "My head hurts." Andy held her tighter. "Why can't I fire you?" Miranda added, sounding genuinely confused.
Andy bit her lip as she combed her fingers through Miranda's hair. "Do you want to fire me?"
"Sometimes," Miranda said, reached up, and pulled Andy's face down for a surprisingly gentle, surprisingly lingering kiss. "You have terrible ideas," she said next, her tone sharp enough that she sounded more like her usual self.
Andy relaxed. "You agreed to it," she reminded Miranda. "You said those meetings were boring."
"Terrible ideas," Miranda said again, and took another kiss, her eyes fluttering shut. "The twins are gone tonight," she added, sounding far more focused, almost businesslike.
Andy's heart thumped hard. It might have been a pleasant feeling. "I know," she said. "Do you want me to stay after I drop off the book?" Again?
"No," Miranda whispered, and now her voice practically throbbed with threats. Andy shivered. "I'll come to you. And you're going to know exactly how this thing feels."
"Okay," Andy said meekly, already consigning herself to fate. Andy had shown mercy in the end, but Miranda never would. She didn't know how. "Let me help you up, and you can go take it out."
Miranda looked up at her. "Why would I do that?"
Andy blinked, and swallowed hard. "Oh, wow," she said.
"Call Roy," Miranda said, and began to move. Andy stood up (her own knees were remarkably shaky), and helped Miranda rise to her feet. "I'm going to change my skirt." Andy bent down and picked Miranda's ruined underwear off the floor. "Throw it away," Miranda said, and headed for the staircase, her stride smooth and graceful again.
Of course Andy had no such chance to change her own underwear. When was she going to remember to put a spare set of panties in her purse before leaving for work in the morning? Then again, with her luck, they'd fall out in front of everyone when she was rummaging for her phone or something.
"Why can't I fire you?"
Most people wouldn't really have meant that. Some people would even have said it as a clumsy jibe or joke. Not Miranda. She really had no idea why Andy appealed to her so much, why she couldn't stop fucking her. Andy didn't know either, but, psycho or not, Miranda Priestly was the best she'd ever had and probably ever would have. That couldn't be good, but Andy didn't care. She and Miranda had been all wrapped up together since that first night--the night Miranda had, in fact, been so utterly terrifying while she'd practically fought her way through the sex--and Andy was in no hurry to extricate herself, utter foolishness though that might be.
If Andy did things to and for Miranda that nobody else could, well, it went both ways. And tonight, at Andy's tiny apartment, Miranda would put that bullet vibe inside Andy. And would make her writhe and come on her own bed while Miranda watched from across the room, fully dressed and pressing the remote, as cool as you please except for the fire in her eyes. Then Miranda would leave without a word, without having touched Andy and without permitting Andy to touch her, because she had to get herself back after the events of this morning, had to show Andy that she could get by just fine without, thanks. Even if they both knew better.
"You have terrible ideas," Miranda had said. Andy was forced to agree with her. Not that this--all of this--had been her idea alone. Not that it had started as an idea at all, or indeed any result of rational, considered thought--
She heard Miranda moving around upstairs, and remembered that she hadn't called Roy yet. Whoops. Couldn't fall asleep on the job. Couldn't let Miranda down. Couldn't give her yet another reason for why all this should end.
Besides, Miranda still had that little silver bullet inside her. The day wasn't over yet. Andy had more work to do.
In the meantime, she opened up her purse and tucked Miranda's ruined panties inside. She'd just have to make sure these didn't fall out in front of anybody else.
Fin.