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"What?"
"They only have a single room left."
"I heard you. I'm simply perplexed by your inability to manage simple tasks."
Andrea has the gal to look at her with those big apologetic eyes. How preposterous. Miranda scoffs. "It will suffice."
Miranda can hear herself. She is aware of the absurdity of her own statement. It is hardly Andrea's fault that the hotel does not have two last-minute rooms. They had been traveling for some inane conference when the plane was forced to make an emergency landing. The pilot had been highly capable; they had barely felt the abrupt descent. Regardless, the editor and her second assistant are now stranded in some depressing provincial outpost with only one functioning hotel and only one available room.
Lately, Andrea has started dressing… appropriately for Runway. On one hand, Miranda is satisfied that the girl is finally taking her job seriously. On the other, she is terribly distracting. She already has absurdly long legs; they have no business looking even longer in those Chanel boots. Frankly, Miranda finds the prospect of sharing a room with her assistant intolerable.
As they walk up the stairs—yes, a staircase; this dreadful settlement does not own a functioning elevator—Andrea suddenly turns to Miranda. Her expression is almost horrified as she carefully says. "Miranda, um—the room has only one bed."
Miranda's balance falters. Her foot misses the next step. For one brief moment she is falling. Then a quick hand snakes around her waist. Suddenly, she is pressed up against Andrea.
Andrea's grip tightens as Miranda's foot finds the step again. They remain on the narrow staircase for a couple of heartbeats. The brunette is far too close, her breath warm against the editor's cheek, one hand spread firmly across her waist. As Miranda's breathing evens out, she finds her voice again.
"You may release me now."
The girl scrambles away from Miranda so quickly she practically leaps several steps upwards, "Oh—Miranda. Sorry."
"Andrea, next time you attempt to slay the Dragon, do make sure you finish the job." Miranda straightens her coat—though nothing has shifted out of place.
Andrea stares at her in horror for a couple of moments before her face softens and a chuckle escapes her. As they continue walking upward, Miranda can still feel the lingering warmth where the brunette had touched her.
The room is hardly larger than the queen-sized bed occupying it. Miranda has not slept in a space this cramped since her miniature Parisian shoebox. When Miranda reaches to remove her coat, Andrea is somehow already behind her, easing it from her shoulders. Her fingers brush the back of Miranda's neck as she frees the collar. Andrea has an uncanny ability to remain within the editor's immediate physical orbit, regardless of how hard Miranda tries to shake her off. It is getting remarkably difficult to tolerate. As soon as Miranda is free of her coat, she is taking several strides—as many as the room would allow—away from her assistant.
Miranda clears her throat. "Shower."
The bathroom is as cramped and deplorable as the rest of the room. It is small enough that one hasty movement while undressing could result in injury. There is a hook on the wall, but it faces directly towards the shower, meaning that any clothes or towels hung from it would inevitably be soaked by the sprays. The shower itself is a completely separate, abhorrent catastrophe.
Miranda lets the water run for a couple of moments, attempting to regulate the fluctuating temperature of the archaic plumbing. When her fingers make contact with the water, they recoil away from the heat. Perfect. Unceremoniously, she steps beneath the spray, the scalding water leaving a pleasant buzz across her skin. Miranda thinks back to the hand on the small of her back. The secure grip around her waist, saving her from an untimely demise—or worse, embarrassment.
When she is finished with the shower, she dresses for bed and exits the bathroom. Andrea is sitting in the lone chair in the corner of the room, certainly waiting to wash the stale sweat of the day form her skin. Miranda sits on the edge of the mattress and completes her nightly stretches in the soft light of the small, hideous lamp on the bedside table. Then she slips beneath the duvet, waiting for the other woman so they can sleep.
Andrea walks out of the bathroom in her… sleepwear? Can that be considered sleepwear? She is sporting shorts so tiny Miranda is certain her behind will be exposed the moment she turns around. And that tank top—well, it is obviously several sizes too small. She hardly needs to move for the skimpy piece of fabric to reveal her stomach. One careless turn in her sleep and her breasts will spill from the neckline. Miranda swallows, averting her eyes from the exposed skin.
"I—I didn't expect…" Andrea glances down at herself sheepishly. "Well."
Miranda rolls her eyes, dismissing the idea with a flick of her wrist. "Do try to remember that preparedness extends beyond the office."
Andrea climbs slowly into bed. She turns towards her boss and leans in slightly, her voice steadier and deeper than Miranda has ever heard it. "Miranda, can I get you anything else?"
A shiver runs down Miranda's spine. The bed is not nearly large enough to prevent the heat of her assistant's body from reaching her. The deep timbre makes her thighs squeeze involuntarily. She clenches her jaw, "Andrea. Go to sleep."
Miranda finds that sleep does not come easily. She stares into the darkness, willing her heartbeat to settle. It doesn't. Every time Andrea shifts beside her—good heavens, does this girl ever stop moving?—it picks up again.
As Andrea's breathing evens out and she falls asleep, her movements change slightly. Instead of the prior shifting and turning in place, she now begins to spread her long limbs. And then she's much closer, barely a couple of inches between them. When Andrea's hand softly presses into Miranda's side, Miranda's breath hitches. She considers shaking the girl awake, perhaps making her sleep on the floor, but dismisses that thought. Even she is not that cruel. More importantly, that would require dealing with the humiliating situation itself.
As she has every day for the last three decades, Miranda wakes at half past five sharp. Slowly, she turns her head towards the woman occupying the other side of the bed. Her tank top has indeed shifted in her sleep. Her cleavage was frankly objectionable—presented so closely to Miranda's face as though Andrea had arranged it deliberately. Miranda turns to look at the ceiling, briefly wondering if this is her own personal form of purgatory.
Andrea's eyes flutter open. For a moment she merely blinks at Miranda, still coming into consciousness. As recognition dawns on her, she jerks backwards so abruptly that her breasts bounce obscenely—as though they or some god above are punishing Miranda for having looked in the first place.
"M-Miranda." Andrea stutters, her voice still rough from sleep. "Can I get you anything—"
The epochal question hangs in the silence between them. Andrea is still far too close, her cheeks tinted with a faint blush. She is looking at Miranda as though she would gladly get on her knees if asked. As though her brilliant mind is singularly focused on pleasing her boss. Miranda's fingers tighten around the duvet. She can feel her heartbeat thumping between her legs.
If Andrea does not stop looking at her with those puppy eyes or saying her name in that pleading tone, Miranda is going to strangle her or mount her. Neither option seems particularly professional.
In one fluid motion, Miranda sweeps the duvet off her body and crosses the few steps into the bathroom, leaving Andrea with her unanswered question.
Miranda steps into the shower, turning the water ice-cold—too cold to feel pleasant against her overheated skin. She tries to steady her heartbeat, breathing deeply through her nose. The pulsing between her thighs does not stop for a second. Miranda braces one hand against the smooth tiles. The other drifts lower before she can properly consider what she is doing. She closes her eyes, head bowed.
The first contact of her hand against her cunt makes her hips buck into the feeling. She is soaked, obscenely so. Her fingers press slightly into her entrance, gathering the wetness before dragging towards her clit. Miranda is simply being pragmatic; this is merely a way to rid herself of this horrid distraction.
It is hardly appropriate for her to feel this way. For heaven's sake, this is Andrea Sachs, her second assistant. The girl who wore a lumpy cerulean sweater on her first day of work and then dared to ask a question.
Oh… she certainly was daring.
Before she can help herself, she is thinking about the way Andrea had looked at her after delivering the Harry Potter manuscript, her eyes smoldering. As though meeting Miranda's deranged demand had been intrinsically satisfying. Miranda's hips stutter into her hand, a soft exhale escaping her lips.
She thinks about the day before. Andrea's hand secure around her waist, her fingers splayed across the small of her back. Miranda's mind transports her back to the way their bodies had been pressed flush together on that narrow staircase. The expanse of Andrea's frame had fit against Miranda's with alarming familiarity, warmth permeating the layers between them. Those few seconds stretch interminably now, suspending her in that moment.
Miranda's cunt clenches; she needs more. She presses against her clit once more, circling it before dragging her fingers lower. Ever so slowly, she enters herself with one finger, her walls fluttering around it. She curls the digit once and eases a second inside. Her hips melt into the sensation; the slight stretch feels good.
"Miranda."
Two knocks soud against the bathroom door. Miranda's hand freezes, her breath catching in her throat. Then Andrea's voice continues.
"I spoke to the airline. We can get on the first flight out this evening."
When Miranda finally answers, her voice is not as even as she would like it. "See that it is arranged."
Miranda considers her options. She can hardly finish this now that she has been interrupted. Her hand slowly retreats from its position.
"Yes, Miranda." Andrea's voice comes through the door again.
Before Miranda has any conscious control over it, her fingers curl at the sound of her name on Andrea's lips. Her walls flutter so boldly around them that she has to bite her lip to prevent a sound from escaping. Miranda stills, listening for any indication that Andrea might speak again. Then, gradually, her hand begins moving once more. She settles into a rhythm, fingers curling with every thrust, the heel of her palm pressed flat against her clit.
Miranda shifts her weight forward, bracing her forearm against the tiles before pressing her forehead to the cool surface. Her breaths come closer to pants now, muffled only by the steady patter of water against the shower floor. Heat unfurls down her spine and reaches the tips of her toes. Her hand loses its previous precision, her thrusts turning erratic and desperate. She's dangling right on the edge—unable to tip herself over.
"Miranda."
Her name, as though spoken straight from heaven—or hell—descends upon Miranda, violently shoving her off the edge. The abruptness of the fall wrings a choked cry from her lips. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is aware that Andrea is still speaking, but she can hardly make out the words over the frantic pounding of her heart.
As her breathing evens out, Andrea's voice finally comes into focus.
"—Miranda? Are you all right?"
The prospect of having to reply after her assistant's voice has made her come seems intolerable. However, if she does not, the girl will just keep talking. Miranda lets her forehead fall against the tiles. It strikes harder than she intends, the brief pain grounding her.
"I'm perfectly fine."
She spends the next couple of minutes actually showering, washing the evidence of her actions from her skin. When she exits the bathroom, Andrea is sitting on the edge of the mattress, concern etched across her face.
"Miranda."
Miranda closes her eyes. Has her name always sounded like that?
"You sounded like you hurt yourself."
"I dropped the soap." Miranda lies smoothly.
Andrea looks her up and down once, her eyes narrowing slightly. For one dreadful moment, Miranda watches a revelation strikes her assistant. Then Andrea's expression smooths over.
"Right."