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Miranda Priestly doesn't get surprised often. Disappointed? Yes. Displeased? Frequently. But catching her off guard, taking her aback is a challenging task that not many have been able to accomplish.

If she'd been told thirty years ago that she'd go on to become the editor-in-chief of the bestselling and most revered fashion magazine in the world, she'd have believed it; one does not get to hold her kind of position without intense ambition and aspirations to begin with, and Miranda has always known she would grow up to do great things, be a great person.

If someone had told her thirteen years ago that the baby boy she was trying to conceive would turn out to be two girls in one go, well, all the better. More trouble to prepare for, more adaption to be done, but girls, when she thought about it, were, in fact, better than boys and even more prone to find interest in her career, perhaps follow in her footsteps. She'd make a great role model. And an added bonus was only going through the sufferings of pregnancy once for the price of two.

Marriages are bound to fail and divorce is ugly--she'd already made the calculations before walking down the aisle, entering both contracts with a practical mindset and long-term vision. Mistakes at work are anticipated, especially when the only staff member she fully trusts is herself and knows that one of the many downsides of perfectionism is constant disappointment. She even doesn't think twice about her attraction to the fairer sex: sexuality is fluid and female beauty is what she deals with for a living, and after all, isn't this what fashion is all about at the end of the day? Changing, progressing, flowing with the current and never staying in the same metaphorical place. The unpredictability of it all is what makes the matter predictable.

But here and now, Miranda Priestly is truly surprised. And to make matters worse, she's surprised, she realizes, mostly at herself for falling in love with a workaholic no less bad than her. It's not the fact that Andrea Sachs is a woman. It's not the fact that she's almost young enough to be her daughter or that, in recent history, she was employed by Miranda. It's definitely not the fact that she's as dedicated to and passionate about her job as Miranda is about her own. But her undivided attention to the words she's typing at the speed of light and lack thereof to Miranda's advances is highly alarming, utterly disappointing, and just will not do. For once, Miranda Priestly is at a loss.

"Can I interest you in a," she purrs directly into Andrea's ear, sliding one short fingernail down a bare arm, "distraction?"

"Hmm?" is Andrea's already distracted response before her lips resume moving without sound to the rhythm of her clicking fingers. On the laptop screen that seems to have a hypnotic effect on her eyes and mind, paragraph after paragraph form and fill the white pages. Miranda's own work is waiting for her at home, on the other side of the city, the Book sitting patiently on a table to be reviewed over the weekend and any calls, texts, and e-mails postponed until much more urgent needs have been met; with the hectic, busy pace of life on both her and Andrea's ends, those haven't been able to be tended to lately, and after nine whole days of a decided lack of action, Miranda finds Andrea's unresponsiveness absolutely unacceptable.

She decides to abandon words for the more effective endeavor of trailing a path of kisses up the column of Andrea's neck, behind her ear, against that sweet, sensitive spot on her jaw. The results are unmistakable--the slight shivers and the contented smile Andrea doesn't try to disguise--but alas, these attempts, too, meet a dead end when new words appear on the screen and the gesture isn't returned.

It's not that Miranda doesn't support the hard work Andrea puts into doing well and advancing her career; she respects and encourages it. But the fact of the matter is that Andrea has already finished and sent her designated assignment, and the new idea that had popped into her head just before Miranda arrived at the beginning of the evening was not requested by her boss and is interfering with Miranda's plans of getting laid. A whole, uninterrupted weekend was promised to her with plenty of sex and minimal out-of-bed activity, and by the way things currently look, Andrea isn't planning on making good on any of her promises.

"Andrea," she says in that low, dangerous voice that used to make Andrea tremble in fear. Andrea doesn't budge.

"Just..." she mutters, biting her lip in concentration and holding up a finger for emphasis before returning it to the keyboard, "just one..."

Attempts, both verbal and physical, at seduction have been made, and Miranda is not about to resort to begging, so there's only one more thing left to do. Rising from the couch, she states just as cooly as if she were doling out instructions for a photoshoot, "If you don't come to bed right now, I'm starting without you."

She doesn't turn back to check if the typing has ceased or to see the renewed smile on Andrea's face, her steps toward the bedroom sure and deliberate.

"Please, just give me one more-- I'm almost done," beseeches Andrea, clearly starting to find the urgency in the matter, but the fact remains that she's still seated on the couch while Miranda is already crossing the kitchen.

A second later, Miranda's blouse lands on the arm of the couch and Miranda's naked back disappears through the bedroom's doorway.

Sure enough, the unequivocal sound of a laptop snapping shut follows before she even makes it to the bed, and as she settles against the mattress and slowly unbuttons her pants, she listens to the approaching footsteps until Andrea is standing before her, lips stretched in a delighted grin.

"Nice of you to join me," she says nonchalantly and lifts her hips to pull the pants down. By the darkening of Andrea's eyes, her choice of panties is greatly appreciated.

"You wouldn't have started without me," Andrea asserts, coming closer.

"Want to test that theory?" Miranda lifts an eyebrow, thumbs hooked challengingly into the lacy waistband.

There's a glint in Andrea's eyes, a promising quirk to her lips, all the signs that tell Miranda she's in the best sort of trouble. As she crawls across the bed, Miranda watches the hunger in her gaze intensify, and when she's hovering on all fours above her, Miranda's hand presses haltingly against her chest.

"Get naked," she orders, watching Andrea's pupils dilate eagerly.

It should be a matter of seconds to shuck off the uninspiring jeans and sweater combo Andrea is wearing, but with growing displeasure, Miranda watches her take her time about it, rolling onto her back and teasing her with an agonizingly slow performance that should not arouse her as much as it does.

Taking matters into her own hands, literally, she helps a delighted Andrea slither out of the confinements before taking the warm body in her arms and leaning down for their first real kiss of the night. "You're taking too long," she mumbles against Andrea's soft, soft lips and promptly takes the lower one between her teeth. Meanwhile, her fingers reach for the clasp at Andrea's back.

"Just trying to be efficient," Andrea replies as her breasts are freed for Miranda's hand to cup. She moans. "I know how much you like efficiency."

"Efficiency doesn't equal dawdling," drawls Miranda, but any comeback Andrea might have is lost to Miranda's tongue in her mouth. Then all that matters is the velvety softness of Andrea's own tongue, her leg around Miranda's waist, the weight of her left breast in Miranda's palm, the feeling of lace and satin sliding between them.

In a short span of time, they're both naked and Miranda finds herself on her back, looking up into the triumphant face peering down at her, framed by dark, silky strands of hair like a peach-scented curtain isolating the two of them from the rest of the world. Andrea's eyes are dark, her lips red and swollen and wide with joy, and she's more beautiful than any scantily clothed model Miranda has ever seen. She leans down, wedges a knee between Miranda's legs, Miranda grabs her hip and the back of her head and flips them again.

But the moment she remembers that Andrea's bed is much smaller than her own is too late and the thud that follows, as well as the acute loss of contact, startles her straight out of her reverie and banishes all traces of arousal from her body.

In utter shock, she leans over the side of the bed, wide eyes meeting Andrea's equally bewildered expression from the floor. "Are you alright?"

There's a grimace on Andrea's face, lines etched into her forehead as she lifts up an arm and rubs her elbow. "You're a lot stronger than you look." Which is when Miranda knows that she's alright, and when she allows herself to find the humor in the situation.

Joining her bruised lover on the floor, she straddles Andrea's hips and covers her smile with the tender skin of Andrea's neck, murmuring a bona fide apology between warm kisses, "I'm sorry." Her voice comes out muffled, but it seems Andrea is quick to forgive, judging by her responsiveness and welcoming arms. "How can I make it better?"

"For starters, you can help me back on the bed," Andrea groans, arching her back when Miranda administers a bite below her ear.

Miranda considers this suggestion for a whole second. "I think I've got a better idea," she says and sits up, because Andrea is already sprawled so deliciously beneath her, her body beckoning Miranda to take whatever she wants, and doing anything other than exactly that would be a criminal waste of their time.

Andrea, for her part, seems to have no objections when Miranda grabs her hand and positions it between her legs. In fact, when Miranda sighs in pleasure and lets her go, the hand stays in place, gently rubbing at the moisture it encounters. No preliminaries needed; Miranda has been ready for nine days.

"Is this nice?" Andrea cooes.

"You know it is," Miranda sighs again and starts moving her hips, slowly chasing the feeling.

"How about this?"

"Yes," she breathes, grinding down on the expert fingers. "Mmm."

Andrea's touch is tantalizingly gentle and excruciatingly slow, teasing Miranda endlessly but never quite giving her what she wants, what she needs. She spends a while at Miranda's entrance, only tickling around the edges but never going in, before venturing upward toward her clit, where she draws large circles around the pulsating nub that make Miranda buck and whine but do nothing to take the edge off. And just when she's pondering the merits of risking a sprain to Andrea's wrist by plunging herself down on her tormentor's fingers and going for it, Andrea presses two fingers inside her, finds that spot that always makes her shudder and moan, and all coherent thoughts vanish from Miranda's mind as her head falls back and her lips part in a silent cry.

Andrea's other hand, as she rhythmically pumps inside her, gains a purchase on Miranda's hip, holding her steady even as Miranda moves up and down so she, indeed, doesn't sprain her wrist.

"God, Miranda," she exhales, "I could do this forever," and lets go of her hip to cover a breast, the nipple instantly hardening against the touch.

Opening eyes she didn't realize she'd shut, Miranda glances down, where she finds herself to be Andrea's sole focus, at long last. Andrea's eyes are big, bigger than usual, staring, transfixed, up at her as though in wonder, drinking her in, and almost reflexively it makes Miranda move faster, impale herself harder on the fingers inside her that even Andrea whimpers at the shift, although it doesn't sound pained. Her hand searches for something to squeeze, clutching the duvet on the bed between her fingers while the other tightens its grip on Andrea's raised knee, and the moan that leaves her throat takes her by surprise with its sheer abandon.

"Is it good?" Andrea's voice reaches her awareness through the buzzing in her ears, sounding almost as far gone as Miranda feels without stimulation whatsoever. She clenches involuntarily around Andrea's fingers when her nipple is pinched and twisted, not hard enough to cause pain but enough to make her entire body tingle, and covers Andrea's hand as she massages her entire breast.

She doesn't know how long they've been at it, the sound of her own wetness should embarrass her, but when Andrea's thumb starts gently rubbing at her clit, nothing matters beyond that sweet, hot heat and she loses herself to the sensations. Just a little more, just a little harder and she's there. She's so close she can feel it in every muscle and nerve ending, and Andrea seems to sense it, too, because her ministrations become more focused, more determined, and then it's only a matter of seconds until Miranda's back arches, her muscles all lock into place, and by the time she's coming down from her high, her voice is hoarse.

It takes a while for the world to become a little less blurry, but when her vision starts to clear and the buzzing in her ears slowly ceases and everything around her settles, she feels the movement between her legs, not as purposeful as previously, but helping her gently ride the remaining waves that make her body feel like jelly and her eyelids grow heavy.

"That was awesome," Andrea murmurs when she finally collapses against her, too sated and exhausted to think of a witty comeback. She's not, however, too tired to return the favor and the evidence is in the hard, demanding kiss she presses to Andrea's startled lips, effectively stealing the breath from her lungs.

Andrea's body is warm and smooth as she slithers down it, tasting pieces of skin on the way. She pauses at her breasts, taking one in her mouth while the other one she gently covers with her hand. Beneath her, Andrea hums and writhes, arching her back to push more of the breast into her mouth even though Miranda is already nipping at the underside and proceeds to kiss her belly, where the muscles clench below her lips. Andrea's legs happily open to greet her on her southward journey, but it's when she's trying to settle between them that she starts to regret her own choice of setting for their little tryst because the floor is not as warm as her lover's body and just too hard to be comfortable. But she'd be damned if she contradicted herself now and dallied by relocating them to the bed.

So with that resolution in mind, she ignores the almost painful press against her chest and the protesting of her knees and elbows and dives right in.

"Oh, god," Andrea exhales above her, one hand winding through Miranda's hair as her hips cant forward. In response, Miranda swirls her tongue again, relishing the moisture the movement evokes.

Her thigh muscles trembling beneath Miranda's fingers, Andrea undulates against the hard floor when Miranda's tongue draws a path downward and licks around the sensitive opening. When she pushes inside, just for a second, barely entering, a shudder runs through Andrea's body and a broken sob leaves her lips, echoing off of the empty apartment's walls.

Remembering how she made Miranda wait for the very thing she seems to be craving now, Miranda figures that Andrea must not be in much of a hurry, and despite the disapproving whine that follows her withdrawal, she presses a wet kiss to Andrea's inner thigh and decides to take her time. This, evidently, does not go well with Andrea, who tugs on her hair in a vain attempt to pull her back to her glistening folds, and as retribution, Miranda delivers a punishing bite to the same thigh she kissed.

With a desperate moan, Andrea flops back to the ground, hips moving, involuntarily it seems, in search of the contact she's just had. Miranda doesn't take mercy on her yet, and as evidenced by the wet, twitching flesh before her, she thinks Andrea will forgive her.

Leaning in once more, she opens Andrea's legs wider, nuzzles right next to where she can feel the heat emenating from Andrea's core. Andrea scratches her scalp, sighs, "Miranda..." and that does it. She runs the tip of her tongue from perineum to clit and at the first taste she's hooked. Andrea is so hot and wet that Miranda thinks she might never want to come up for air, and when Andrea moans again and pushes against her, a not-so-subtle hint to get on with it, she stops thinking altogether and gets on with it indeed.

By the time she's done, Andrea is a sweaty, whimpering mess and can barely string two words together, and Miranda has to restrain herself from having another go at the twitch Andrea's body gives that signals her sensitivity. She indulges in one final, affectionate lick before settling next to Andrea, suppressing a groan at the full-bodied contact with the unyielding surface beneath her.

"When was this floor last cleaned?" she grumbles. Her joints are not long for this world either, but it'd take a lot more than a good orgasm to divulge that to her much younger lover.

She doesn't need to look to know that Andrea is smirking, and when the warm, sticky body plasters itself to her side, a head of messy, tangled hair fitting itself between her neck and shoulder, she doesn't protest. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it before."

She'll excuse Andrea's cheekiness, but only because she's too tired and satisfied to shoot back, and because she can't think of anything less desirable than losing this contact, uncomfortable as it may be. Closing her eyes, she tells herself that she'll get up as soon as she's managed to pull herself back together, and at the same time succumbs to the notion that she'll spend the night on the cold floor of a Lower East Side apartment. Some extra workout will be crucial the next time she meets with her trainer in order to tend to her abused muscles and bones and besides, hasn't she once heard that it's good to sleep on the floor every once in a while? Something about benefiting your posture. She'll have to look into it; at the moment, though, she couldn't care less as everything begins to grow hazy and foggy.

"I love you," a soft, tiny voice murmurs into her collar bone, startling her back into consciousness. Stunned, she looks down as Andrea shifts against her, settling into a more comfortable position but never looking back; never pulling away either. "Don't freak out, okay?"

"Okay," Miranda whispers back, holding her closer. She stares at the ceiling, illuminated only by the bedside lamp they forgot to switch off, then chances another glance at the head on her shoulder. She strokes her fingers through Andrea's hair and closes her eyes.

Miranda isn't used to surprises, but Andrea Sachs is a revelation