Devil Wears Prada 1. Chapter 1

**A/N 1: I didn't want to bother my beta, so all mistakes are mine.**

**A/N 2: I feel like this is missing something. Oh well.**

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><p>You spend the entire year building towards Paris Fashion Week. Bits of the event spill over into issues of your magazine for months afterward. You live for the excitement of fresh designers, renewed designs, and a constant flurry of movement. With that being said, and while you would rather not have things any other way, you are incredibly glad that it is over.<p>

You are the first to admit that you're constantly running on a speed well above 100 miles per hour. You have become accustomed to a steady fast pace, and a constant state of flux. However, after weeks of galloping at top speed – overseeing run-throughs, negotiating with advertisers, sifting through endless designs – You are tired, and you need a break. Well, as much of a break as you can afford to take.

It had taken very little convincing for you to persuade the whole team of creative directors and associates to pursue a photo shoot in the San Joaqin Valley in the heart of California. The venue is quite beautiful, if you do say so yourself, and the weather this spring should be mild and temperate enough to work comfortably. The secured location also features a large, stone-front mansion that will double nicely as a backdrop for the photos and as living arrangements for your stay.

You have a vision of flowing, pastel-colored gowns paired with rich, wine red jewelry and accessories. You can feel that it would look amazing against a vineyard backdrop, if your vision is properly carried through. In your mind's eye, you picture the models in the selected gowns. A number of them were pulled from the vintage selection of the closet, and the others were procured by Andréa after she worked her usual magic to get them in your possession in a timely manner.

Cartier has a collection of jewelry featuring garnets and rubies that will contrast nicely with the gowns, and also supplement the surrounding orchard trees and grapevines. The pale but pleasing colors of the gowns will represent spring, and the deep ruby wine shades of the jewelry embody winter. You're trying to conceptualize how the seasons blend into each other. It looks wonderful in your head, but it's up to your team to put it together on paper. You continue to live on hope.

Although it's been about a month since the end of Fashion Week itself, April has been stressful, and you wanted a shoot that seemed light and carefree. The flight to your location had gone as smoothly as possible, but perhaps your serenity is based on the fact that you spent the 6 hour journey next to Andréa. In fact, being confined within a stuffy plane for that amount of time did not bother you in the least, because every time the beautiful woman next to you moved, you got a whiff of her sweet, heady perfume.

You still don't quite know what to do about _that_. This _thing_ you have with Andréa truly does not have words. You have never kissed, or touched, or even breathed a word to each other about your undeniable attraction to one another. But somehow sometimes after your eyes meet, even amongst a crowd, you feel thoroughly caressed.

You are currently standing amongst a plethora of different monitors on the rear deck of the sprawling California mansion. The masonry of the building is simply exquisite, and the entire structure has 24 rooms, a tennis court, two pools, and a waterfall. For a moment you take a second to miss your daughters, because if it were not for school, they would be here enjoying themselves without a doubt.

The monitors connect to the digital cameras that are currently in use 20 yards away to capture the models' poses. You've never used this photographer before, but so far you are pleased, even if you would never admit it. Nigel is pressing various buttons to make the screens zoom in or pull back to your liking, and you lean in closely to examine the photos in detail. He speaks to the photographer on a walkman, barking out directions.

The first model has blonde hair and green eyes, and knows exactly what to do with her body to make the fabric of the dress swell out like a sail. The second's hair is a few shades darker, and she is adept at catching the sunlight to make the jewelry on her wrists sparkle in the light. Both are sharing these frames, and have bodies most people in the fashion industry would die for. Despite this fact, you cannot help thinking that every ensemble would look much better when wrapped around Andréa.

Speaking of Andréa, she stands under a tall orchard tree talking to Serena as she applies makeup to another stick-thin model. She's carrying a parasol, like a Victorian queen, and when someone tried to mock her for it, she told endearing stories of her most embarrassing sunburns. She indeed looks kind of silly, but still, you would feel terrible if anything happened to Andréa's enticing milky skin.

As if she feels your eyes on her, she turns around to you and pierces you with those brown pools of hers. You curse the fact that you are too far away and among too many people to caress the few tendrils of hair that have fallen from the pile of hair atop her head. They frame her face in such a charming way. She smiles that smile at you, the one that makes your knees feel like water. The heat in the air disguises your returning blush.

Thankfully no one has noticed, and you quickly direct your attention back to the photo screens and whatever Nigel has been rambling on about. When you look back at Andréa, she too has turned away, so you return to admiring her bare shoulders in the afternoon light.

This is the last day you will be in California, and perhaps it is the last day that you will be able to resist your first assistant. She's ready to move on to another job, anyway, and you will encourage her to do so when you return to the city. You stand here torn, because as long as she remains your assistant, you do not yet have to summon the courage to express your feelings to her. It's one of your deepest fears that your mutual attraction is just a figment of your imagination. It's not often that you have doubts, but sometimes you wonder if you are just a silly old fool.

You would never tell Nigel amongst this many people, but the last frame of the camera that appears on the screen is dazzling. You whisper to him that after a few more shots, he can feel free to wrap up for good. It's perhaps time you raised Nigel's salary, due to the fact that the man has endless knowledge about photographic light.

Nigel wanders over to the photographer, and the models relax their poses. You watch as he says something to the man with the camera, and the eccentric photographer pumps a fist in the air and yells, "that's a wrap!" You roll your eyes.

Slowly people begin to pack up their things, and once again you search out your assistant. You find her leaned against the same tree with an effortless sensuality, typing into her cell phone. She's probably doing more work than you pay her for, and you try not to cringe. The floral dress she's wearing while holding that silly parasol makes her look like a flawless post card image. The sweetheart neckline and clingy fabric makes your heart speed up just a little when your gaze pauses on certain parts of her.

When you are close enough, she lifts her eyes to meet yours, and you forget what it was you came over to her to say. Sometimes her beauty is so breathtaking, that you wonder what it is you are waiting for before kissing her senseless. Of course under a tree in a vineyard in California would be host to a perfect venue to do so, if it weren't for the fact that a number of your underlings are currently milling about. You'll just have to save your passion for another time.

"Did you need something, Miranda?" Oh. The question was so innocent, but the mischief in her brown eyes makes your mind come up with all sorts of inappropriate answers. You want to chuckle at the gall of this girl, but you settle for a smile. The risk of such a gesture is only because your back is to everyone on your payroll other than the pretty woman in front of you.

Sunlight filters through leaves and branches, wrapping you both in a twinkling shadow of intimacy. Her gaze lingers on your neck when you swallow, in preparation for doling out instructions. They don't stop there, you can feel her eyes all over you as you speak. You try your best to focus on your instructions, asking her to call caterers and set up a dinner party in reward for everyone finishing their work on time. Under her eyes you feel like you are melting, and ask yourself how you could have ever thought your mutual attraction was all in your head.

In regards to food, you know of a certain catering company just south of Sacramento, that wouldn't mind delivering to your rural venue, especially for the hefty tip they're going to get. You hope the food is worth it. When Andréa asks you if there's anything in particular you would like on the menu, you fight the urge to say, "You."

Instead your only request is tarts filled with warm rhubarb compote, one of your favorites. She wrinkles her nose adorably, and you want nothing more than to gently plant your lips on the tip of it.

You also tell her to pick something she'd enjoy eating at the party. Her expression morphs into one of surprise, and god bless you, she hits you with one of those smiles. You roll your eyes with no real malice and say, "But for the love of God, no "pigs-in-a-blanket."

Her expression transforms from surprised, to surprised delight, and she clutches a hand to her chest like the true Victorian beauty she is portraying today. "Why, Miranda Priestly! I'm shocked and appalled you even know what that is!"

Instead of laughing like you want to, at the ridiculousness of this beautiful woman, you turn and walk away. As much as you want to look over your shoulder at her, you resist the urge. Her eyes bore holes into your back anyway. You will be lucky if you can make it through the day without pouncing. Perhaps your moniker should have been a tiger instead of a dragon.

No one stops you as you make your way to the fourth floor of the house, which houses not only your room, but the rooms of Nigel, Emily, Andréa, and other minions you didn't bother to notice. Everyone around is practically buzzing, all so excited at the prospect of a fun-filled night off from work. Not to mention, the vineyard has offered you all unlimited beverages for the night, since you were kind enough to throw in a blurb about the location on the spread of your magazine. It was a small price to pay, really, for all the free booze. This is one of those times that you truly don't mind having such an influence on the world around you.

A shower after being in the sticky sun all day sounds positively amazing. Your room is the only one on the floor with an in-suite bathroom, and you are incredibly grateful. After stripping to your underwear, you gently place each item of clothing reverently on the bed in preparation for stowing it in your garment bag for the journey home. You choose a new outfit carefully, wanting to look enticing without seeming too forward. It is in fact a very fine line.

When you're satisfied with your choices, you grab your towel and robe, clutching them in front of you as you make your way to the bathroom. Your shower at home is a world wonder, but the one in your suite is comparable, you suppose. The water warms, and the steam welcomes you into an embrace.

You remove your undergarments, and step into the healing spray, letting the water melt away all your makeup before washing your face. Your hair is next, but it doesn't take much work, so then you move on to the other necessary parts of you. Without your permission, your mind suddenly turns your hands into the hands of the object of your affection. You can practically feel Andréa behind you, caressing your slippery stomach, her hands sliding lower by the second.

You are so turned on, and you can't even help it. Your skin feels warm and sensitive, and not just due to the hot water. Your sex feels like it's practically on fire. You think that if this were just lust, you could both just fuck until it's out of your system. You've certainly done that with others before. But you know in both your mind and your heart that you want more from Andréa than just her body.

When your fingertips reach the juncture of your thighs, electricity courses through your veins, but it acts as a bucket of ice water. Immediately you feel guilty for fantasizing about a woman half your age touching you so intimately. To shock the guilty feelings out of your system and put your icy mask back in place, you yank the water temperature as cold as it will get.

The cold water barely works to cool down the inferno inside of you. It truly is exhausting to sit next to Andréa, or talk to her, or breathe in her scent on a daily basis without losing your mind. People have tried to tame the dragon, so to speak, many times in the past. Little did you know, it would only take a few lingering glances from large, brown doe eyes.

It's time. It's time to get out of the shower and go downstairs. It's time to decide if you want to take a chance at being happy or if you want to let it pass you by for the sake of propriety. Or for the sake of your magazine. It's got to be tonight that you gather up the guts to approach Andréa. It's either tonight or never. This will not wait forever, someone will scoop her up soon if you decide not to.

Screw it. Screw propriety, and screw what's best for _Runway_. That magazine has been your significant other for decades, and for once you are ready to be involved with a person instead of a stack of paper. Admittedly, the allure of fashion and your magazine has gotten you through more hard times than you can count. But being next to Andréa is also the closest you've felt to being alive in years. The pull of her has become too strong in the very best way.

Back in your room, with your decision made and under a fresh set of clothes, you feel like a new woman. A dab of perfume to your wrists, and Loubotins on your feet only add to your regality. You nod at yourself in your reflection, and challenge yourself with a smirk. The confident sway in your hips as you walk downstairs only solidifies the confidence in your spirit. Still, it's a good thing you're on a vineyard, because a little glass of liquid courage could surely help.

When you reach the main living space just off of the main massive kitchen, your dinner party is in full swing. Not only did Andréa have the soiree catered, but there are waiters milling about with hors d'oeuvres on trays. Even the models are happy to indulge, knowing that relaxation is rarely permitted and certainly never promoted.

There's a corner nook off the side of the swirling staircase, a perfect place to compose yourself before venturing into the kitchen, where you can hear forks clinking and people laughing. Your staff seems to be enjoying the party, all of them in various states of inebriation. Although the vineyard owners offered all bottles consumed tonight free of charge, you decide to pay for them anyway from your personal account, feeling generous, or perhaps a little tipsy.

You spot Andréa from afar, talking to Emily by the door that leads to the pool on the back deck. Something Andréa says makes both Emily and Serena cackle loudly, while Andréa's features just hold a smirk. It is not lost on you that she seems to be able to effortlessly warm the most unlikely hearts, including yours. Typically, Emily can be just as frigid and intimidating as yourself, but leaned against Serena with wine in hand, she looks pleasant and warm.

A cater waiter with a tray of tarts floats by you, and without even pausing, you grab yourself a delicious morsel. Upon sinking your teeth into the treat, your eyes close as you savor the unique flavor in all its perfection. When you open your eyes, Andréa is at your elbow with a glass of white wine. You typically go for reds, but the flavor of this particular drink compliments your rhubarb tart wonderfully. You gratefully accept the glass from her, while she slides just a few inches closer to you, not missing a beat.

"Thank you for the arranging the party, Andréa," you murmur gently while smiling in her direction, "everything looks wonderful."

She sends a smile right back at you, then leans in to whisper to you conspiratorially, as if discussing the world's many secrets. "Indeed it does," she says into your ear, her warm breath washing over you and making your head swim. The roll in your stomach makes you blush for the first time in probably a decade. Andréa simply winks.

A burst of laughter filters in from the back deck, where you crane your neck and see a gathering of models submerged in the pool. The blue lights under the water make them look slightly mystical like mermaids. A staff member whose name will forever escape you dashes up to Andréa and drags her away, claiming that she simply has to meet the photographer, due to the fact that he is "like, the funniest person ever." You take the opportunity to mingle, something at which you have become quite adept.

Most people are pleasantly surprised to learn how personable you become when in a comfortable setting. At large charity functions and _Runway_ galas, you are Miranda Priestly, Ice Queen. Your smiles are fake and deadly, while you play the room like a game of chess, figuring out who wants what from you. But here, in this beautiful house in California, under flattering chandelier light, you are trying to be just Miranda. You ask about the personal lives of your colleagues, and tell anecdotes about your own. You laugh at jokes and sip your wine and try to not turn every conversation back to your job.

After about a few hours of playing nice and a few glasses of something smooth and dark, Andréa is nowhere to be found. All of that gumption you conjured up in your room seems to have now escaped you. You wonder where she could be, or if she has forgotten about you entirely. You wonder just how funny that photographer was. You wonder if she spends half as many of her waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, as you do of her.

You set your glass on a countertop, knowing that in a few minutes someone in a bow tie will whisk it away to be cleaned. For the first time all night you wish that this were another one of your fancy functions, simply because if it were you could just call and have Roy pick you up in a matter of seconds.

A short stroll through the mansion leads you to a secluded side porch no one seems to have noticed. It's shaped like a gazebo, with twinkling strings of lights affixed to its ceiling and columns. It's a perfect place to sit and enjoy your night, away from the crowd like you're used to. The night is balmy and dark, and you're far enough away from the city to see more stars than you thought were in the sky.

Your ears can still strain to hear party sounds toward the back of the house. At least everyone else seems to be having a pleasurable time. You had high hopes for the night, but in the back of your mind you knew it had the potential to end up like this: you, by yourself, amidst a beautiful night. Disappointment tastes so comfortably bitter, and you know the flavor well.

It's a good thing you left that bottle of rich fluid on the kitchen counter, because surely at this point you would be drowning in it.

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><p>This photographer, while surprisingly funny, is not who you wanted to share this night with.<p>

No matter how inappropriate it sounds, Miranda had looked absolutely _delicious_ in just a dark grey pencil skirt and a patterned purple blouse. You should know the designers of those items by this point, but somehow every time you see her, you become distracted by the way fabric wraps snugly around those perfect hips.

It's almost become a problem, this _thing_ between you and Miranda. You have spent your whole life with boyfriends, attractive boyfriends who happen to adore you. However, the past year you've been surrounded by beautiful women, and couldn't help but take a shine to the most beautiful of them all. The insane part, is that she seems to be attracted to you as well.

Miranda would have been just a passing crush if her allure were to end at simply being gorgeous. But no, she didn't stop there. The woman demands perfection, and because of this, she also demands respect. You know dozens of people that despise her, and the same people would gladly lick her pumps if she told them to. She had looked confidently regal standing on the porch directing the photo shoot among a bevy of digital monitors. You hoped that her artistic vision was properly carried though, knowing how frustrated she becomes when her genius ideas are not translated properly on paper. You really can't blame her for her constant impatience; relying on other people to personify her creativity has got to be exasperating.

You thought that your perusal of your love today had been sly, but Miranda occasionally looked in your direction and caught your eye. That shady tree was the perfect spot to hide from harsh sunrays that have never been your friend. But you were incredibly surprised when she had come over to your hiding spot, and approached you to ask about the party details. Underneath that perfect filtering of light, you had to restrain yourself from laying gentle kisses along her elegant neck. So, you settled for safely getting lost in those clear blue eyes instead.

It's the strangest thing how the connection between you and your boss is almost tangible. For it to be something you both have never mentioned or acted upon, sometimes it feels like you are holding it right in your hand. Lily says that you are asking for nothing but heartache for falling for a dragon, but Miranda seems anything but beastly to you.

It's shameful how many people see her as a cold hearted, wonderfully dressed icon. The woman reveals so much, if you know how to look for it. Of course everyone knows about the pursing of the lips, but Miranda's true emotions shine right through her eyes. They turn a flinty stone grey when she's displeased, and when she's pleasantly surprised, they gleam a friendly blue while the corners crinkle sweetly. Sometimes her eyes are a vibrant deep indigo, as dark as you've ever seen them, and at these times it looks as though Miranda wants nothing more than to eat you alive.

The latter is how she looked at you tonight. It's how you knew that after this night, there would be no going back for you. You had claimed tonight as the night that you would suck it up, and make your move. But someone had pulled you by the arm to the pool, thwarting your plans.

You still had the chance, though, to occasionally look in through the double French doors of the into the kitchen to peep and see Miranda throughout the night. Her smile looked genuine as she enjoyed herself and charmed the pants off of her underlings. The gross rhubarb tarts she likes had been a hit throughout the party, and you had stood true to her instructions by not ordering pigs in a blanket.

Enough time has gone by that you can casually slip away from the bustle of the event and seek out the lady who has your heart. With two glasses and a bottle of wine in hand, you look everywhere on the first floor, but she's nowhere to be found. Just when you think that she's retired to her room for the night, a screen door and a head of silver hair catch your eye. You make your way over to the side porch gazebo, the picture of your love sitting amongst all those little lights drawing you closer.

Underneath all those little twinkling bulbs, Miranda looks breathtakingly beautiful. You would almost be happy for your life's journey to end here, with this stunning vision in your head. She doesn't look so regal now, just pensive and gorgeous and…sad.

You've never met a sadness that wine couldn't cure, so you boldly take a chance, and sit right next to her. She's surprised but doesn't jump, and immediately you are pleased when that anchoring sadness seeps right out of her eyes. When the corners of her lips turn a little upwards, you notice that underneath the moon and misty string lights, her eyes look almost green. You are fairly sure that no one before you has seen her quite like this, because they would have never left her side.

Without preamble, you gently lay your head on her shoulder, and without missing a beat her arm wraps snugly around you. You want to question how comfortably you both fit together, but being pressed against her side this way makes you think of nothing but the warm buzz all over your body. Miranda Priestly is in fact not made of ice, but is enticingly warm.

You nuzzle your nose into her neck, smelling a mixture of soap and whatever it is that makes her smell so _Miranda_. She's poured you both a glass from the bottle you brought out, and when she takes a sip, the muscles under your cheek flex as she swallows. You want nothing more than to kiss her neck, so what's stopping you? She must like what she sipped from the glass because you hear a gentle hum come from her throat just as much as you feel it close to your lips. At once you can't help it, a your lips press against her throat, making her gasp. When she doesn't object, you do it again. And again.

These sweet tiny kisses make their way from your lips, to her neck, then to her jaw, and finally to those prominent cheekbones that make you swoon when she smiles. A ghost of that smile is on her lips now, even as she continues to let out those delightful little hums. You pull back for a second, just to look at her. Her eyes meet yours, and you know that there's no possible way you can go back now.

You meet in the middle, your lips brushing gently against hers for the first time. Any person you have ever kissed before this moment has been rendered completely insignificant. A heady heat washes across your abdomen when Miranda uses the arm wrapped around you to pull you closer, and kiss you more deeply. Your tongue teasingly slides against her bottom lip, seeking entrance, and your free hand wraps around her neck to pull her closer. She does not object.

She groans when your tongues meet, and your own moan answers her. You are both grasping each other as if in fear you will both disappear, or that this wonderful moment will have only been a lovely dream. Finally you come up for air, and at the sight of Miranda with swollen lips and sparkling eyes, you can't help but giggle at the ridiculousness of your whole life. She rolls her eyes, and the insides of you are boiling with want. At this moment, you want the house to be empty, so you can take this woman to bed and worship her entirely.

Instead, you take a moment to settle back against her, almost in your previous position. Her right arm is still around you, providing warmth that seems to stem from the inside. Turned slightly inwards towards her, it makes it easy for you to take her other hand in yours, playing idly with her fingers. She kisses your temple, and for some reason the warmth in the pit of your stomach makes you want to tear up.

You study her profile for a minute before asking, "Why isn't this weird?"

She looks a little appalled at your question before shrugging, "Maybe you're drunk."

You are mock offended and gently smack the thigh close to your hand, "I have only had maybe three, or four…hundred glasses of wine tonight." You deflate a little, all in good humor, and Miranda lets out a hearty chuckle.

She tells you that she too may have indulged in more wine than what is appropriate, but that she has no regrets because it made it that much easier to kiss you. You can't help that your liquid courage limbered up your gumption as well.

You sit for a little while longer, basking in the night, and the gentle lights, and the sweet smell of vines and orchard trees. Occasionally the urge to kiss the woman strikes you, so you embrace it wholeheartedly. You will never tire of the sounds she makes or the taste of rich dark wine on her tongue.

By the sounds of it, the party is wrapping up, and everything is being put away. The boisterous company from the back deck has returned inside the house, and is noisily making their way to their rooms for the night. You have a cleaning crew lined up for the morning, to make the place just as spotless as it was when you arrived. You'll be long gone by the time they are finished with their duties, but you are paying them well enough to know that they will do their jobs fully. It's time for you both to get up and go to bed, before some nosy model blows your cover.

When you stand, you feel chilled from the lack of an alluring woman pressed against you. Miranda looks entirely displeased, in fact, she's almost pouting. You bend over to kiss the adorable lip that's poking out before saying, "Come on, pretty lady. It's time for bed."

At those words, she stands, pulling you into her arms. Your embrace lasts a few moments before she presses a palm to your cheek in farewell, and saunters back into the house. You watch her go, those shapely hips swaying enticingly. Before heading to bed yourself, you stand under the night and send a silent _thank you_ up into the sky.

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><p>Your bed seems lonely and stupid and cold. It's impossible to get confortable, knowing that Andréa is probably sleeping soundly right across the hall. At least your room has a pair of large, open windows that allow you to take in the picturesque moonscape. You don't know how long you've been lying awake, but at least you have the moon and stars to keep you company. When the alarm clock hollers at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, you will regret stargazing instead of sleeping.<p>

A toilet flushes and a sink runs somewhere down the hall, and it's a little comforting to know that you are not the only one who is having trouble finding sleep. Footsteps come closer and closer to your door, and you expect them to pass and keep walking. However, when they reach your room, the late night wanderer pauses briefly, and that's when you know exactly who it could be.

You watch your doorknob turn, and then a set of sleepy brown eyes tentatively peeks in. "Andréa?" you call to the intruder, keeping your voice gentle so she knows that you are not upset or angry.

Andréa steps fully into your room and closes the door, looking absolutely adorable in just a large, white t-shirt. On anyone else sleep-mussed hair and t-shirts of any kind are deplorable but Andréa pulls the look off with a perfect mixture of innocence and sex appeal.

She stands in your room awkwardly for a moment before you nod your head and pull the covers back. She scampers over to your bed, and slides in, pressing her cold toes against yours for warmth. Her brilliant smile takes your breath away, and her pale skin looks luminescent in the moonlight. Facing each other, you feel like two giddy friends at a sleepover, awake long after your parents told you to be asleep.

"Hi."

You chuckle, "Hi."

You can't recall a time in recent memory that you've ever been happier. You free her messy bun of hair from the elastic holding it atop her head. Andréa takes a finger and traces some of the finer lines around your eyes. You close them for a minute, not knowing if the urge comes from feelings of shame or comfort.

"No, hey, stop it," she says lightly to you. "I love your eyes. Everything about them."

With her own irises looking so sincerely into yours, you can't help but feel her honesty, and can't help feeling like you want to weep. It's hard to say if anyone has ever looked at you in this way. You can't find words, so instead you take her lips with yours in a dance that already seems familiar, but exciting at the same time.

Your body acts without your permission, rolling on top of hers with ease. Andréa grasps at your back, pulling you closer to her. You both decided to forgo pants tonight, so you get caught up in the feeling of smooth legs and warm thighs. The way her tongue moves against yours causes your hips to buck against her own, and the kiss breaks in a gasp. Her shoulder is smooth against your teeth, and when you roll your hips again she moans, "Oh, God."

Andréa takes your hand in hers and crushes it against her own breast. You can feel her nipple harden in your palm, and it only adds to your frenzy. She bites her lip to keep quiet, knowing the last thing you need is for your minions to hear untoward sounds coming from your room. Looking up at her, with your hips pressed against hers, she looks stunning. However, you know that it is time to slow things down.

You bring the rolling of your hips to a casual stop, and remove your hand from the tantalizing chest before you. Andréa looks equal parts confused and turned on. "What?" she asks with swollen lips, "Why did we stop?"

You can't help but kiss her quickly before saying, "Andréa, I don't want to do this here."

She looks a little hurt and a lot confused, so to stop her from going down the wrong road you explain. "I've been waiting _forever_ for this moment," and at once she looks mildly placated.

"But when I finally get the chance to make love to you," her eyes soften at the term "make love" so you take it as a sign to continue. "I don't want it to be quickly and quietly with half of my staff ten feet away."

For Andréa to be such a bright girl, it takes a moment for it to dawn on her. You smile, "I want to spread you out, and take my time. Is that clear?"

She has the nerve to blush. You can't help but peck each tinged cheek before settling behind her, with her back pressed against her front. You reach over her and set your alarm for 5 a.m. so she will have enough time to clandestinely sneak back to her room. For now, though, you are just content to hold a beautiful woman in your arms, excited about what the future may bring.

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><p><strong>AN 3: There is a part two to this written in my head, that will hopefully make it onto paper some time before I die.**

**A/N 4: Thank you so so so so much for reading. It really means the world to me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This turned out to be a lot longer than I planned. Also, this is the unbeta'd version. I will replace it whenever mine gets back to me. Sorry for any mistakes!**

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><p>Is there a scientific study somewhere that proves that three months can feel like three minutes when you're in love? Because if such a document exists, you'd like to find it. If not, you could probably write it yourself.<p>

You have been married twice, and each time has been completely different. No moment during any of these times, however, could compare to the feeling of holding Andréa in your arms. She's such an enigma. When you first met her, she seemed completely ordinary, if not a little annoying, but there was something about her that screamed at you, _take a chance._ So you did.

It would be misleading to say that the three months of dating your previous assistant had been utter bliss, because for the first week, it was absolute torture. The original plan was for her to turn in her two weeks notice once you returned to the office. But after a day or two of her sending you smoldering glances over your latte, and bending over for no apparent reason to reach items purposefully dropped on the floor, you had a job lined up for her that started exactly 7 days upon your return to the city. You have learned that Andréa plays quite dirty.

How unprofessional was it to lose your train of thought daily, if not hourly? You began to miss those lumpy shapeless sweaters, because they did your lover's delicious figure no favors whatsoever. Underneath them it would be hard (but not impossible) to be distracted by her lovely collarbones and smooth midsection. The first one, as always, to notice your preoccupied state of mind was Nigel. But thank God he only made ridiculous faces at you in place of commentary.

At first, his looks were chiding, like you were simply a child who knew no better. But you were quick to return his looks with ones that clearly stated, "I know this is insane," or "I am ancient. She is an infant," or "I am aware that this will look horrible in the tabloids." Truthfully, you knew all of these things. They haunted your thoughts daily. But outside the office while Andréa was holding you and sucking on that sweet spot below your ear, those thoughts were temporarily silenced.

Even though it's been three months, 97 days if you're counting, you have not slept together. This is not exactly a world record for you, but you can feel Andréa getting antsier by the day. You're not trying to be cruel; you're simply trying to make sure that this relationship is what's best for you both. Andréa would bounce back if things were to go wrong. She's in the prime of her life, in the perfect position to come into greatness. Simply put, she could move on. You, however, are an old bird. And old birds need to make sure that they are not setting themselves up for heartbreak.

Andréa's not the only one who is slowly being driven mad. You have been on the receiving end of a limitless stream of dirty words. Whether it is over the phone, through texting, or in person, you know your resolve is wearing thin.

You bring your mind back to the time one afternoon in your office. The layout in front of you looked completely uninspired, so you began to daydream. Without checking the caller ID, you picked up your phone upon hearing the sound of a text alert. The image that appeared was nothing but sexy and sensual, and you were vastly unprepared.

The sight of Andréa's body greeted you, her wearing nothing but a few scraps of red lace. She was sprawled upon tangled white sheets, open and ready for you. She must have taken the picture in advance, on account of you knew for certain she would be working for the entirety of that day. The thought of her planning this little treat for you made your affection for her grow just as much as your yearning to have her in your bed.

Immediately your cheeks flushed, and the phone slipped through your sweaty fingers into your lap. Between your legs throbbed warmly, and you hit the callback button without even planning what it was you wanted to say. Of course, the call went straight to the answering machine, and the husky timbre of your own voice while leaving a message caught you off guard.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" you croaked out before hanging up in a frustrated hurry.

The only response you received a few minutes afterwards was a smiley face with a wink.

That had been a few weeks ago, and now you have no choice but to plan for your night together. You want to do something romantic to prove to Andréa that you are in this for the long haul, come hell or high water. Being a coward was never really your style anyway. If it turns out that the two of you were not meant to last forever, at least you will have had her for a little while.

You know from experience with your sweet Andréa, that she does not need to be wowed with fancy gestures and expensive things. But in your heart, you want to show her that she is _it _for you. There were others before her, but there will be no more after. Of this, you are sure.

The perfect date will take planning, of course, but you've got many ideas. Not to mention, the drop of your name has the tendency to move metaphorical mountains. The past three months have been filled with endless conversation over meals, Broadway musicals (you were skeptical at first, but they are beginning to grow on you), and hours of time just spent in one another's presence. It almost killed you on the few occasions that you were forced to either arrive late to your date or cancel the event altogether. It came as a surprise the remorse you felt when breaking the news to Andréa each time; no other lover has ever invoked such a response.

Of course, she has been perfect and understanding and a million other things that you probably do not deserve. You've definitely waited long enough. Friday is the day you will "seal the deal" so to speak. There's so much to do by the time the weekend rolls around, but for once you do not mind. You are finding yourself going about your date with the same excited tenacity you would usually put towards planning a photo shoot. There are people to be called and things to be delivered, and details to iron out. It strikes you that when it comes to your love, pleasing her is no labor at all.

* * *

><p>You're frantically typing up and article when she first asks you. Your deadline is two hours away, and you feel a cramp coming along in your wrist. But this is your first chance to cover something that isn't an obituary or women's health piece, and you are determined to make it count.<p>

"Andréa?" she asks softly. You're both in Miranda's study, her perched regally behind the desk, and you sprawled on the leather couch among your scattered sheets of paper. You don't look up, because you've got just shy of ninety-eight minutes to finish, and you've hit your stride.

"Hmm?" you say distractedly, still typing up a storm. This article is going to be amazing, you can feel it.

"I was wondering if you'd like to spend the evening with me Friday night?" Miranda poses the request like a question, as if you'd ever say no.

It's a Monday, so you currently have nothing planned for the weekend. "Sure, honey," your hand quickly runs through your hair before finding its way back to the keyboard. Ninety minutes left, and you're almost done and ready to edit. Score.

You can feel her eyes on your face, and that's when the nature of the question hits you. When you meet those blue eyes, they are gazing at you with a renewed sense of intensity and want. Apparently when she asked you to spend the evening with her she meant _spending the evening with her. Naked._

You pray that your gulp wasn't too obvious, but the fact that your eyes are wide as saucers gives you away. Miranda sees you watching her, so she crosses her legs slowly. You can't see them from behind the desk, but your imagination is doing a pretty swell job of conjuring images on its own. You love that woman's legs. As if that wasn't bad enough, she leans forward, placing both elbows on the mahogany before her, offering a tantalizing view of cleavage. Her smile is predatory. You're drooling.

"Oh, shit." Did you say that out loud? Oh, Shit.

Miranda's laugh is loud and full, just how you like it. She takes mercy on you and turns down the teasing, going back to the book in front of her. She's still smiling, and looks so beautiful in the lamplight. What were you writing about again?

Friday night can't come fast enough.

* * *

><p>You're actually nervous, which is strange. You haven't felt this way since you were at the bottom of the totem poll, many years ago. It's your job to instill this emotion in other people. Still, there's something kind of pleasurable in the way those butterflies swarm about your stomach like bees around a hive. It's thrilling how they come uninvited whenever you think about your date with Andréa tonight.<p>

Everything should be set up by the time you leave for work this evening. You had actually taken it upon yourself to arrange all the details. It's not that you don't trust Emily, it's just that she can be incredibly nosy in her quest to protect your honor. She'd blanched a little when you asked for the book electronically tonight, knowing you haven't done so in the last year. Ever since then, you can feel her looking you over every once in a while, trying to piece things together. It's inspiring, really, to arouse such blind devotion from someone, but you would like for this to be kept between you and Andréa for now.

Of course, your thoughts always come back to Andréa. Sweet, beautiful Andréa, with the kindest brown eyes, who sometimes boldly grabs your ass when you initiate a simple hug. It makes you squeal and giggle like a child, instead of earning her a slap to the face, like it would anyone else. On Monday when you'd last seen her, this particular interaction had been punctuated with Andréa whispering in your ear, "I can't wait to have you." Her tone was practically smoldering, in turn, making you hot all over. You might love her.

Today is spent with you being fidgety and short-tempered. You can't help it, on account of the fact you just might be going crazy. Has anyone ever died of anticipation? You may be the first. Emily is sent on an errand out of the office to give you time to make a few quick calls.

The first call is to Tom, an architect and old friend responsible for the beautiful garden behind your townhouse. He assures you that everything will be ready in time for tonight, and that you really should stop worrying, Miranda. The second call is to Smith and Wollensky confirming your order and it's delivery at 7:30 p.m., sharp. The final call is to a particular vineyard in the San Joaqin valley on the west coast. The owners have grown fond of you thanks to your donation, so your simple request from them goes off without a hitch. Still, with all the details ironed out, you feel like you will be holding your breath for the next few hours.

A unique mix of anxiety and excitement prompts you to leave the office a little before five o'clock. Roy arrives beside the curb out of nowhere, ready to take you to any destination you choose. As luck would have it, you will be home in time to say goodbye to your girls before they leave for the weekend.

On your way home, you make a stop at the bookstore, knowing that Caroline and Cassidy enjoy reading on the train to their grandmother's house. You remember them mentioning a saga of books called "Beautiful Creatures," so you ask the sales associate to lead you to the correct shelf. Quickly, you scan the back of the book jacket, making sure the material isn't too advanced for an eleven-year-old. On a whim, you purchase two boxed sets of these books, never being able to resist spoiling your bobbseys.

After taking out your credit card to pay for the books at the register, you notice a display of small greeting cards on the sales counter. You purchase two of those as well, making sure to inscribe a personalized message for each, knowing how precious identity is to your incredibly different twin daughters. Just because your weekend will be spent entirely with Andréa, doesn't mean that you won't miss your girls while they're gone. You just want them to know that they won't be forgotten.

At the gesture, the sales associate smiles sweetly at you. She can't be more than a teenager herself, because she tells you that you must probably be "the coolest mom ever." Perhaps she is not a heavy reader of tabloids. The compliment makes you float on a cloud all the way back to your car.

You tell Roy to make a quick trip around the park, needing to check on your arrangements for later tonight. Everything should be set up, and blocked off, so that no random New Yorker gets any funny ideas about ruining all of your hard work. When you're sure everything looks perfect from your view in the back of the car, Roy has permission to take you home. You pretend to not notice the small twinkle in his eye.

At home, upon receiving your little impromptu gift, there is a lot of jumping and squealing among a couple of "thank you moms!" It's nice to see that something so small can mean so much to them. With their bags packed and in the car, they are all ready to go. Of course you couldn't send them off without a special request from them to tell "Andy" goodbye on their behalf. Now that you think about it, they've always been in a little bit of awe of her due to that whole Harry Potter fiasco.

"Have fun on your date with 'Andréaaah,'" Cassidy says, always the cheekier of the two. You smile good naturedly and roll you eyes. Your oldest daughter giggles and runs to the car. Before diving into the back seat, she high-fives Roy like they've been doing it for years.

You turn to Caroline, giving her one last hug before gently nudging her out the door. She looks over her shoulder and says "Make sure you tell her how much we like her."

You stand stricken for a moment, before smiling a warm smile at her and nodding. Caroline climbs into the back seat with her sister, and both wave out the window as Roy pulls off. You gaze at them from your stoop until they fade down the street into the rush of other cars.

Briefly, you wonder if you did the right thing by telling them from the start that you and Andréa are romantically involved. It couldn't have done but so much harm considering the fact that they remain enamored with her. Not once can you recall them ever having positive words towards Stephen. Then again, he did not produce and impossible manuscript for them out of thin air.

You don't have much time to worry about these things for long, because you are meeting Andréa in Central Park down the street in just a few hours. At least an hour and a half will be required for you to choose the proper outfit.

The quick, hot shower you take calms your nerves briefly , and you are grateful for it. A La Perla box that's been sitting on the floor of your closet for two months is finally opened atop your bed. The items are lacy, flattering, and a deep navy blue. You hope that Andréa will find them acceptable.

What on earth are you supposed to wear? This is by no means simply a _date. _It's _the date_. It's the date you've been preparing for all week, possibly all your life. You don't want to overdress, and you don't want to be too casual. You've never fretted over fashion in this way before. Your closet's contents spill onto your bed, one outfit at a time, as you try things on, glance in the mirror, and rip them off in frustration. You're about to give up when you see what might be your saving grace.

The dress is Dianne von Furstenberg, navy blue, with a deep, plunging V-neck. It comes to just right above your knees, but the slit up the back makes it a little more appropriate for evening wear than it is for the office. The sleeves are three-quarter length, and the bodice fits you snugly. It will go perfectly with your navy Louboutins with the spiked red heel. They aren't the most comfortable, but they make your calf muscles look fantastic.

With the dress on, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. The outcome is better than you expected, although you wonder for a minute if there is a bit too much of your chest exposed. There's no time to change, though, because you're scheduled to leave the house in exactly three minutes. A final nod of your head, a spritz of perfume, and you're out the door.

Central Park is one of the reasons you purchased the townhouse you call home. It's just about a block away, and you have spent many fond moments here with your girls (Patricia included). Even on sticky, humid nights like this one, it's still one of your favorite places on earth. You've told Andréa that you are just going to cut through a corner of the park on your way to a new restaurant for dinner. She's under the impression that you're walking there only because you've given Roy the night off. What she doesn't know is that there is a special surprise planned for her, and that it lies within the park itself, not on the other side of it.

When you reach the meeting spot where you told Andréa to find you, your breath is momentarily taken away. She looks absolutely gorgeous against the sunset, even as she is barking at someone on her cell phone. Authoritative Andréa is a version of her that is arousing for reasons you can't even explain. She's wearing a cream blouse with caramel buttons, tucked into a plum-colored pencil skirt. Her point-toed heels match the buttons on her shirt, tying the look together. She's come so far from polyester-blend monstrosities.

When her eyes finally find yours, that brilliant smile dazzles you. You can't wait to have her in your arms. She says quickly into her phone, "I gotta go," before shutting it off unceremoniously. Her gaze lingers on your cleavage for a short moment, and the gesture makes you feel more than a little proud. This dress was definitely the right choice.

Paparazzi be damned, you both embrace like you haven't met in years, only breaking apart for her to kiss you on the cheek. Still in your arms, she hugs you once more, and you admit to yourself, that you will probably never get enough of feeling her close to you. You whisper "I've missed you today," and she responds in kind.

Strolling through the park with Andréa as the sun sets is a soothing balm to your soul. You spend so much of the day with a mask on, but with her you can _just be_, without worrying about anyone taking advantage of your vulnerability. It's one of the things you find most valuable about your relationship, especially because it's a quality that you have yet to find with anyone else.

As you walk, darkness sets in completely, but lamps and lights throughout the park guide you to your destination. Andréa is in the midst of quite an animated story involving one of her co-workers and a cross dresser. You are only mildly interested, knowing that your surprise for her will be revealed soon. However, her twinkling brown eyes and waving hand gestures keep you entertained.

She doesn't notice it at first, but when she does, her feet stop moving and the end of her sentence is completely lost. Your hard work this week has come to a head, and the sight, you must admit, is quite impressive. You worry for a moment if this was too much, but then she turns to you with tears in her eyes and captures you in the tightest of embraces. When you are finally released, you smile and sweep your hand in an opening gesture, uttering gently, "Darling, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Miranda Priestly is without a doubt the single most romantic person you've ever met in your entire life. You can't believe she's pulled all of this together just for you. People who assume that she is nothing but a dragon made of ice are sorely mistaken.<p>

Sure, you'd thought it was a little weird to be walking through the park so late when you could have easily taken a cab, but when it came to your girlfriend, you've found it's best to sometimes just not ask. Besides, it was a beautiful night and you would never turn down a romantic evening stroll with the queen of your heart.

You're fairly certain that here in this part of Central Park, there was not a gazebo yesterday. You're also fairly certain that if there was, it wasn't strung with hundreds of tiny lights, just like a particular one in California. It melts your heart completely that Miranda would do something like this for you. She's not exactly known by the press for sweeping grand romantic expressions, but times like this have forced you to think differently.

You walk up to it, transfixed by the image, not trusting entirely that this small house of light is not a mirage. The sight is absolutely beautiful. She's created the scene of your first kiss, all the way down to the atmosphere. The balmy night feels mystical, just like before, and the light from all those little bulbs turn Miranda's eyes that same ethereal green. The only difference is that the stars are replaced by city lights, and somewhere far away you can hear a street performer playing a saxophone. He doesn't disturb you though, only adding to the loveliness of the night.

When you reach your secluded wooden light cave, the inside is not bare as you expected. There's a small table covered in a white tablecloth, and two dining chairs. Food in insulated containers from Smith & Wollensky adorns your table. Miranda pulls your chair out for you, like the gentleman she is, and you can't help but giggle a little. She ordered enough food for an army, you realize, now that you've taken the time to look around.

"Expecting other guests?" you ask teasingly.

She bites the inside of her cheek to fight her smiling blush and tells you, "I didn't know what you would be in the mood for." So she ordered one of everything, apparently. Could she be any sweeter?

Your hand reaches for hers, and you kiss her pale knuckles. She visibly relaxes, and asks if she can pour your wine. You would never object. When the bottle is set next to your plates, you realize it's the same vintage you shared in California. "Oh, Miranda," you swoon, squeezing the hand that's in your lap. She ducks her head as if ashamed of her own romantic nature, but you catch her chin to kiss her lips.

One by one, each dish is uncovered and doled out, all smelling equally delicious. The last one to be uncovered is right in front of your plate. Miranda waves at you to do the honors. When you do, you can't help your own howl of laughter.

"Pigs-in-a-blanket, Miranda? Seriously?" you gasp in between chuckles.

She joins in your laughter, and pops one into her mouth. You might love her.

The wine, if possible, is sweeter and headier than it was all those nights ago. Perhaps it's because you know that it's the same dark liquid that lead you both here today. You split a bottle and a half over dinner alone, never tiring of the taste. It compliments your conversation as well as your meal.

You take this time together to ask Miranda about her day. She tells you all about the photos from Patrick, the new assistant who can't stop calling her Ms. Priestly, and the fact that Nigel won't stop looking at her funny.

"Funny?" you ask, "like what?"

She sighs a little sigh, "like he thinks this is a bad idea."

"Hmm," you say gently, while scooting close enough to Miranda to nuzzle her neck. She puts her fork on the plate next to her half-eaten steak.

Her perfume makes you a little woozy, your olfactory senses taking over, but you still manage to plant a kiss on the elegant column of that smooth neck you love.

"Does this feel like a bad idea?" you ask breathily, still folded into her. She shakes her head.

"What about this?" You move up just a little, your teeth nipping her earlobe. She manages to creak out, "N-No."

With a little kiss to sooth where your teeth just nipped, you move back into your own space. "Well then," you say with finality after a bite of chicken, "seems like a pretty good idea to me." When you look back at her, she is flushed and pleased.

And that was that.

Dinner was by all means the most wonderful meal you've ever eaten. It wasn't just because Miranda had ordered every food on the planet for you, or that she'd made all the calls and arrangements herself. It was because this felt like the most natural thing in the world, being here with her, sharing a meal, making her laugh. It felt like you'd been doing this for years and that you were made to do it all your life. Not to mention, in a very short amount of time, you would have her the way you'd been dreaming of having her for entirely too long now.

When you've both had your fill, Miranda stands and reaches for your hand to guide you to stand with her. You rise, and sway into her body, perhaps from the wine, or from the fact that this move brings you just a little closer to all that delicious cleavage. Her bottom lip looks so tantalizing, so you capture it between your own. It tastes like wine and Miranda, and you can't get enough. Her hands encircle your waist, pulling you closer as you lavish her mouth entirely. She moans. You swoon.

After a few moments, she reluctantly pulls away. "Andréa. It's time to go home."

* * *

><p>It would be much easier to unlock the door to your home, if it weren't for the fact that an insatiable woman is causing such a distraction. Andréa has you by the hips from behind, and her lips and teeth are working against your neck in the most delightful way. Your hands shake trying to find the right key and shove it into the lock.<p>

"You'd better get us inside," she whispers sensually, "before I have to just take you right here."

Oh, dear god.

Finally the door is unlocked, and swings open with you both against it. It's you who is quick to turn around and pin her against it, your body pressed tightly to hers. Immediately your lips are on her own and your hands are clutching desperately at her back. Your tongue invades her mouth, sliding against hers until you feel her moan in the back of her throat. The sound fuels your hands to mold against her breasts.

"Mmm," you hum as her hands slip down your body, pausing on your ass before squeezing roughly. This time, your body's urge isn't to giggle at all, but to toss your head back and gasp. Her hands feel like fire, pulling you apart to slip her knee in between your thighs. You can't help but love the way it burns.

Your mouth never leaves hers, and you find a rhythm that is quickly moving towards a point of no return. You do not want your first time with Andréa to be a hurried affair against the front door of your home. After all, this will be the last "first time" you plan to have, and you are determined to make it count.

It's time to slow things down a little, and you do so, gently placing Andréa's hands at your hips rather than your behind. When you pull apart, she looks flushed and beautiful and ready to eat you whole.

"I recall," you drawl, drawing nonsensical patterns with your fingertips on her back, "something about wanting to take my time."

At that, Andréa's look softens and she smiles. As you part, she takes you by the hand leading you to the stairs. The final destination is your bedroom, but you stop plenty of times along the way, not being able to resist the tempting woman on your arm. Your shoes are left somewhere at the top of the steps, you lost patience for them when they got in the way of you turning to press Andréa against another wall. Her skirt falls somewhere between there and your room, both of you not pausing long enough to retrieve it.

By the time you reach your actual bedroom, your dress is halfway off, and Andréa's shirt has lost a button. At the sight of your massive king-sized bed, the mood shifts to something a little softer. All of your anticipation has lead to this moment, and you are trying your best to savor it slowly. You look into Andréa's deep brown eyes and unhurriedly unfasten the last of her buttons. Her shirt falls away revealing the most exquisite body you've ever seen. It's a shame it will never be on the pages of your magazine, but you know that even thin, glossy paper would do her no justice. While you are enjoying her lacy lingerie, it's covering up some of the finer points of your lover. You can't wait to take it off.

"My turn," she says softly, nerves making her hands tremble a little as they reach for the knot holding your dress together. Before they make it there, you take both her hands in your own, kissing each finger gently to show her that there's nothing to be afraid of. She has no reason to be nervous, Andréa couldn't mess up this night if she tried. You don't need a mirror to know that your eyes are smiling at her, you can feel it.

Andréa's movements are reverent and deliberate. She unwraps you like a present, kissing your shoulder as your dress pools on the floor. She takes a moment to admire your undergarments before deciding they are in the way. Her fingers hook into the sides of your underwear and she crouches down to lift your feet out of them. When she stands back up, lanky arms wrap around you to unhook your bra and you drop your arms to watch it fall to the floor. Andréa stays in place, her arms around your topless body, and she whispers to you, "I'm so happy to be with you."

The statement is punctuated by those addictive tiny kisses she loves to give, and you can't help but tell her, "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

You stand there for a moment just enjoying being close to her like this. Then her arms come around to your front and to your breasts, cupping them, and letting her thumbs encircle your nipples. At her touch they stiffen, causing you to emit a low growl of a moan and your head is thrown back. Andréa bends a little to capture one in her mouth as the other is pinched and soothed by her hand.

Perhaps you are going mad. You're so unused to your body responding so strongly to this type of stimulation that you feel a little drunk. Her mouth devours your chest, leaving no sensitive point untouched. She lays you down atop your mattress, crawling up your body like a lioness. You're craving those lips on your own again, so you pull her back up towards your mouth. Kissing her is so hypnotizing that you're having trouble getting your fingers to unhook her bra. She giggles at your clumsiness but helps remove it when you simply tug at it and utter, "off."

You've seen hundreds of pairs of breasts in your lifetime. Models walk around in the nude of your office building with no sense of modesty whatsoever. Andréa's however, are the loveliest you've ever seen. The feeling of your naked chests rubbing together is one of the most erotic things you've probably ever felt. She is writhing against you already, and you've barely just begun.

Something in you takes over, and it is now your sole mission in life to bring this wonderful woman pleasure. Your body rolls over hers until you are on top, laying kisses and to patches of milky skin. Perhaps you should be a little more gentle, knowing how easily she can be marked, but the moans she is letting out only fuel you on. There's nothing a little makeup can't cover up.

Next, you come to her breasts, dusky, pink nipples call out to you, drawing you to them. You can tell though by the way she's moving, that Andréa is in no mood for teasing. With that in mind, you slink your body down further south. Kisses blaze a trail down her body, only stopping to swirl your tongue in her navel. She arches up and whimpers, so you do it again.

"Miranda, please," she gasps, her hips coming up off the bed. You take that as your queue to peel off her ruined underwear, going to where she wants you most. In the back of your mind, your nerves are telling you that you have never done this with a woman, and that you should be terrified. But Andréa looks and smells so delicious that you have no other choice but to just dive right in.

Her legs hook over your shoulders, and you use your hands to pin down her hips when they arch off the bed once again. Andréa is thrashing and moaning and grinding herself into your face with reckless abandon. The taste of her makes your brain buzz in a way that alcohol never could. She is delicious, and you will savor every drop.

Finally, you let your tongue glide under her clit, sucking it fully into your mouth. She grabs onto your hair, pulling you deeper into her. You were not lying when you told her that there was nowhere else you would rather be in this moment. Her back bows high off the bed and her eyes slam shut. With her mouth open and head thrown back as she comes, Andréa is the perfect picture of sexuality. You are so lucky to call her yours.

Now, you take your time, lapping up everything she has given you, and eager for more. You would go another round, but she is grabbing blindly for you in an attempt to bring you back up next to her. You land halfway draped across her body, with her leg in between yours.

You are skeptical about going in for a kiss, even if that's what you really want, knowing that she may be sensitive about kissing your mouth after where its been. Andréa makes the decision for the both of you when her lips crash against yours.

"That," she says, still a little breathless, "was amazing, Miranda."

Pride swells in your chest. You can't wait to do it again. "Just give me a minute," she says next, her arm coming to rest above her eyes.

"Shh," you coo, not in any rush. You have all night. For now, you are content to bask in her afterglow. Your pleasure is coming from her flushed cheeks, her warm sated body, and the happy twinkle in her deep brown eyes.

* * *

><p>You look down at the beautiful woman, whose silver hair is draped across your chest. She looks peaceful in a way that she rarely ever does. Her eyes are closed, and her face is relaxed, making her look years younger and twice as innocent. If not for her hand running gentle caresses along your side, you might believe that she was sleeping.<p>

For all the anticipation over the last three months, this was surely worth the wait. Also, for that to have been Miranda's first time with another woman, she sure knows how to please. Honestly, you should have never expected anything different.

If only the world could see how noble and giving Miranda Priestly can be. Here she is, perfectly content and sprawled atop you when you can feel her body practically vibrating with want. You will have none of that. It's time to have Miranda the way she's just had you, the way you've wanted to have her so many times before.

How convenient it is that your leg is resting in between hers in a way that if you shift up an inch or so, you will come in direct contact with her core. When you do, she gasps and her hips buck ever so slightly. She shifts your bodies around, straddling you and resting her weight on her arms above your head. She's looking down at you with so much love that you have to fight to keep your emotions in check.

Softly, her lips come to yours, barely touching. You've probably kissed a hundred times, and still the feeling makes you a little lightheaded. She bends her elbows a little, letting her nipples tease yours when she sways. Your kisses become deeper, her tongue invading your mouth. Her hips grind into yours, her arousal coating your thigh. You bring your hand to her core, using two fingers to inter her, and her body providing no resistance. Miranda shifts her weight from her arms to her hips, riding your fingers like a wave. "More," she croaks out, her hips still in motion.

You comply, sliding a third finger inside of her, curling them to draw out her pleasure. "Oh god, oh god," she moans, her head thrown back. You've never seen her look so wild and gorgeous. You press your thumb to her clit, ready to make her come. She does, hard. After a moment her hips slow down, you your fingers do too, not wanting to hurt her in case she's too sensitive.

Miranda is slightly sweaty and her hair is in total disarray. You love it. This time it is her who turns into a boneless heap beside you. You're both on your backs, panting and sated and alive. Little by little, she comes back down to earth, but the stars never leave her eyes.

For some reason when she turns to the side to look at you, you are filled with absolute glee. Her eyes are happy and shining with so much love. When your giggling has died down, you roll to face her as well. You're reminded of the night in California three months ago when you laid in this exact position. You take her hand, it's now or never.

"I love you, Miranda. So much." She looks shocked, but pleasantly so. You can also detect a hint of relief in her features.

"My Andréa," she whispers, kissing your palm, "I love you too."

You can tell she means it with all her heart, which is fantastic, because so do you. You feel so confortable and warm that your eyelids start to droop. You hope that Miranda will let you take a little nap before going again. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she pulls you over to her body, placing your head in the crook of her neck as your arm draws across her. With her strong steady heartbeat in your ear, there is nowhere else you'd rather be.

.&.&.&.

When you wake the next morning, the sheets next to you are empty but warm, telling you that Miranda has not been up for long. The urge to pee is what pulls you out of bed to go and search for her, so you swing your legs over the side of the bed. In the bathroom, your thoughtful girlfriend has laid out a toothbrush and an assortment of other things to make you feel at home.

After taking care of your morning routine, you realize that you cannot just traipse naked around her house like you own the place. The only sensible solution is to don her short silky robe that's hanging on the bathroom door, on account of you can't seem to find any of your clothes. You shrug, it will have to do. You smell coffee.

Miranda stands at the stove in her kitchen mixing something and wearing nothing but your cream colored shirt from yesterday. Her hair's a little mussed, but you guess that's what happens when you wake up in the middle of the night to make love. She hums gently to a song you don't know and can't hear. The only appropriate word that comes to mind is adorable.

Silently, you sneak up behind her, wrapping your arms around her middle and kissing behind her ear. She jumps and yelps, dropping the spoon in a bowl of batter. Miranda turns around and playfully slaps your shoulder, "Andréa, don't do that! You scared me."

You laugh at her indignant face, knowing that in reality you have no reason to be afraid, she couldn't hurt a fly. For a moment you stand just holding her, with her back leaned against the counter. You reach around her for her coffee and take a healthy gulp. Her only response is the raise of an eyebrow in your direction and the folding of her arms on her chest. You smile a charming smile at her and say "Good morning, pretty lady." She rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove.

You remain in place, drawing lazy patterns in the small of her back with your thumbs. Miranda sighs softly and says a little dejectedly, "Breakfast was supposed to be a surprise."

You chuckle, "I can go back to bed and play sleep if you want me to."

"Don't be ridiculous, Andréa," she mutters with no malice. Miranda reaches across the counter and drops a handful of chocolate chips in what you've determined to be pancake batter.

You take the opportunity to kiss the back of her neck, and inhale. "You smell good," you say softly, appreciating her warmth and feeling her movements in your arms.

"I smell like sex," she says, and you can tell without looking at her that she wrinkled her nose.

That may be true, but it doesn't change the fact that she smells amazing. "Mmm. I still like it," you murmur in her ear.

Your hands move upwards to cup her breasts through your stolen shirt. Her actions falter for a moment as she tries to hide her sigh of pleasure. At the same moment though, your stomach growls an interruption. Her head is flung all the way back on your shoulder in laughter. Your face is beet red.

Properly chastised by your own stomach, you ask Miranda if there's anything you can do to help. She points at the refrigerator and simply says "berries," so you go about retrieving the bowl of strawberries and cutting off the stems. It turns out Miranda is a closet pancake chef, or perhaps you're just really hungry.

She spends breakfast stealing slices of strawberries off your plate, and you spend breakfast letting her. You have a feeling you'll have to get used to letting her have whatever she wants.

Over the course of the meal you think about contentment. You wonder how a warm summer night changed your life forever. You contemplate how you would be happy to spend the rest of your life with this woman, in this place, in this moment. You look at the gorgeous lady across from you licking chocolate off a fork, so happy that you don't have to keep searching for the missing piece of your heart or wondering if it's even out there. Never before have you been so excited to see what life will bring.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2: As always, if you've stuck with me this far, I am forever grateful from the bottom of my heart. You, my friend, are wonderful.**

**A/N 3: I've been told recently that the way I write is confusing and/or choppy, so I may be trying something new soon. Or maybe this is the end of the road? I have no idea. But I've had fun.**


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