Work Text:
A themed ball. Of all inane invitations Miranda has ever received, this one might just as well take the crown for the most ridiculous. She sighed and rolled her shoulders back; no use overthinking if Tom took complete leave of his senses — the man has never been sane to begin with. But then again, madness is like gravity; you only need a little push.
The silver-haired woman took a sip of her coffee, wincing at its cooling quality and lowered her eyes back to the reminder sitting in her inbox, a RSVP she granted without further thought. "Dress to Disrupt", it said in a bold font, detailing the expectations from guests to arrive dressed so ambiguously from their actual genders. Trust Tom Ford to forever be this provocative and dare the fashion world to rise to his challenges.
Nigel's footsteps nearing her office broke her out of her thoughts, her eyes looking up as he entered and deposited the Dior layout feature she had asked for. Sliding her glasses back onto her nose, the older woman leaned over the layout.
"We've pulled up the piece on minimalism but Testino has yet to send the Fendi shoot samples to resize the captions," he said, as he slumped into the chair facing the desk with a sigh.
Miranda pursed her lips, flickering her eyes up to glare at him. "We have apparently hired a herd of teenagers that believe themselves to be the epitome of creativity, courtesy of Pinterest," she sneered, incensed by the inability of her staff to follow simple instructions. "I asked for sumptuous and detailed. I've received cheap and littered with scrabbles all over. Have we turned into Vogue, Nigel?"
The bald-headed man shook his head with a slight smile. "I will take care of it, Miranda. In the meantime, what are you wearing for the Tom Ford soirée?".
Miranda raised an eyebrow.
"I haven't decided yet. What do you have in mind?"
" I thought you'd never ask," he replied, a little gleeful glint shining in his eyes as he smirked.
For you see, he knew something Miranda didn't — which rarely happened so don't begrudge him the joy — but he knew someone else who was showing up at that party, courtesy of yours truly. Someone he's quite sure he's seen Miranda lick her lips at. She, of the consummate, flawless self-control, never showed her baser instincts, especially not in such a manner. But he'd eat his hat if he didn't see Miranda's teeth bite down on her lower lip and her tongue follow it to soothe the rapidly reddening bottom lip. And when he followed her gaze to find out what has distracted her so, it was much to his pleasure his eyes landed on the lithe and naked back of none other than little ol' Andy Sachs. Needless to say he's kept a close eye on his friend since then, noticing the minute pause whenever the name of the young brunette's name appeared on a byline, and the flared nostrils whenever someone would leave traces of the same perfume she used to wear. Not to say that Andy was indifferent. It was only his duty, as friend to both women, to make sure none of them are barking up the wrong tree. Hence his little investigation led him to discover the sheer size of the torch Andy carries for none other than the Devil in Prada. He was quite sure it used to be a mere infatuation and therefore had no idea when it evolved this much. He had his suspicions, however — Paris seems to be a sore subject for both women. So you see, it was within his duty, as dutiful fairy godmother, to make sure they find each other within the other's vicinity. He would have no hand in whatever happens next.
And with that in mind, he handed Miranda's second assistant number 12 the garment bag, an evil chuckle threatening to burst out.
Tonight was going to be fun.
Andy took a deep breath and smoothed down the peak lapels. The jumpsuit Nigel couriered had reached her only this afternoon. A black, halter-neck jumpsuit with satin lapels and an open back from Sergio Hudson, accessorized with a white, silk bow-tie, a rose gold Serpenti and a Tiffany gold and green cuff. The shoes were patent black Louboutin slingbacks. Her hair, now shorter than it's been before, laid in soft waves around her face. The bow-tie laid untied on her collarbone and Andy shifted as she put on her heels,feeling strangely nervous, though she didn't understand why. She had accompanied Nigel several times to his parties, this was nothing new. And yet, her stomach flipped.
Her phone pinged with a notification from her cab and she grabbed it, determined to throw her questions to the wind, as she walked out, pulling on her coat and smoothing down any wrinkles.
Miranda was ready to leave. Truly, what was Tom even thinking? She sipped on her sparkling water as her eyes followed yet another fashion disgrace while another droned on in her ear. What she wouldn't do to walk out immediately and ensconce herself in the warm, soft embrace of her couch. The townhouse would be empty, as Caroline and Cassidy left for their father's that morning, but Patricia would amble in and plop down on her lap for scratches behind the ear. That was a far more attractive evening than standing here, amidst people who clearly couldn't read and therefore not comprehend the theme. Briefly closing her eyes before the synthetic disaster caught up to her peripheral view, she sighed imperceptibly and excused herself, already on her way to the balcony before the goosebumps rising on the back of her neck stopped her dead. Only one person has ever had that effect without the need for her to look over. She still did, though. Her head swiveled slowly to her right, icy eyes meeting dark chocolate ones through tortoiseshell, aviator glasses and the crowd. Heat crawled in Miranda's abdomen, dark lips parting ever so slightly in surprise. Surprise at meeting that scorching gaze from the bane of her existence and the object of her longing.
Exhaling deeply, Miranda turned away slowly, continuing on her initial path towards the balcony, side-stepping any and all attempts at conversation. She has not the mind nor the focus for that right now. Finally out into the fresh air, the silver-haired woman looked down into the bustling city with an unseeing gaze, her skin prickling still at the phantom feeling of those eyes upon her. She growled, uneasy — Nigel will pay for this. It couldn't be anyone's fault but his. Her hand burrowed in her inner pocket, drawing out a pack of cigarettes. She rarely felt the need to smoke. She had stopped a long time ago, in fact.
"But smoking helped," she thought, "in the absence of satisfying another, almost irrepressible desire."
Miranda was leaning sideways against the railing, one hip cocked out, blue eyes staring off into the sky. She knew the brunette was on the balcony doorway. How could she not? The very air hums with the energy that always sizzles between them, making both women oh so very aware of each other. Consequently, Miranda could feel the heat of her gaze travel down her length, from the sharp shoulders of her Tom Ford, double-breasted silk suit, to the well-fitting denim button-up from Nili Lotan's last collection and the tasteful gold necklace resting in the dip of her cleavage. Miranda didn't miss how the younger woman's eyes lingered on the obscured opened buttons of her shirt — a trademark of the older woman by now — and spun slowly on her leopard print Louboutins to face Andrea, resting both her hips on the railing, pushing out her chest almost indecently for that quick flash of lace underneath the otherwise severe, almost masculine authority of the rest of her outfit. Blue eyes locked onto dark, dilated brown eyes and Miranda raised a challenging brow, as her hand lifted to bring the Sobranie Black Russian cigarette back to dark red lips. She breathed in the strong tobacco, hand lowering to join the other on the railing, leaving the cigarette in her mouth, as her eyes slowly lowered to take in her evening clothes, light eyes turning almost instantly dark at Andrea's look, her poised confidence and the fire in her eyes.
" I—," Andrea cleared her throat, snapping out of her daze. "I didn't know you smoked."
Miranda exhaled out the smoke through her nose, idly amused at the brunette's intensity and tilted her head at her persistent staring. She ran a hand through her hair, pulling back the silver tresses that were curling over her eye.
"You never asked, Andréa."
Even Miranda was surprised at the sound of her voice, rich, deep and husky. Bourbon over gravel. Thunder in a glass. Charred honey imbued with warm tar. The two women looked at each other in silence, sizing each other up, tight jaws and fingers curled into fists to refrain from reaching out with the frenzied touch of ravenous beasts. Miranda's gaze hungrily followed the flush of pink that spread down her neck towards the V-neckline of the jumpsuit, wondering just how far that pretty pink went down and would she ever manage to capture it and feature it in her magazine. Almost dazed in her daydreams, she didn't notice Andrea's approach until the furnace-like heat coming off of the younger woman's body notified her to the rapidly-decreasing distance between them. Blinking, she followed the brunette hand's as it raised to grab the cigarette between two long fingers and separate it from Miranda's lips to put it out on the railing behind her, the loaded stare-off between them making her swallow and Miranda's jaw tighten. She almost jumped at the feeling of the fingers of the other hand lightly grabbing her wrist, slithering under her wristband of her watch, pressed into her skin and not missing the erratic beating of her pulse.
A burst of laughter beyond the door brought them both back to reality. Miranda slowly leaned to the side, putting a respectable distance between the brunette and her; it wouldn't do to push the younger woman against the railing and ravage her right there and then. Inhaling slowly, she eyed her, noticing the heavy-lidded stare and flushed cheeks — Andrea already looked as though she's been defiled in more ways than one can imagine. And it was wrecking havoc on Miranda's self-control. She decided to take charge, something she'd always enjoyed doing with her old female paramours. Nothing like the thrill of pursuing a woman, almost smirking at her line of thought.
"It seems you and I need to have a conversation, Andréa," she purred, enjoying the flutter of eyelashes at her deliberate mispronunciation of her name. Andréa sounds far better than its American counterpart with the emphasis on the first syllable. And clearly, the young woman herself agreed, if the way she squirmed was any hint.
Miranda moved towards the balcony doors with deliberate, slow steps, fully aware how fully she embodied her much masculine than usual outfit. She expected Andréa to follow, as soon as she snapped out of her reverie.
"My car is downstairs. We can talk in the townhouse."
And with that, the silver-haired woman walked away, giving her salutations to the host and Nigel on the way. Nigel whom, as she noticed, sported that insufferably smug smile as he raised his eyebrows at her. Miranda ignored him and walked down the stairs. It's not until she reached the door to the building that she heard the typical clacking of heels hurrying after her and she held the door open, one hand in her pocket holding the door, a slight smirk on her lips. The younger woman looked slightly out of breath but otherwise as flawless as she did beforehand. Pleased, Miranda put a hand on her lower back with the pretense of guiding her to the town car idling in the street. "Hi, Roy," Andy said, a slightly abashed smile on her face. Roy nodded at her, his eyes catching onto Miranda's rather possessive gesture with a quirk of his lips. It wasn't his business what his boss is up to but this didn't look like bad news. Both women entered the car, doors closing after them with a hush, silencing any other noise from the outside world. The car ride to the townhouse was heavy with tension, both of them scrapping at whatever was left of their self-control with tight throats and nails digging into palms.
Miranda was the first one out of the car before the engine even stopped rumbling, striding down the short walk to her doorstep, the strict set of her shoulders belying the imminent loss of any composure whatsoever. In fact, as soon as Andrea saw fit to finally follow and enter the townhouse, she pounced, pushing the younger woman's back against the door, the lips almost brushing. Not touching, however, as Miranda regarded Andrea with a frown and pursed lips. Andy's heart both dropped and started beating so fast she was certain the neighbours could hear it. She didn't know what she could have possibly done to deserve the pursed lips within the short time it took to get here. A hand lightly drifting up her arm made her blink out of her panic, meeting a raised eyebrow and almost concerned blue eyes.
"I'm sorry, I—," she started, unsure how to express her own uncertainty but so distracted by the feel of Miranda's hand on her arm and her chest almost brushing her own.
Miranda shook her head. "It's alright, Andréa. We have all the time in the world now," the husky tonality of her voice flowing down Andrea's spine with a shudder.
The older woman came closer, slotting her leg between Andrea's, pressing her chest and abdomen further into the younger woman. Her nose gently rubs against the brunette's, a rare show of tenderness that Andy felt in the recess of her heart and the tips of her finger. Give it to Miranda to be one to reassure someone so completely without needing to say anything.
Andy beamed, a bright smile stretching her face and lightening up her features.
"You look very hot, by the way," she said, soulful eyes batting their eyelashes at the older woman.
Miranda chuckled, deep and amused. "You clean up quite well yourself."
They smiled at each other, as hands traveled down delicate collarbones and firm biceps, content now that both of them have finished their constant, hungry circling of each other. Only to, of course, an altogether different kind of constant, hungry circling of each other as lips finally met, the incandescence of the kiss felt throughout their whole bodies.
They have all the time in the world for sure.
THE END.