I think this is a one-shot. I wasn't planning on starting anything new but it sort of wrote its self.
Not the cheeriest of fics, but nevertheless, I wish you a very Happy New Year.
Rating: I'll say M. It's probably not, but I am overcautious about ratings because I don't really understand them.
I do not own the characters or the story. I am just doing this for fun. Nevertheless I really appreciate comments, good or bad. I know they shouldn't, but they make a big difference to me. Please let me know what you like and what you don't.
As soon as she saw her, Miranda knew it had been a mistake.
Andrea in the doorway, Miranda in remorse.
That was a revelation in its self, for Miranda to have been the sole decision-maker in this scene and for it to be so entirely wrong.
The realisation of what she had done, what she was actively doing at that very moment, grated at her skin and turned her stoney eyes to red, though she did not cry. How could she cry, when she was straddling her husband on the leather chair that sat in the middle of the room where she was supposed to be enjoying an orgasm.
It had been impulsive, the idea only fruiting in her head one hour before now, and Miranda had taken no time to consider the real consequences; the consequences that rotted in her head.
The back of the chair faced the hallway door, and all Miranda saw as she rocked back and forth on top her oblivious husband was Andrea in the doorway, her lovely face looking even more lovely through two sets of un-shed tears.
Miranda continued to push herself up and down on her husband's disappointing cock like a pro, and Stephen did not notice the minor break in rhythm.
Andrea had only been doing her job, making her way to the table across the hall to deliver the book that she had waited patiently at her desk for, but now it remained tight in her grasp. She had not deserved this at all, but Miranda had had to do something to punish her for all the kind touches and supportive smiles she doled out, and Miranda had thought leaving the study-door open whilst she plied her husband with scotch and then lifted her skirt for him had been an acceptable remedy to the fondness she had been feeling for the woman in the doorway.
But then that look on Andrea's face, and that feeling in Miranda's gut. Neither of those things felt right at all.
"Baby," the gruff voice complained.
Miranda had carelessly slowed her rhythm as the regret manifested into self-loathing.
She watched Andrea's eyes widen at his utterance, and Miranda thrust forcefully down to prevent him from speaking again. Better he keep quiet.
Andrea apparently could not move.
Miranda's was desperate to apologise to Andrea. What she was doing was woefully unfair; Andrea deserved none of this. She had only ever been kind.
But there Miranda was, flaunting what Andrea could never have just because she had thought it would make her feel powerful. But now it was done, Miranda felt defeated. She grasped leather between her fingers, feeling it give, hearing it moan beneath her touch.
She looked over her husband's shoulder and fixed her assistant with her most authoritative stare, half preparing for Andrea to bolt. "Promise me you will stay."
Andrea swallowed, her eyes fluttered around the room.
"You know i'll stay baby," Stephen spoke through lust. When Miranda wasn't playing with his cock or feeding him, Stephen still wanted the divorce.
Miranda supposed she wanted it too.
"I could not bear it if you left me." Again, she directed her words towards Andrea in the doorway and sobbed audibly when a fat, involuntary tear rolled down Andrea's beautiful cheek.
Stephen mistook Miranda's own sob of grief for desire and met her thrust with a force of his own, slamming up into her body, making her head roll about her liquid neck.
"Oh I'm so sorry," Miranda whispered.
"You will be," came the reply.
