Paring: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me
A/N: So, I saw la_fono's request for wingfic and I was intrigued. The following is a result of my flight of fancy (terrible pun, I know). It got a bit lengthier than I originally intended, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless.
In Some Quite Casual Way
Not exactly the way I'd thought I'd end up going, the thought made Andy laugh with a bit of macabre humor. She figured she really could only laugh or cry about the situation; so, she decided she would not dwell on obvious things she could not change. The whole thing had been an accident. She knew that logically, but she could not help but feel momentarily personally affronted with everyone and everything. She was, after all, the one plummeting fifty stories to her doom. Andy opened her eyes and turned her head slightly to see over her shoulder. She quickly turned back and tried not to think about the rapidly decreasing distance between her body and the ground.
It had been a normal morning for the young journalist; she had been rushing to meet a source for a story that was going to put her on the map. Just a normal day Sachs, Andy thought rolling her eyes at herself and everything, except for the fact that the whole universe seemed to be against me.
She had overslept because she had somehow missed her alarm. Half her subway route was closed due to construction, so she had ran ten blocks to the building because all the cabs in New York seemed to be occupied. Sweaty and disheveled, she had gotten into the slowest elevator on the face of the earth; it stopped on every floor and she had sixty floors to rise. Frustrated and figuring she could climb the stairs the last few floors, she exited on floor forty-nine. The stairway was naturally clogged full of people bustling up and down to their destinations. Already fifteen minutes late, Andy prayed her source was still waiting her arrival.
Trudging up the stairs as quickly as she could, moving around people who were moving too slowly, Andy groaned as she reached what looked to be an area of renovation where traffic seemed to have come to a crawl. Moving as close to the edge as she could and by necessity closer to what was undoubtedly a dangerous area, Andy rushed past several people. Dodging a slow moving man, she missed the woman rushing down in a similar state as herself. They collided. Andy lost her balance. And suddenly, time slowed to extend every heartbeat to an eternity. Somehow detached from the moment, even as she felt herself struggle to right her balance even though she was already falling toward the one window without a railing in front of it, she watched horror overtake the unknown woman's face even as she tried to reach out and grab the journalist. Their fingertips brushed, but Andy was already too far away. Her heart stopped as she heard the window behind her crack and shatter. Andy could feel the sharp edges of the glass tear through the skin exposed on her arms, neck and face as she fell through the shattered window. Gravity immediately pulled her down. Time warped again, moving grindingly slow and blindingly fast simultaneously.
The first few seconds of the fall Andy's life flashed before her eyes in rapid succession. Her childhood in resplendent color: running into her father's outstretched arms, falling asleep to her mother reading her bedtime stories, getting into mischief with her brother, breaking her arm trying to do a dare she was too stubborn to back down from, climbing the tallest tree in her yard and proclaiming herself invincible. Her adolescence in muted tones: starting her period, feeling attraction for the first time, kissing a boy for the first time, standing up for her morals, discovering a deep love for the written word, rebelling against her parents. Her bloom to womanhood in pastels: finding a balance with her parents, stepping out on her own two feet, figuring out that her parents grew smarter as she grew older, falling in love, having sex, being heartbroken, doing the seemingly impossible, chasing after her dreams. The whole of her memory up to the last year played in an instant.
When her mind played the last year it slowed and savored all the moments presented in bright and muted hues of blue, ranging from the light blueness of the midday sky to the inky blueness of the night sky: feeling slighted and inadequate, steeling her courage to face a dragon, fighting the urge to quit, facing the impossible task of changing her outward appearance without allowing her inner self to waver, reevaluating some of her outlooks, trying not to disappoint an impossible woman, forging an uncommon bond, searching words for emotions she had never felt before, finding a woman attractive, questioning her sexuality. Her mind was apparently stuck on Miranda Priestly. Andy clearly recalled the silvery white perfectness of her hair, the deep blue eyes that pierced everything, the smooth alabaster skin that belied the woman's age, the confident and graceful gait, the impossible-to-please attitude, the enigmatic personality, the sharp tongue that could cut through steel, the whole package. Just imagining the editor caused a flush of heat to move through Andy. The familiar ache in the middle of her chest quickly followed.
Realizing she was seconds from dying, Andy regretted never going back to Runway to apologize for how she had left Miranda in Paris. She knew she had been childish and immature in the way she had departed. Andy squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden onset of tears. She had taken the coward's way out in that situation and it still grated her that she had not made it right.
At the time, running had seemed like her only solution. She was attracted to Miranda like an asteroid was pulled by the gravity of a nearby star. And, she knew that without changing her course she would inevitably be drawn in and utterly consumed. It would be impossible to fight once she was directly in Miranda's orbit. Andy had felt the tempting pull of everything Miranda offered her in the back of that car in Paris. It would have been so easy to lose herself to the life the editor placed before her on a silver platter. It would have been a seamless transition for her to become Miranda.
Andy knew she could take all that was offered. She knew she was capable of taking charge. She knew she could make a name for herself, differentiate herself from all predecessors. More importantly, Andy knew Miranda was including herself in the deal. She had felt the connection, the pull of more than a working relationship. Miranda would never say it, but she had offered everything to her. And Andy had wanted so very badly to take, ravage and revel in everything she was offered.
But, despite being everything she wanted, the price was too high. She could not live with Miranda wanting her as something money and power had made; she wanted Miranda to desire the person she was, and not the person the editor had made. So, Andy had run. She ran as fast, and as far, as she could. She ran before she faltered in her choice and accepted the tempting offer of the Devil herself.
And here she was falling to her death regretting the one decision she knew saved her character but damned her heart. The tears she could not hold back anymore were pulled up by the force of the wind; they left a trail of wetness as she fell before evaporating above her. Her brown eyes watched fascinated before something bright and moving at incredible speed caught the corner of her eye. The journalist gaped. Her thoughts had materialized into the physical realm; she was hallucinating that the woman possessing her thoughts was present with her.
I've died and gone to Heaven, Andy thought as the vision before her burned itself in her brain. Miranda Priestly, with her perfect hair, perfect face, perfect clothes, perfect everything, was hovering above her with massive wings protruding from her thin shoulders. Clear blue eyes looked directly at her and Andy could not help the trip of her heart at the even imagined presence of the other woman.
Or maybe I've gone to Hell, she thought absently as she stretched a hand to touch the vision before her. She was shocked to feel the solid, warm touch of Miranda's hand entwining with her own. Before she knew what was happening, Miranda swooped in close to her and put an arm under the back of her knees and around her midsection.
"Wrap your arms around my neck," Miranda's soft voice cut through the wind whipping around her ears. Andy tentatively obeyed the command and suddenly found herself pressed against soft curves and her decent halted. A powerful thrust of Miranda's wings had them propelling upward. Andy clung to the editor as they cut through the air. The rhythmic beating of the wings lulled the reporter; she felt an explicable sense of safety.
Andy buried her face in Miranda's neck, her eyes looking through white strands to view the receding vista of the New York City sky line. The whole situation suddenly felt like a dream. If this is just a dream, I'm going to take full advantage, Andy thought as she pressed her lips softly, gently to the juncture of where Miranda's neck met her shoulder.
The editor exhaled sharply at the sensation of those lips pressed to her and the emotion she could feel swirling around behind the touch. She shuddered in reaction, sparks racing down her spine from the point of contact. She momentarily stopped. The wind swirling beneath Miranda's widespread wings suspending them between heaven and earth.
The editor wanted to return the touch but there were things she needed to take care of first. Flattening and narrowing the angle of her wings, Miranda began their decent. The now constant press of lips was driving her to distraction. Needing to land them quickly or lose her rational mind, the editor pressed her lips to Andy's ear, "Hold tight."
Andy's mind went momentarily blank at the feel of Miranda's lips pressed to the shell of her ear; she missed the explicit warning in the words. A surprised gasp was torn from her throat a moment later as the editor plunged them into a headfirst free fall.
Wings folded and curled tightly against her back, Miranda smirked at the young woman's sudden death grip around her. The tight press of the brunette's curves against her did not do much for her state of mind, but she could not find it within herself to care. Andy felt good against her. After Paris, she had no illusions as to where she stood with the young journalist. The brunette had made it abundantly clear. Andy's decision in Paris had equally depressed and elated the editor. Holding her now, Miranda knew they had much to discuss.
Seeing the ground much closer than it had been a moment before, Andy squeezed her eyes shut and hid her face in Miranda's neck. She breathed in the unique scent of the impossible woman, At least I get to die in the arms of the woman I love. The thought stunned Andy. It shocked her so much she pulled back enough to look into the deep blue of Miranda's eyes. The editor stared back into brown eyes, surprise widening her eyes. Andy felt exposed and vulnerable, almost as if Miranda could read her thoughts or feel her emotions. The fact that she now had a name for the insidious emotion that her heart stubbornly clung to for the incredible, impossible woman escaped her; she was much too shocked by the revelation to do more than stare into slate blue eyes.
Miranda's heart tripped over itself at the clear and blatant fire that suddenly enveloped her bodily. She felt like she was physically aflame, the emotion coming off Andy was so strong. Looking into scared brown eyes staring at her, the editor could do little but stare back. She had known there was some deep connection between them, but after Paris she never expected this. Lost in the moment, Miranda's wings snapped open to their full length almost automatically. They came to an abrupt halt two feet from the ground.
The jarring stop snapped both women out of their shock. Miranda slowly dropped them the last two feet. When her Prada heeled feet touched the ground she was already moving in the direction of the backdoor of her home. Andy made an attempt to uncurl herself from around the editor, but Miranda held her firmly and carried her all the way inside. The journalist did not fight. She allowed herself to be carried all the way into Miranda's office, where the editor gently deposited her on a soft leather couch.
Andy stared at the editor while she searched for something in her desk. She licked her lips at the sight of Miranda bent over, face set in concentration, blouse slightly open revealing an enticing view of skin. The journalist moved her right hand to her left bicep and pinched. She winced in pain.
Miranda straightened and looked at her curiously, "What are you doing?"
"Making sure I'm not dreaming," Andy's eyes devoured the editor as she approached. Miranda was wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a perfectly fitted blue blouse by a designer Andy did not recognize. She looked understated but powerful. The wings added to the affect; even folded behind her they looked massive. The brunette wondered how she was not imbalanced.
"I assure you that you are not dreaming," Miranda said as if she was not sporting a set of massive wings. She laid what looked like a first aid kit beside the journalist before picking up the phone she had laid on top of it and making a call. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the day," the editor spoke into the phone, "That's all." She carelessly tossed the cell onto the couch before kneeling in front of the seated woman and pulling the first aid kit into her lap.
Andy watched in quiet awe as Miranda gently cleaned the cuts the glass from the window had made on her skin. "Can't you just heal them?" Andy wondered out loud curiosity lacing her voice, her mind racing to recall everything she had ever heard or read about angels.
Miranda looked up at that. Blue eyes captured brown, "Would you like me to?" Andy nodded dumbly. The editor put the items she held aside. Her hands slid up Andy's arms leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake. When Andy looked down she was shocked to see perfectly unblemished skin where Miranda's hands had touched. The editor then moved forward, her fingertips tracing lines on Andy's face and neck. The brunette swallowed and shuddered at the almost intimate touch, she had forgotten the broken glass had scratched her neck and face. Miranda's eyes seemed to glow while she touched her. The editor unconsciously leant closer the longer she touched the journalist. She inadvertently put herself in a position Andy found extremely tempting.
Miranda's proximity intoxicated the brunette and piqued her curiosity. She could not help herself as she reached out and traced the silvery white wing protruding from Miranda's right shoulder. It was soft and warm. The editor visibly shuddered at the touch, her fingers stopping on Andy's face. "Are you an angel?" the brunette asked her fingers skimming lightly over the wing before her.
"In a manner of speaking," Miranda expelled breathlessly. She still felt as if on fire, especially where Andy's fingers touched her wing. She lightly grasped the brunette's hand, stilling it. "They are extremely sensitive," she confessed.
Andy stared at her in awe. "How did you hide them for so long?"
"Like this," Miranda said as her wings literally disappeared into thin air.
The journalist gasped in surprise. "Neat trick," her free hand moved through the space the wings had occupied a moment before, "How did you do that?"
"Magic," Miranda said with a straight face though Andy caught an amused undertone in her voice.
"Magic?" Andy smiled into Miranda's upturned face. It felt surreal to be with Miranda. Not simply because of the editor had miraculously sprouted a set of wings, and was apparently angelic in nature, and that she had swooped in and saved her life. The fact that they were sitting in Miranda's house having lighthearted conversation with the editor tending her and seemingly worried about her was what was truly surreal. It felt good, though. The easy camaraderie, the familiarity, felt natural and genuine.
Blue orbs studied her. Andy had never seen them so open and revealing. Toward the end of her tenure at Runway she had become quite adept at reading Miranda's wants, needs, and body language but she had rarely been able to see beyond the walls the editor erected around herself. Her blue eyes had been mostly unreadable to her. But now, they shone with warmth, affection and something else she could not quite describe.
Miranda's finger lightly traced the brunette's jaw. Andy drew a sharp breath at the sensation of the editor touching her for no other reason than to touch her. Miranda stilled her finger but did not remove her hand, "It's significantly more complex than that, but the word tends to convey a need for suspension of belief that is adequate enough for its use."
It took the journalist a moment to recall what they were discussing. "Simplify it for me," Andy asked taking Miranda's stilled hand and bringing it down to join their already clasped hands in her lap. Had anyone walked in at the moment they would have not believed their eyes at the picture the women made. Andy seated on the couch with Miranda kneeling before her, their hands clasped between them, white head tilted up almost in supplication, brown head leant down in consideration, their eyes locked and seeing only one another, and an unmistakable connection that was invisible but vibrant around them.
"I can hide them by putting them somewhere else," Miranda spoke, but she was more interested in the nonverbal conversation they were having. Something was happening. They were shifting. She was acutely aware of it. She wondered how deeply the journalist felt it.
Andy's eyes sparkled and her lips curled into a smile, "I think I can handle something a bit more complex than that." She lightly squeezed the hands held in hers, even while inside she was amazed that Miranda had not pulled away from her yet.
"Dimensional shift," Miranda said. Looking up into brown orbs, the editor wanted to talk about what she knew they needed to, but she would proceed at Andy's glacial pace though it grated her nerves to be patient.
"Like a parallel universe," Andy easily saw the flash of impatience in Miranda's eyes, but she was genuinely curious now. The journalist in her wanted to know as much as the editor would divulge, and given Miranda's unusual compliance she was going to exploit it before they moved on to heavier matters.
"No," the white head shook in the negative, "there are no other universes where you chose to do something differently and it cascaded into an entirely different life."
"Pity," the journalist could not help but inject. Miranda nodded minutely at that, they both wished they could have made different choices along the way. "So, what do you mean?"
"Superimposed upon this visible world, there exists an invisible realm," Miranda felt disbelief coming off of the brunette, but she continued, "They exist simultaneously. It's the realm of what could be labeled supernatural; a plane where angels, devils, and spirits reside."
"Okay," Andy tried to wrap her mind around what she was hearing, "So, how is that you live in both?"
Miranda surprised her with her next statement, "You live in both as well." At Andy's look, the editor explained, "Your soul isn't part of this world. It is attached to it as long as your body lives, but it exists in a different dimension."
Andy shook her head in wonderment. She could not really argue with an angel sitting at her feet telling her these things. "So the wings?" She veered back to her original question.
"I shift them out of the visible world," the white head cocked to the side trying to decipher the amalgam of emotions coming off the brunette.
"But, you don't just hide them. They completely disappear," Andy looked at the space the wings had been and where her hand had gone right through. She tried to remember everything she had learned in her chemistry and physics classes, "You can't make something from nothing, which means you can't make something into nothing."
"I built an entire empire from nothing," Miranda countered, Andy's curiosity sparking her interest.
"That's metaphorical," Andy dismissed, "I mean you can't create or destroy matter."
"With enough power, you can do anything, Andrea," Andy's heart stopped at hearing her name fall from those lips after so long. Miranda stopped as longing pierced her. She was not sure how she would survive holding onto this young woman without doing something irreversible. Closing her eyes to regain her composure, she took a cleansing breath, "But, I do not have that much power, so I simply transfer matter to a different location." She opened her eyes and reestablished eye contact, "You can think of it as putting something away. Something laying on a kitchen counter, for example, being put in a drawer or cupboard. It is simply put away, not gone."
"That actually makes sense," the journalist said after she considered the editor's words. "Can you bring them back?"
Miranda eyed her curiously before allowing her wings to pop back into view. Andy stared in awe, her hands unconsciously moving from the editor's hands to her wings. Miranda licked her lips at the sensation of warm, soft fingers tracing her delicate feathers. A heady and unexpected rush of arousal shot through her at Andy's continued touch and the obvious care behind the contact. She shuddered. The editor knew her eyes were clouded and her pupils were dilated; she knew that Andy saw that. She swallowed and breathed in roughly through her nose as she watched Andy's brown eyes darken and her pupils dilate. The desire pouring off the young woman hit her directly in her center.
The editor stood abruptly and walked on shaky legs to her desk. She laid her hands on the aged oak as if for support and breathed deeply through her mouth trying to get her heart under control. "Why aren't you intimidated by me? By all this?" Miranda asked, emphasizing the question with a flutter of her wings.
Andy watched the editor in a similar state herself. Her palms were sweaty, her heart was hammering in her ribcage, and her breathing was erratic from the mere suggestion of reciprocated arousal. Andy tried to clear her head. "I don't think there's much you can do to intimidate me anymore," Miranda's back was to her but she knew she had her attention, "I was terrified of you at the beginning, but somewhere along the line I think I got used to you. Like drinking small quantities of poison every day, I was able to drink—and live—in the presence of what has destroyed some men." Andy smirked feeling brave.
The journalist heard something that sounded like cheeky come from the turned head. "You are certainly one brave woman," Miranda voice was ice but Andy could see a smirk on her beautiful profile.
"I doubt my courage was ever in question," Andy rejoined, standing and moving to prop herself on the desk next to the editor. Miranda stiffened at the proximity. The reaction immediately reminded Andy that the editor never touched people, except her daughters. They had done more touching in the last few minutes than they did the entirety of Andy's time at Runway. And the reactions she was getting from Miranda were certainly something she never expected; fantasized and hope for, yes, but expected, never. Even after Miranda had made it clear she wanted more from Andy, the physical reactions always seemed a distant thought. The reality of her affect on the woman was narcotic; she felt invincible. "I'm going to be very honest," Andy's tone was playful, "I am a little taken aback that you're an angel."
Miranda arched a brow at her, "I never said I was an angel."
Andy rewound their conversation in her mind, "The alternative does seem much more plausible."
The editor let out an amused huff, "Contrary to popular opinion I am no devil, either." Andy's brown eyes looked at her with mock shock. "At least not literally," Miranda qualified.
"So if not an angel and not a devil," the journalist's tone was veering to serious again, "what are you?"
"Human," came the soft reply, equally serious.
"Human," Andy repeated real shock registered on her face. "Humans don't sprout wings and magically heal people, Miranda."
"I do," the editor said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. She expelled a breath at the sudden stillness of the woman beside her. Turning and slipping out of her heels, Miranda gracefully sat herself down on top of the desk her wings adjusting to new position by laying partially open along the huge desk. Andy considered following Miranda's example, but decided against it. Instead she turned her hip. She wanted to look at the editor's face while she said whatever she had to say.
"This is my punishment," Miranda began so softly Andy had to strain to hear her. Blue eyes looked at the ceiling but seemed to be looking beyond it. "Mortality. Humanity." She looked down at her hands before looking back up at Andy. "I am a fallen, disgraced angel." Andy staunched her desire to question and forced herself to simply listen. "Fifty-two years ago I was tempted by great power and fell prey to its lure. In so doing, I failed in a very specific mission I was performing. The ramifications of my actions were swift and severe. I was stripped of everything; my very identity was wiped. I was punished to walk in the shoes of those whom I had slighted and failed." Her eyes skidded away from the journalist's. "I was born fifty-one years ago to abject poverty with full recollection of what I had been and how far I had fallen." Blue eyes pierced Andy with their intensity, "I slaved away building myself to who I am today. I refused to remain such a lowly creature. If I was to be human, I would be the epitome of human wealth and power."
"Unyielding even in defeat," Andy tried not to take offense at Miranda's obvious disdain for humanity.
"I have never taken defeat well," the editor agreed, "it seems to pull a rebellious streak out of me."
"I had noticed that," Andy replied remembering Paris and doing her best not to judge the older woman and at the very least hear her out. She had saved her life after all.
The editor could feel the shift in Andy's demeanor. It was not Miranda's intention to upset the journalist but she needed to be honest. What she wanted so much from the brunette would require honesty and she was willing to do that. "I haven't gotten to where I am at by being nice," Miranda waved her hand as if dismissing the thought outright.
"It wouldn't have killed you to try it out once in a while," Andy said before she could stop herself. Lowering her eyes in consternation, the brunette shook her head at herself, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"You aren't wrong," Miranda surprised her, "I simply did not know how." The editor wanted to touch the young woman and comfort her, but she knew at the moment the touch would not be welcome. "I could not reconcile who I remembered being and who I actually was. It was a constant battle trying to resolve in my head being a creature above, and better than, the people around me when I was at the bottom of a very human totem pole. It was a battle I lost to my pride and haughtiness when I learned that humans can be as indifferent as angels. Being cold and commanding got things done faster and more efficiently. And in that regard, I have proven I have no equal."
"I thought angels had a natural tendency to be," Andy searched for a proper word, "good."
"They do," the white head nodded, "They are in fact empathetic to human emotion. But they are also single-minded in their focus and relentless in their tasks. They can turn off and block any sensitivity in order to get a job done." Again blue eyes veered away from brown. "I have found humans can do the same by distance and cruelty."
Andy looked Miranda over and felt her upset drain away. It was replaced by pity and sadness to the life the woman must have lived with that outlook. Being neither one creature nor another because of stubbornness, it broke the journalist's heart to think of what Miranda had lived through. It was a wonder the woman was not mad, living with two identities in her head.
"Don't," the command was heated and sharp. Dark blue eyes burning in anger and indignation caused Andy to start. The journalist almost took a step back, but she held her ground and met the stare steadfastly. "I do not need your pity," Miranda spat, her voice low and dangerous.
Andy's eyes widened, "How?" Empathy, the word bounced in the brunette's head. And suddenly, anger swept through the journalist; fierce and hot. Eyes burning as strongly as Miranda's, Andy turned to face her completely. She moved determinedly into the editor's personal space, forcing her knees apart as she got in close, placing each hand palms flat on either side of the older woman's thighs. The brunette leaned forward and got directly in the editor's face. Even incensed, neither woman could miss the unmistakable frisson of desire the move caused. "How dare you invade the privacy of my emotions and then berate me for feeling the way I do?"
Miranda flapped her wings creating a gust of wind that blew Andy's hair back but did not cause her to even flinch. Getting right up to the young woman's face, millimeters separating their noses, the editor practically growled, "I cannot turn it off. I usually refrain from touching people so that I don't feel them. But you," Miranda obliterated the distance between them her forehead and nose meeting Andy's, her hands on each side of the journalist's face holding her tightly to her, "you, Andrea, are under my skin, in every pore, in my mind, under my ribcage." The fire in Miranda's eyes changed hues, it was still hot and intense but it burned Andy in a different way. It consumed her and electrified her. It made her nerve endings come alive. "You're in my heart. It pounds your name with every beat. I feel you everywhere, whether I touch you or not." Miranda breathed out roughly onto Andy's mouth, making the brunette's lips tingle, "I feel you regardless of distance and time. I feel you no matter how much work I try to lose myself in. I feel you no matter how much I feel you disappointed me. I feel you no matter how much I tell myself I don't deserve you. I carry your heart in my heart; and it beats with unquenchable, unheeding, uninhibited love for you," Andy gasped, "And I cannot turn it off."
Miranda crushed their lips together. She needed to be closer, to taste, to take, to give, to possess and be possessed of this creature that had captured her soul. Andy reciprocated every move and motion. She allowed the love she felt for the editor to fill her and surround her. She knew Miranda would feel it. The words would come later, but right now she needed to expend the tightly coiled desire throbbing in her. They both needed to touch and feel and be in the moment.
Andy slid her hands up the outside of Miranda's thighs to grip her waist and pull her closer. She pushed the undoubtedly expensive skirt up not caring if it wrinkled or tore. Feeling Miranda's tongue lick at her lips made the journalist's brain short circuit. She opened her mouth to allow the editor entrance. Twin groans sounded in the room at the first touch of tongues.
The kisses were wet, heated and incendiary; being both the kerosene and match for their desire. The need for oxygen was the only thing that pulled them apart. Her lips free for a moment, Andy took the opportunity to kiss across Miranda's jaw and down her neck to the very sensitive spot she had found earlier when she still thought she was dreaming. The editor trembled, her center pulsing, at the attention the brunette was lavishing on her neck.
"Andrea," slipped as a litany from Miranda's lips, her hands balled in fists in the brunette's hair as she pressed the journalist's mouth harder against her skin. Small moans and whimpers filled the air. The sounds made Andy's blood burn and her center flood with wetness. Lost in a haze of arousal, Andy raised her hands to the collar of Miranda's shirt and, without thinking, pulled the shirt apart tearing through the buttons and revealing creamy white skin and beautiful breasts encased in black lace. The brunette's mouth watered. She ignored the tiny, niggling thought that the shirt she tore probably cost more than she made in two weeks, but looking at the sight before her she knew it was well worth it if she had to pay it. Flicking the front closure of the bra open as if she had practice undressing women, Andy immediately enveloped an already taut nipple with her lips and pinched the other with her hand. We can do slow and gentle next time, Andy thought.
Miranda moaned low and long at the feel of the journalist lapping at her nipples, hardening them to almost painful tightness. Needing more, the editor arched into Andy's mouth groaning and panting, her wings encircling them and pressing the brunette closer to her. The brunette's right hand traced down Miranda's waist and pelvis to the editor's pulsing core without preamble. Her left hand circled the editor's waist and brought her closer to the edge of the desk.
Using her thighs to open Miranda's knees further, Andy allowed her fingers to trace the editor over her very wet panties. Blue eyes snapped shut at the sensation. Air seemed to be in limited supply for the editor who gulped at it as if drowning. The journalist moved the flimsy material under her fingers and traced the editor's hot, wet slit. The fire in her blood burned through her inexperience and nervousness. Andy found Miranda's entrance and plunged in with two fingers. She groaned into Miranda's breast at the feel of velvety flesh enveloping her fingers. Apparently being too slow for the older woman's liking, the editor was already moving against her fingers setting the pace hard and fast; Andy accommodated her. The brunette's thumb found the editor's clit, and she pressed it incessantly, guaranteeing the experience would be short and explosive.
Miranda pulled Andy up to her lips, kissing her urgently. The brunette could feel the tightening of muscles around her fingers. She pushed in deeper, eager to see the editor fall apart in her arms. Her fingers accidentally encountered a rough patch of tissue on their outward swipe that made Miranda's breath hitch and stutter. Twisting and pushing her fingers deeper, she tried to find it again. There, she thought triumphantly as she pressed her fingers repeatedly against the tissue inside the editor. Miranda clenched hard around her fingers, her climax was quiet despite all the noise she was making before. Her body arched tightly while her arms, legs and wings held the brunette firmly against her.
Andy peppered Miranda's face with kisses as the editor came down from her orgasm. Then something as miraculous as the existence of angels happened between them. The journalist would later call it reverse empathetic sensitivity; but at the moment it seemed like a religious experience. A surge of pure, undiluted emotion hit Andy square in the chest. She gasped at its intensity; it left her breathless. She felt, momentarily, what Miranda felt for her. It was endless; it had no measurable breadth, depth, length or height. It was utterly beautiful. Tears slid down Andy's face, so overwhelming was the feeling washing over her.
"That is what flows through me for you with every beat of my heart," Miranda kissed her gently, unhurried but intense and burning. She slid off the desk without releasing Andy's lips. Her hands made quick work of unzipping the journalist's pants. Andy's knees buckled at the feel of Miranda's fingers moving into her jeans, under her drenched panties, through her very wet folds. The editor's wings supported the brunette, while one hand rubbed breasts and the other moved into Andy.
The journalist gasped as fingers slid in and out of her. She clumsily slid her fingers through Miranda's white mane and pulled her into a desperate kiss. Andy knew she would not last long, she was already running high off of seeing the editor orgasm and the feeling of euphoria that was still gripping her heart. Grinding down on Miranda's fingers, she felt the editor's palm press against her clit. Sparks of light were already exploding behind her eyelids. Pressing her forehead to Miranda's as she rode her hand, Andy could not help uttering the words that were on the tip of her tongue. "Miranda," she gasped for breath, "I love you." The last word of her confession came out as a keening cry as her world exploded.
Andy came down to Miranda murmuring endearments and peppering her face with butterfly kisses. As soon as she was able to move again, the brunette enveloped the editor in a tight hug. They just held each other for long minutes, not wanting to let the other go. "I should be dead right now," Andy spoke into the quiet room, "but here I am in your home, in your arms." She pulled back to look into sky blue eyes, she stared in wonder. "How did this happen?"
"We still have many things to discuss," Miranda said disentangling them and taking Andy's hand in her own. She led them out of the office and up the stairs without actually starting any sort of conversation.
"Shouldn't we finish our discussion, or start it," Andy asked not really wanting to talk at all but needing the reassurance they would finish the conversation somewhere along the line.
"We can finish that later," Miranda tugged the brunette through the threshold of her bedroom, "when we are well sated."
"No self-control," Andy laughed, eagerly following.
"I'm an angel," Miranda turned smiling eyes to the journalist, "not a saint."