[9]

"Last fur of the season," Miranda said, before the doors had even closed. "It's getting too warm out." She hit the top button after I had pushed our button.

I looked at her, wondering exactly where the fur in question was. She wore a trench coat, tied, and perhaps a skirt and jacket beneath, or perhaps a dress; I couldn't tell. I tucked my phone away in preparation. She hadn't worn fur in the past few weeks without commanding me to touch it.

"What were you thinking," she asked suddenly. "When you touched my fur that time? The Fendi?"

I blushed. The first time I had touched one of Miranda's fur coats, I had been thinking about the woman herself, her skin, her face, her body, her eyes. I had been thinking about opening the fur; I had been thinking about the scent that she wore. I had been thinking about kissing her hands, her lips, her neck.

"Your hands were all over me," Miranda said quietly, but with relish, as if it titillated her, which it should, as it was an untruth. My hands had been only on her coat.

The few times Miranda towered over me, it was because I wore flats when she wore an outrageous heel. But she had never towered over me like I towered over her today. She, in her charming Tabitha Simmons pumps with the short, narrow heels – not even two inches. She might be as tall as me if I were barefoot. But I wore platforms: Miu Miu python slingbacks stacking at five point five. I wasn't just taller than her today; I was an amazon.

I felt emboldened, by her words, by the way she was looking at me. I stepped to her and untied the trench, her eyes on my face. I didn't untie it as her handmaid; I untied it as her pretend courtesan, pulling the sash firmly enough to cause her body to sway toward me. Her eyelashes fluttered, and then she leaned back against the cab wall.

"Later, you practically ran from my office and you didn't stop at your desk."

I didn't answer, but opened the trench, and glanced down as I held it open, and there was the fur, lining the inside. And her body, in a fitted, rather masculine blazer and skirt, and her ivory chest.

"Tell me what you were thinking about."

I held her gaze as I touched the fur close to her waist. "You," I said, stroking.

"That's your answer for everything, isn't it?" she asked contemptuously.

I closed my eyes, but the silkiness of the fur, the nearness of Miranda's body, the scent of her perfume, created a combination too heady for an elevator ride. I opened my eyes to find her staring at me, still.

"Pallas was killed because she was distracted," she said.

I looked down at my hands, caressing the fur close to her body, being careful not to touch her. "That's what I said, wasn't it?" I asked quietly.

"You said she let her guard down; there's a difference. One can lead to the other, but they aren't the same."

I looked once more into her eyes. "I stand corrected. You would know all about letting guards down."

"You would know all about distractions," Miranda said.

She was leaning, still, against the elevator wall. I twisted my fingers in the fur on either side of her waist. "Last fur," I said, and pulled her to me by the handfuls.

She gasped.

"Last hideous thing you wear?" I asked, and gave a lift of the eyebrow and a quirk of the lips that was a dead-on impression of her.

Her smile was quick and true.