Miranda isn't entirely sure how the hell they made it to her guest room. Though she does know that she is about to do something sinful, so she sure as hell isn't going to do it in her marital bed.
Andrea is soft beneath her fingers, giving in a way that Miranda has never experienced. Her breaths are coming in pants, and her head is tilted, offering up the smooth expanse of her neck to Miranda's soft kisses, wet licks. Miranda has her backed up against the door, has half a mind to pull back, ask if this is okay. She is incredibly aware of how wrong this is.
But Andrea's fingers are sure as they unbutton her blouse, as they slip beneath the straps of her bra, as they pull aside her clothing. Andrea's voice is clear when she commands, "Off," and tugs at Miranda's trousers.
They tumble into bed gloriously naked, and for the first time in at least a decade, Miranda is confident in her body, despite the vast age difference between them.
Andrea's chocolate irises are mere rings, her pupils blown wide, her gaze half-lidded and appreciative. She licks at the stretch marks on Miranda's belly, noses down the unruly patch of white hair between her thighs, inhales the scent of her sharply, and dives in.
Miranda doesn't restrain herself. She curls her fingers roughly in brown hair, holds that tongue against her viciously. Andrea, far from complaining, chuckles against her clit and licks her through her orgasm until Miranda is just about to pull her away, she is so unbearably sensitive.
But Andrea just dips farther down, laps up the little gush of come she's coaxed out, cleans her lips with her tongue, and kisses Miranda's thighs before she comes up, pausing to tongue at her belly button and nip at the underside of her breasts. She kisses Miranda languidly, lets her entire body serve to tether Miranda to the bed, is perfectly content to play with Miranda's hair as she recovers.
And just when Miranda has caught her breath and intends to flip them over, Andrea rolls off her to plant bare feet onto carpet.
Intellectually, it is undeniably a rejection. Emotionally, it doesn't feel like one.
"Just a second," Andrea says, like she knows exactly what Miranda is thinking. She pads over to the mini fridge, pulls out a water bottle, and tosses it at Miranda. "Hydrate." Miranda cracks open the plastic and does, watching Andrea pad over to their discarded clothes and pick through until she's located Miranda's coat. She checks one pocket and then the other, finally coming up with Miranda's Blackberry, which she tosses onto the bed. "Messages," she says, then finds her own phone. "Life, then sex."
She climbs back onto the bed and steals the half-finished bottle from Miranda, who groans.
"Fuck life," Miranda mutters, though she grabs her phone as Andrea chuckles around the bottle. "Oh, for god's sake. I've only been gone two hours." She frowns at the half-dozen missed calls from Nigel and has already hit dial before she thinks perhaps she shouldn't.
Andrea quickly finishes sending off a text and waves off Miranda's look. She finishes the water bottle, chucks it into the bin, and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door only enough not to be seen.
"Miranda!" Nigel's harried voice startles her.
What happened to hellos?
She half-listens to Nigel's complaints and is mildly surprised to find she takes no issue with the fact that she can hear Andrea peeing.
Nigel is droning on animatedly about some grave problem. Andrea is humming as she washes her hands.
She returns to the bedroom with a damp washcloth, smirking at the mumbled grousing Miranda didn't even realize she was doing. She's still humming as she swipes gently over Miranda's groin.
Miranda's not entirely sure what the point is—she's immediately wet again at the tenderness of it. And it's obvious that Andrea notices, because she chuckles when Miranda feels heat trickling out of her.
Perhaps Andrea realizes the futility of the cloth too, because she throws it back into the bathroom—somehow makes a perfect shot into the sink.
She turns back to Miranda, her eyes even darker than before, and grabs Miranda's free hand. She closes it into a fist and pulls her index and middle finger back out. It's a second before Miranda realizes what her intention is, and then Andrea is sinking onto her fingers, hot and wet and so, so soft.
Miranda's gaze jumps back and forth between Andrea's face, showcasing her pleasure, and her own fingers, sliding in and out of pink, puffy lips.
Andrea sets a slow, deep pace, sighs contentedly with every thrust. Miranda is suddenly not listening to Nigel at all.
Andrea is holding her wrist in place, so Miranda can do nothing but curl her fingers slightly and watch, enraptured, as Andrea uses her for her own pleasure. It doesn't take long for Andrea to come, jerking involuntarily on Miranda's fingers, lips locked in a perfect, silent O.
She's breathtaking.
Miranda drops the phone and swiftly pulls Andrea down into a sloppy kiss, causing them both to fall back onto the bed none too gently.
Andrea pulls away too quickly, gasping for breath, and Miranda punishes her need for air with a sharp nip to her collar bone. It's extremely satisfying that this causes Andrea's breath to stutter.
"You like it rough, hmm?" Miranda smirks.
"Dunno," Andrea manages between pants, "Never had it rough before."
Miranda's brain pauses for a second—it would be all too easy to get lost in the fact that this is wrong. But Andrea has said it so plainly, so guilelessly. "Want to try?" Miranda offers.
Andrea laughs. "Can I catch my breath first?"
Miranda doesn't bother to say no. She tosses her phone—finally silent of Nigel's whining—back into the pile of clothes and flips them over, gathering Andrea's wrists above her head, pinning them down. "Don't move."
It's a matter of seconds to grab a silk scarf from her overflow closet.
"Okay?" she asks once she's straddling Andrea's thighs again, scarf taut between her hands.
Andrea bites her lip around a moan, nods quickly, sharply, lifts her wrists enough to help Miranda along.
This is unthinkably worse than wrong, Miranda realizes, gazing down at the pliant, open body at her mercy.
But she shrugs internally, takes a hard nipple between her teeth, and bites down, adding pressure until Andrea's hips buck up against her. She makes an uncalculated, haphazard design of bruises and teeth marks along Andrea's smooth torso, careful not to leave anything that won't be covered in clothes later. Andrea bucks and pants and moans beneath her as she presses her nails sharply into skin, hard enough to leave little half-moon crescents.
By the time she is satisfied with her handiwork, Andrea is begging for relief.
She slips her hand around Andrea's neck, squeezes hard enough to cut off the moans, realizes she may have made a grave error almost immediately as Andrea struggles against her, eyes wide.
She pulls back instantly, and they stare at each other for a terrifying moment. So wrong, Miranda thinks.
And then, Andrea croaks, "Again."
Miranda is petrified. But she does it again, hard as before. She can see the fear in those brown eyes, the tension in the body beneath her. But Andrea doesn't struggle.
Miranda counts in her head. One to ten, relaxes her hold enough for Andrea to take a breath, grips again. Andrea melts into the bed, relaxes entirely, gazes up at Miranda with so much trust it takes Miranda's breath away.
They repeat this several times. Ten counts, one breath, ten counts, one breath.
And then, Andrea spends an allowed breath to demand, "Inside," and Miranda grins.
She thrusts three fingers in with no trouble, sets a brutal rhythm, shortens her count to seven. She makes damned sure Andrea comes at the start of a new count, watches greedily as the body beneath hers shudders for those seven seconds and then collapses onto the bed, spent.
She smirks as tremors continue to run through Andrea's body and peppers soft kisses over Andrea's bruised breasts.
Eventually, when things have calmed, Andrea chuckles, "Rough. Yes."
Miranda grins, and they both fall into a fit of laughter. When they sober, Miranda rolls onto the other side of the bed, coaxes Andrea up enough to pull the sheets over them. They settle facing each other, not quite touching, and doze off.
When Miranda awakens, day has turned to night.
She takes in the way the moonlight peeks in around the curtains to illuminate a sliver of Andrea's peaceful face. She feels no sense of time, has no idea how long she's been gazing when Andrea stirs, lazily blinking sleep away.
Intellectually, Miranda knows they have much to discuss. Emotionally, she knows that nothing has really changed.
"It would be awesome," Andrea hedges, "If you'd get me water."
Miranda rolls her eyes, rolls off the bed, and tosses a new, cold bottle at Andrea's prone form. Of course, Andrea catches it effortlessly, gulping of it furiously as Miranda slips back into bed.
"Share," Miranda says, stealing the bottle when it's half-drunken.
She sips while Andrea stretches, the sliver of moonlight highlighting the bruises covering her stomach.
Andrea reads her mind: "Gonna be sore for days."
Miranda grins. "Good."
"You're quite the sadist. Although I suppose most people would guess that about you."
Miranda shrugs. She doesn't care what most people think. "You're quite the masochist. You really didn't know?"
"I've had fantasies. Never a partner to try with."
"Hmm."
"Mm." Andrea yawns wide.
Miranda rolls her eyes. This girl could hibernate an entire winter and wake up still sleepy. "I swear you have a problem."
"Nuh uh," Andrea argues, stifling a second yawn. "It's just a fucking wonder that you aren't more tired all the time."
"Discipline. You should try some."
"Nope."
Andrea burrows back into the sheets and reaches over to drape Miranda's arm over her stomach.
Miranda sighs and obligingly slides closer.