She saunters into the outer office, a tray of Starbucks in her hand, and I can see her eyes flick towards me, even though my head is down and I am studiously analysing the figures for this month's budget. I try to ignore the scent of her perfume, sandalwood and white musk, as if this will help me block out her presence from my consciousness. I sneak a glance at her and almost groan out loud when I see that she is wearing those boots.
They are thigh high, and the length of her olive green dress means that there is a small strip of tantalising flesh that is revealed with each step that she takes. It's a warm day, and her dress is sleeveless, capped at the shoulder to perfectly accentuate her arms. I can see that she has been working out, because her physique has changed so much since she joined my staff.
I prickle uncomfortably with the idea that there is someone else out there that she is trying to look good for, and jealousy burns within me at this unknown person. I want to flay them alive for daring to even look at the woman I want so much to claim as my own.
Those Chanel boots in particular have tormented me since the first day that she became Nigel's project, and he gave her the makeover of the century. Who could have dreamed, that underneath those frumpy clothes and frizzy untamed hair, there was a natural beauty that could have graced the cover of Runway without question?
She takes off her coat and bag, hanging them in the small closet to the side of her desk, and then picks up the tray, walking confidently towards me as though she is not about to enter the dragon's lair. Her heels clicking along the floor incite such a feeling of anticipation in me, that my thighs clench together, in an effort to hide the effect that she has on me. It would not do for her to catch me squirming in my seat as she approaches the desk.
"Your coffee," she tells me redundantly, holding out the takeaway cup towards me. As has become our tradition, I take it from her directly, our fingers brushing, and I curse as I feel the familiar heat coursing through my cheeks. She gives me a knowing smile, and then turns on her heel and walks back to her desk.
I keep my head down, wishing I could reach to turn on the fan that sits on the corner of my desk but I know that it would be too obvious to her, and I don't want to let her win. I don't want to acknowledge the power that she has over me, even though we both know that it's there.
I am a powerful woman. I run a media empire and I am at the top of my game. I am 47 years old, I have two children and just as many ex-husbands. I have people quaking in front of me every day, practically throwing themselves to their knees in an attempt to gain favour and show willingness, and yet none of them has ever caught my eye.
No. It is this confident, overstepping, and rather obnoxious woman, who can be no older than 30, who creeps under my cool veneer. From the moment she was sent up from HR to meet me, she has managed to get under my skin, though at the time it was in the worst possible way. I employed her with nothing more in mind than the satisfaction that I would gain from knocking her down a peg or two, and stripping her of that arrogance.
I snort to myself and ignore the curious glance that she gives me from her desk. Not once in her employment have I ever been able to gain the upper hand. She is so far removed from what I am used to. My assistants are usually falling over themselves to please me, offering me their metaphorical necks in absolute submission to me and my whims, but not her.
This woman has done nothing but antagonise me since the moment I employed her, and she has me constantly feeling like I am playing catch up. Like I am always out of step with the music and everyone else that is dancing to it.
The day passes quickly, but I am aware, I think, of her glancing at me more often than usual. I discreetly look in the reflection of my monitor, to make sure my hair and make-up are still perfect. I have an image to maintain and though she may ruffle my feathers, neither she nor anyone else will ever know it.
At the end of the day, I am waiting for her to go home because I know how unsteady on my feet I will be if I have to walk past her after a day like today. A day when her very presence has teased me so unmercifully.
To my immense displeasure, she doesn't leave though, and I can hear the tapping of her pen against the desk, as she sits there idly. She is waiting.
For what?
"Andrea, you may leave now," I quietly command from my office, expecting her to jump to her feet and reach for her coat and bag.
She doesn't move though, and I hear myself huff at the sheer nerve of this girl. I may have been giving her permission, but she should know by now, after months in my employ, that this is as good as a command.
I listen for signs of movement, but all I can hear is the soft humming coming from her desk, as she just sits there, seemingly content to wait me out. I am not quite sure for what though, and it leaves me feeling equal parts intrigued and confused.
"Andrea, it's time for you to leave. Go home," I demand imperiously, and I know my tone is cold, but it's better than the alternative. This woman, this girl, must never know how her defiance makes my skin tingle and my blood run hot.
"I'm happy where I am, but thank you," comes her quiet reply, before the tapping and the humming continues once again. A flash of red passes in front of my eyes. Just who does she think she is? I have given her my instruction, a polite way of making my demand, which is more courtesy than I show most of my employees, and yet she still sits there.
I get to my feet and find myself stalking towards her, determined to physically throw her out if I have to. I approach her desk and she leans back in her chair and very slowly, deliberately, crosses one of her legs over the other, raising an eyebrow at me as if mocking my signature expression.
"Go home, Andrea." I dismiss her, in the coldest voice I can muster, despite the heat that is building to an inferno inside of me.
"I don't think you want me to, do you, Miranda?" She smirks then as she watches the shock and, much as I hate to admit it, the arousal, cross my face.
"Did I not make myself clear? Your working day is over. Go home." I turn my back on her and stride back into my office, but before I reach my desk, her hands are on my waist, and her arms are wrapping around me from behind. She tugs me flush against her body, and one hand moves to the side, down over my hip, holding me impossibly closer.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" I hiss, attempting to half-heartedly pull myself free.
"You might be the head bitch in charge at work, but you said it yourself, my working day is over," she murmurs in my ear, and her hot breath makes me shiver. I hate myself and I hate her as she snickers softly, letting me know that she felt my body's betrayal.
"Let me go," I try to demand, but I know my voice sounds weak to us both.
She releases me just enough to spin me around, and before I can react, her lips are on mine and she is kissing me. She is impossibly soft and yet her mouth is demanding and the way she nips at my lower lip is almost cruel, as it sends a jolt of desire straight through me.
I don't intend to, I mean to push her away, but my arms are up and around her neck before I realise what is happening and then I am kissing her back hungrily. Her tongue is insistent and my lips part to allow her entry, and then she is pushing me onto the desk, and stepping between my thighs.
She pauses in her assault and pulls back to look at me. I try my best to look composed but I know that this is an impossible task. My lipstick is smudged, my hair is mussed and we are both breathing heavily.
"I need to know that you want this," she tells me seriously.
I want to deny it.
I want to tell her that of course, I don't want her. That I don't need her. I know that she will not continue unless I speak though, because Andrea is nothing if not a woman with integrity.
I reach for her, pulling her against my lips and kissing her again, hoping that she will take the cue, and to my relief she does. She pushes my skirt further up my thighs and in one swift manoeuvre my La Perla thong is being dragged down my legs and being dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
She moves us to the couch, lays me down and covers my body with her own. Her lips are on mine once again, even as her devious hand is unbuttoning my blouse, and I am being revealed to her. Her face lights up as she pushes the flimsy material back off of my shoulders, and I see her staring at the flesh that she has exposed.
I want to shy away from her gaze. I want to cover myself up but I refuse to appear weak in front of this girl. I stare at her defiantly, "what are you waiting for?"
This is apparently the consent that she has been searching for, and all it takes for her to leap into action. She is rough, but careful as she guides me further up the couch, and pulls my legs over her shoulders. I have never been more grateful that I had a four seater couch brought into the office. The anticipation brings a flood of moisture as her hot breath ghosts over me, and I shiver as I see her inhale deeply.
"Fuck, you smell good," she tells me sincerely, as I squirm underneath her, desperate for her to touch me.
I will not beg, I will not plead. I am her boss and I will not submit to her, no matter how much I want to. I have my pride, and I intend to maintain it, regardless of the position I have now found myself in.
"I can guarantee I taste even better," I goad, attempting to coerce her into taking the next step, without the need to ask her to hurry up and take me.
She smirks, and I know at that moment that she can sense my desperation. My need for her has not gone unnoticed, and we both acknowledge the weight of this revelation.
She kisses the inside of my right thigh, and then the left, a little further up, and then back to the right, where she stays, sucking hard and marking me as hers. I am about to complain, but her mouth releases my flesh and moves up, hovering just above me.
Hey eyes flick up to mine once more, and I know that she is checking in, making sure that this is ok, and this action alone makes me feel more cared for and safe than I have ever felt before. I nod, and reach for her, tangling my fingers into her hair as I guide her down onto me.
Her tongue swipes languidly, gathering my desire and I nearly come apart when I hear her moan. She dips her tongue and teases my entrance and I feel my hips rocking against her. To my relief, as if she can read my mind, as if she knows I need more, she enters me swiftly with what I can feel must be three fingers.
"Harder, Andrea. Deeper," I try to demand, but I know she has heard my whimper and it is more of an entreaty than I had intended.
She does as I ask though and doesn't comment on it, choosing instead to zero in on my clitoris, circling it firmly with her tongue, until I can feel myself writhing underneath her in uncontrolled lust.
I can't last. The pleasure she is giving me is so intense that I can feel myself building higher and higher and before I know it I am being catapulted off of the edge and falling freely. I feel weightless like I am flying, and the only thing that is real to me at this moment is the touch of her hand as she soothingly strokes my stomach.
Andrea gently withdraws her other hand, and with a brief kiss to the inside of my thigh, she is standing, and holding out a hand to help me to my feet. I stand on shaky legs, and she bends down to help me put my thong back on, even as I am protesting.
"What about you?" I ask, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth.
"Decide what you want from me, Miranda. When you work it out, let me know. Either way, I no longer work here and my resignation is on my desk," is the only answer I get, and it is cryptic at best.
She turns around without another look in my direction, retrieves her coat and bag from the closet next to her desk, and walks down the corridor towards the elevators. I hear a 'ping' as the doors open, and then the realisation hits me that I have just let her walk out of my life.
Decide what I want from her? I want it all.
No one has ever made me feel like she does. I used to think that perhaps I hadn't met the right man yet, but now I realise it's more likely that I just hadn't met the right woman.
Most likely of all is that I just hadn't met her.
I know what I want and I know what I must do, and my cell is in my hand before I can second guess myself, and I am opening my messaging app.
"Dinner tomorrow at the townhouse? 7pm?"
She replies right away, efficient as ever.
"Sounds perfect, see you then."
I may have just lost the best assistant that has ever graced the halls of Runway, but I am confident that I have just gained something far more important.
I cannot allow myself to sabotage this. I will never make the same mistakes again. I vow to myself at this moment that she will always know just how important she is to me.
I will always be in love with her.