NOT FRIENDS
They might be having sex, but that's all it was – because they were definitely not friends, Miranda thought faintly as she came down from the shattering high of her third brain melting orgasm in as many hours.
Yes, it was true they saw each other outside of work but only because that was necessary to have frantic, mind-blowing sex in places least likely to end in anyone's dismissal or public shaming. Which meant no more work quickies – much to Andrea's disappointment. Once was enough.
Miranda paused, blowing a sticky cluster of white hair out of her eyes, as she recalled the woeful pout on the younger woman's face when she'd laid down that dictum. A puppy caught in a rain storm sprang to mind.
She'd live. It's not like Miranda had cut them off entirely. Far from it. Every opportunity they got, at a discreet hotel, the townhouse or Andrea's apartment, they were at it like rabbits. Well-skilled, superbly dressed rabbits.
Because Miranda had outlawed Hanes, too. There were limits as to what she should have to endure in her downtime, and peeling more pale blue cheap underwear down Andrea's legs was a crime against beauty. And Miranda, above all else, worshipped beauty. So, she'd acquired various pieces of lingerie that were more befitting sliding along those smooth, glorious thighs, to better enjoy the experience of undressing her assistant.
Now when she slipped lacy black La Perla off those long legs, they both exhaled slowly and Miranda could find no fault in the subtle whisper of the material as she dropped it to the floor. By that point, her nose and lips and tongue were busily heading north again, to sample what she'd uncovered.
Andrea was a spectacular canvas to undress, to touch and to bring to climax. The first time Miranda had tasted her, barely four days from the first time they'd ever touched, the fashion editor thought she might orgasm spontaneously. It was such a sweet nectar she found buried between a soft mound of neatly trimmed dark wet curls. Miranda had privately vowed to sample it again at every available opportunity.
But spending so much time with the girl who had begun to make her tremble just by slipping her fingers inside the waistband of her Bill Blass pants (The Paris Collection), did not mean they were friends. Heavens no. Fucking (no matter how fulfilling and frenzied and fabulous and orgasm inducing it was) did not equal friendship.
It's true that Andrea had begun stocking Miranda's favorite brand of coffee at her apartment in case she stopped by. It was also true the girl sometimes offered, instead of sex, a massage after a particularly exhausting day. Miranda could lie on Andrea's sheet tousled bed for hours as those deadly, talented fingers scribbled slick oiled patterns across her back as Miranda murmured incoherent nonsense about how acceptable it all was.
It was even true, if she was being perfectly honest, that she sometimes tolerated Andrea letting off steam on those rare nights a month when her assistant had gotten off the phone from her parents. Parents who, for reasons unfathomable to Miranda, had found their daughter's "loveless" life dedicated to Runway wanting and seemed to enjoy telling her so in minute, sarcastic detail.
So what was wrong with watching Andrea grumble and rant about her family while Miranda stroked her hair or back and held her and said nothing. She was merely ensuring her most satisfying bed partner to date stayed loyal, compliant and available.
Nothing more.
And when that ridiculous fry cook tried to start something up again and then became a pest when Andrea's firm no was perceived as a "maybe", Miranda sneered at all the appropriate junctures in her assistant's outraged monologues and allowed her to raid her emergency double chocolate ice cream in the back of her freezer.
And if Miranda had subsequently made a few discreet calls to see that the annoying man-child never worked in any kitchens in New York ever again, it was hardly a friendly gesture. More like, protecting her interests. She hardly wanted her adorable bed-warmer getting ideas of moving on.
None of that meant anything. And it did not make them friends.
Miranda exhaled and found a hand venturing across her skin to cup her pale, naked breast. Fingers gave the nipple a playful tweak. She heard Andrea's sleep-heavy voice murmur into her side: "The girls asked me to go to their soccer game on Saturday. I'd love to – unless you have any objections? I think Caro's starting to be a pretty talented midfielder."
Miranda blinked. Well. Just because she and Andrea weren't friends didn't mean she should deny her daughters their most avid supporter. Andrea had taken to coaching them a little on weekends because it was a sport she'd loved in college.
"No objections," she said back with a satisfied hum.
The hand on her chest rubbed a little firmer, gauging her interest in another round. She smirked into the darkness. The woman really was insatiable. She felt her nipple harden and pucker, and an answering clench of interest between her legs.
"I know you have that meeting tomorrow with Irv. It's not too early, though," Andrea said hopefully, giving Miranda's nipple a suggestive flick.
"Not too early," Miranda agreed. "But I think I should get some sleep anyway." She glanced at the clock. It was late. Far too late.
It wasn't being friendly that made her offer quietly: "Stay if you like. It's too late for the subway."
" 'Kay."
Andrea hadn't even stopped to think about her answer. Miranda wondered what that meant.
The hand gently cupped Miranda's breast and faintly twitched. Miranda sighed in contentment. "Donatella asked if I wished to bring someone to her benefit tomorrow night," the older woman said before she'd engaged her censor button.
The hand stopped moving instantly and the fashion editor frowned. She cycled back through the conversation and realised what she had just proposed.
"You want me to be your date?" Andrea squeaked – for there was no other word for such an unholy sound. Miranda almost shuddered at the absurd word.
"I said no such thing," she growled. "My 'plus one'," she suggested in a strangled voice. Which probably sounded just as bad.
The hand playfully slapped her stomach which meant Andrea clearly agreed there was little difference.
Miranda cleared her throat and tried again. "I just felt it would be easier to attend the dinner because we could pick up the girls from their father's place nearby afterwards, and you could stay over and then go directly to soccer on Saturday. It was a logistics issue, nothing more. But if you wish to layer it with other ridiculous connotations..."
Miranda's lips pursed together and she strongly regretted ever making the offer. She held her breath and wondered how to fix this, this silly misunderstanding. She could probably retract the invitation right now…
"Andrea ..." she started in a low tone.
"No, no, that's good, it's fine. Very practical," Andrea muttered. "Um... What should I wear?"
"The sky blue from Dior would be acceptable," Miranda said immediately, not willing to concede she'd given this far more thought than she'd care to admit.
"The one with the deep vee bustline? And the intricate embroidered scroll on the hip?"
"Yes."
"The one that kind of matches the de La Renta dress you picked out last week to wear?"
Miranda swallowed.
"Well not matches," Andrea corrected hurriedly. "Um, complements it?"
The fashion editor glared into the darkness unable to believe she hadn't noticed that the two dresses she had in mind did actually seem to go with each other. As though she'd purposefully planned it that way. Which she hadn't.
She absolutely hadn't.
"I suppose," she admitted reluctantly.
"Um, Miranda, what ... ?"
Miranda's nostrils flared. She tensed. She should have realised Andrea would make some ridiculous leap like this. Ruin it all with some romantic notions or something appalling that absolutely could not stand. If she finished that sentence, that would be it.
"Um…" Andrea continued and then petered out. "Never mind."
Smart girl. Miranda smiled pleasantly at her ceiling and exhaled silently in relief. She knew she kept her around for a reason. A variety of them to be honest.
And it was certainly not because they were friends. No, no. Not that.