** Warning for this chapter - dubious consent situation and het sex **
July 10, 1997 —
It was just over six months ago that I was named Fashion Editor at Runway. It's been hard work, but things are going smoothly. I've built relationships with designers and photographers, most notably the up-and-coming John Galliano, and I was able to secure a promotion for Nigel to Associate Art Director. We collaborate on every issue, and Runway has seen revenue increase both month-over-month and year-over-year.
My personal life has been challenging at times, but James and I have found ways to make it work. We chat online during the week using instant messenger, and that allows us to keep in touch despite our busy schedules. I spend six days a week in the office, but on Sundays, James and I have a standing brunch date. I usually stay at his place on Saturday night—sometimes we'll go out for a cocktail or dancing—and we spend Sunday mornings relaxing in bed. I realized the other day that I spend more waking hours in James' place than I do my own. It's a pity to waste so much in rent just to store my growing wardrobe.
My life is almost too perfect. I often wonder if James will propose to me. I know my answer will be yes, and I've even dropped hints his way. Of course, I am happy with my life as it stands. I couldn't imagine trying to plan a wedding on top of all the work I'm already doing for the magazine. In fact, I would probably rather have some quiet ceremony somewhere far away from work.
Miranda walked in to the office, berating her assistant over the phone for double-booking her appointments and causing her to miss her meeting with Donna Karan. She threw her bag down on the empty desk outside her office—her assistant was god knows where doing god knows what—and marched over to her desk, slamming the phone on the glass surface.
"Good morning to you, too," Nigel said.
Miranda's head shot over to the other side of her office, where Nigel was sitting on the sofa with Donna, reviewing some of her latest designs.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Miranda said, rushing over. "My assistant double-booked me and—" she paused to take a deep breath. "My apologies, but thank you for coming by."
"Not a problem, Miranda. Nigel was sharing some of the artistic inspiration for the September issue, and I think I have the perfect dress for the cover," Donna said, showing Miranda the sketchpad.
Miranda reviewed the design and agreed. It was gorgeous and would perfectly tie-in the other designs she already had lined up. "When will it be ready? I was hoping to have Demarchelier do a cover shoot in the next two weeks."
"It's finished, actually. Come by the studio on Monday to see it in person," she said, taking her sketchbook back and standing up.
"Wonderful, we certainly will," Miranda said as she shook her hand. "Again, my apologies, but I'm glad you were able to sit down with Nigel."
"Of course. Ciao!" she called, heading out towards the elevators with Nigel.
Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose and walked back over to her desk. She was wearing a black strapless minidress beneath a floral Versace jacket that came down almost to her knee. It wasn't very heavy, but she had worked herself up into a sweat in the past few minutes, so she took the jacket off and gently draped it over her chair.
"Hubba hubba," Nigel said, returning to her office. "Hot date?"
"No. Stress sweat," she said, rolling her eyes. "Find some models for this cover shoot. Let's check the weather and aim for Wednesday or Thursday—that will give us enough time to make any changes."
"Will do, boss," he said. "Oh, and the assistant wanted me to tell you Richard Bannister wanted to see you in his office as soon as you arrived."
"Great," Miranda said, rolling her eyes. "He's either going to chastise me for the third quarter budget I submitted, or give me another promotion."
"Ha, I wouldn't put money on the latter, although…with that dress…" Nigel said.
"Oh shut up. Wish me luck," she said as she pressed the elevator button to go up to the 39th floor.
"Hi Julie, Richard wanted to see me?" she asked, stopping at his secretary's desk.
"Oh yes, just a moment," she said, poking her head in his office. "He'll see you now," she said, holding the door open for Miranda and shutting it behind her.
"Ah, Miranda, just the person I wanted to see," he said, walking around his desk and towards the door. He turned the lock and asked, "Would you like a drink?"
"No," she said. "It's 9:30."
"I realize that, it's just, a drink might make our meeting go more smoothly," he said, pouring a glass of vodka and handing it to her.
Her eyes widened as she accepted the glass. Her hand was visibly shaking as she quickly downed it, the clear liquid burning her throat as it seeped down. She handed the glass back. "What was it you wanted to meet about?"
"There's this matter that, uh, requires your attention," he said, leaning against his desk and unzipping his pants and exposing himself. "You've clearly proven yourself adept at handling whatever situation comes your way, and, well, if you're still looking to be promoted to Editor in Chief at the end of the year, well, you are going to need to produce more satisfying results."
"And if I don't?" she asked.
"If you don't, I can replace you like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "I could have you blacklisted for the way you went about things, coming on to me and such, and you would never work in publishing again—here or abroad," he said.
Miranda took a deep breath. She walked over to the side table and poured herself another glass of vodka, and then another. Once she felt the alcohol sizzling through her veins, she turned around and looked him in the eye. "What do you want?"
"I want to see you on those pretty knees of yours," he said.
Miranda took a deep breath and kneeled in front of him, staring at the carpet.
"Use your hands—and your mouth."
She reluctantly took hold of his cock, roughly stroking as she brought it to her lips. The quicker she got him off, the sooner she could leave. She felt his hand behind her head, holding her in place as she bobbed her head, licking and sucking as he grew hard against her tongue. Eager to be done with him, she cupped his balls tightly and stroked the base of his cock until his hips bucked off the desk and he emptied his hot semen down her throat.
Richard let go of her hair and leaned back against the desk. Miranda sat back on her heels, wiping the corners of her lips with her hand, then wiping her hand on her knee, knowing it would be easier to clean her skin than remove a stain from the Versace dress.
"Are we finished?" Miranda asked.
"Not at all. Come here," he said, reaching out his hand to help her up. He put his hands on her hips and she quickly jumped away.
"Not the dress. Do not touch this dress," she hissed.
"Push it down," he said, pointing at the top of the dress where it rested along her chest.
She did, and pushed her bra down with it. He reached over and cupped her breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples as she struggled to stay quiet. She practically choked, swallowing a moan when he twisted her left nipple particularly roughly.
"Oh, you like that, huh?" he asked. "Come here, and lift the dress up," he said, tugging her over to his desk chair. She pulled up her dress so now it was bunched around her waist like a belt, and he sat in the chair, tugging her towards him.
"Wait," she said.
"Changing your mind about your future, Miranda?"
She took a deep breath. "I'm not on the pill. I don't want to get pregnant."
"Ah, just a minute," he said, reaching into one of his drawers and producing a condom. "Will this work?"
"You tell me. You do this often?" she spat.
Richard slapped her across the face, then quickly unwrapped the rubber and sheathed his manhood. He sat back in the chair and pulled Miranda on top of him. "You think so highly of yourself, don't you?" he hissed.
She braced her hands on the back of his chair as he guided her hips onto his lap. He reached around and squeezed her ass as his mouth went to her nipple, sucking and biting, and making her squirm. Her hips bucked as she felt his cock against her clitoris, and she hated that she was physically aroused by the contact.
"Well, you're nothing but a warm, wet pussy."
Miranda closed her eyes and tried to think of something else—anything—but all that came to mind was James. Would she ever be able to explain this to him? And if she did, would he understand that she couldn't help it? That she needed to secure her career, and that she wished it were him instead of Richard? No, she decided. He could never know.
She realized the vodka was finally kicking in as her movements became less her own and more part of the haze surrounding her. Richard guided her off his lap and turned her around, palming her breasts as he pushed her forward onto his desk. She moved aside the folders and cigar box and laid her head on the cool wood surface, reaching her arms above her head to grip the edge.
"I want to hear you beg," he said.
He pressed himself inside of her, and she must have screamed, because suddenly his hand covered her mouth. He said things to her that she could no longer hear. Her blood was pumping so quickly through her body, she felt her pulse in her ears. He continued thrusting, harder and harder, each time, crushing her against the beveled edge of the desk. She was on the edge of orgasm, fighting back and willing herself not to be affected by him in this way.
"Tell me what you want, Miranda," he said. "But keep your voice down."
"Editor—fuck," she said. "Oh god, Richard. I want—unggh"
"What do you want?"
"Editor in Chief," she said quickly.
He reached up and pulled her hands down, holding them behind her back. "No. What do you want from me," he said. He was inside her all the way, and he began to circle his hips, grinding her clitoris against the edge of the desk.
"Fuck me, oh god. I need—I need to come. Make me come."
He took his hand from her wrists and grasped her hips, thrusting in and out until he felt her muscles squeezing him hard. And then they relaxed.
She lost track of how long they'd been there, like this. She imagined he wouldn't last much longer, and was relieved when he finally pulled out and let her wrists go.
"Ohhhh, fuck," she moaned.
"Did you like that, Miranda?" Richard asked, taking a tissue and cleaning them up.
She ignored his question entirely and took a deep breath.
"Answer me," he said, grabbing her wrist.
"Of course, wasn't it obvious?" she said. Her brain was telling her to stop and push him away, but her body was on fire. She pushed herself up from the desk and stepped to the side, pulling her underwear up and carefully fixing her dress. "I trust you will keep your word," she said, running her fingers through her hair.
He nodded and walked her to the door, unlocking and opening it. "Keep up the good work, Miranda," he said, loud enough for Julie, his secretary, to hear.
"Thank you, Richard," she said, quickly making her way to the elevator. The whole way down, thinking of what just happened, made her stomach suddenly unsettle. When the elevator doors opened on Runway's floor, she made a beeline down to her office. She stepped into her private bathroom and shut the door, locking it, before lunging for the toilet.
She sat there for a while, next to the toilet, her head resting on her outstretched arm, thinking over what had just happened. She was disgusted with herself, but if it meant becoming the first female Editor in Chief of Runway before she turned forty, maybe it was worth it. It had to be worth it.
A soft knock at the door stirred her from her thoughts.
"Miranda, sweetie, are you okay?" Nigel asked. "You've been in there a while."
She pushed herself up. "Yes, I'm fi—" she began, but her stomach suddenly flip-flopped and she lunged at the toilet again, expelling any remaining fluids from her system.
"Miranda, open the door," he said, trying the doorknob and realizing it was locked. "It's just me."
She stood on shaky legs and splashed some water on her face before unlocking the door.
"Oh, honey," he said, "you need to go home and rest. Let me call for a car, okay?"
Miranda nodded and hung her head while Nigel helped her to one of the chairs in her office and held out her jacket for her. She buttoned up the jacket, as if it would shield her from the outside world.
A few minutes later, Nigel returned with her bag, handing her an oversized pair of Prada sunglasses.
"Oh, I can't wear these," she said.
"You look like hell, and you're a fashion editor of a leading publication. Whatever you wear becomes the trend. Just own it," he said, putting them on her. He helped her from the chair and to the elevators.
"Really, Nigel, I'll be fine."
"No. Don't worry about anything here—I'll cover it. Go tuck yourself in bed, and I'll come by after work to check on you, okay?"
She nodded and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Nige."
When she arrived home, she carefully stepped out of the designer dress and threw her underwear in the wastebasket. She took a hot shower, but even the scalding water couldn't help wash away how she felt. Still, she convinced herself it was necessary.
Nigel came by that night, and she was curled up on the couch. He brought some soup, which she didn't feel like eating, and after seeing that she was alive and resting, he left.
Later, James called. He had been busy preparing data for their second quarter earnings report, and explained that he had tried reaching her at the office but her assistant said she went home sick.
"I'm fine, really. It's just a bug. Probably something I ate last night," she said.
"Let me come over?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine," she insisted.
On Friday, she woke up feeling even more disgusted, but knew she couldn't play sick forever. She stopped at a clinic for some birth control, then went into the office, and found that focusing on her job was actually a blessed distraction, as long as she didn't run into Richard.
As she left the building at a halfway decent time that evening, she was surprised to find James waiting for her by the curb.
"Hi, what are you doing here?" she said, greeting him with a quick kiss on the cheek.
"I missed you, and thought maybe I can convince you to come with me tonight and let me take care of you. Can you take tomorrow off?" he asked.
She quickly pulled out her calendar and flipped through the pages. "Yes—I think. I only have internal meetings. Let me just call my assistant—"
"I already took care of that," he said, taking her hand. "She's rescheduling everything for next week. Shall we?" He opened the car door for her.
She smiled and climbed in the back seat and he followed soon after. They rode for a few minutes in silence, as Miranda's mind chased circles around exactly what she did not want to discuss with him.
Without saying a word, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. She started crying, quietly at first, but then much louder once he kissed the top of her head.
"Talk to me, Miranda," he said. "Let me help you."
"No, I can't," she said. "It's just stress—I'll be fine."
"I hate seeing you like this. I feel so helpless."
"You are helping right now, just holding me like this," she said. "I'm sorry I probably ruined your shirt with this mascara."
"Don't worry about it. Look, when we get home, I'll draw you a nice, relaxing bath, then I'll slip out and make something for us to eat. Will that be okay?" he asked.
She nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist for the rest of the ride home.
After a delicious dinner, they curled up on the couch to watch a movie, and within minutes, Miranda was asleep on his shoulder. He couldn't figure out what was going on with the woman, so he held her and took care of her
When the movie finished, they both got up and got ready for bed. "James," she said quietly. "Can we, um…you know, tonight?"
His eyes widened and he took her hand. "Of course, I just thought maybe you weren't feeling well?"
"No. I mean, I'm fine now," she said, reaching for his boxers and tugging them down. "I want to taste you," she said as she dropped to her knees.
Again, his eyes widened and he backed up to sit on the edge of the bed as Miranda stroked and licked him.
When she finished, she climbed onto his lap and pulled her top off, directing his hands to her breasts as she kissed him. He reached for her ass, and before he could take it any further, she crawled off the bed and stood, her feet on the floor and her body splayed out over the comforter. "Please, James," she said, reaching over and squeezing his hand.
He stood behind her and gently caressed her shoulders, trailing kisses all the way down her back before kneeling and pressing a kiss to her folds as she moved her legs farther apart. He brought her to orgasm twice—once with his tongue, once with his fingers—before she begged him to go inside her.
When he was finished, he took her in his arms and laid her on the bed carefully before crawling in after her. His hands touched her everywhere, while his mouth focused on hers, kissing her lips and softly nibbling at her neck.
Miranda returned his kisses as her own hands explored his sweaty body, knowing he was sweating for her and her alone. She needed that—needed to feel him after the earlier situation at Runway. A tear escaped her eye, and James suddenly pulled her into a loving embrace, which only caused additional tears to fall.
She cupped his cheek and kissed him. Gazing into his eyes, she said, "I love you, James. I don't know why I've waited so long to tell you that, but I do love you, and I hope you realize that."
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, too, and actually, this is perfect timing," he said, sitting up and reaching over to the nightstand. He opened the antique cigar box and pulled out a smaller box before nervously turning back to the woman.
"Oh my god!" she gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks.
James took the ring from the box and held it up as he reached for Miranda's hand. "I love you, too, and I'd like to marry you," he said. "What do you say?"
"Yes! A million times yes," she said, lunging at him to kiss him and wrap her arms around him, knocking the ring from his hand in the process.
"Hey, wait," he said, picking the ring back up from where it fell on the mattress. "This was really hard to pick out. They all looked the same until Nigel pointed out things like the setting and the band," he said.
"You—you asked him to help?" she said. Her heart was melting at the thought of him asking her best friend for advice on the subject. They never really got to know each other well, but she was overjoyed to learn they could compromise for her benefit. She quickly slid the ring onto her finger and kissed James once more. "This is perfect. I am so in love with you James Priestly," she said, hugging him tightly.
He reached over and turned out the light before settling back against the pillows. "Are you opposed to getting a place together?" he asked, softly stroking her shoulder blade. "I mean, now that we're engaged and all."
"I would love to stop paying that horrendous rent for my apartment, just so I can sleep and shower there," Miranda said. "I spend more time here already."
"Okay, well for starters, you can move in here if you'd like. But, I was thinking more along the lines of us buying a home together, with space for guests—"
"—and parties," Miranda added.
"—and a massive walk-in closet for our fashion editor," he said.
"—and children," she said, more as a question than a statement of fact.
"Yes," he said, kissing her softly. "Plenty of room for children, and a garage for the minivan."
"Do you want to stay in the city?"
"I think so, what about you? Where would the future Mrs. Priestly like to live?"
"First, I want it known that you are the only one ever allowed to call me 'Mrs.' okay? When anyone else says it, it makes me feel old. And I would like to stay in the city if we can. Maybe my dream walk-up in the upper east side?" she said, batting her eyes.
"Anything for you, my love," he said. "Sky's the limit."