By Scribes and Scrolls

A/N: OK be warned this chapter is like 99% NSFW. :)


She knocks on my suite's door at exactly ten in the evening. I pause a moment to collect myself, because this is ridiculous, this night, this fantasy. These things do not come true in real life, even for one accustomed to having outlandish expectations met. My mind has been all over the place from the moment I saw her earlier, from the exact second she'd agreed to my bold suggestion she meet me here. To conclude our "unfinished business".

I barely heard a word uttered since by Nigel or Emily (the new one - who can remember her name? It's only been four months). I never noticed the faces of those around me but I'm certain I must have greeted dignitaries and kissed the air next to collars and necks at appropriate junctures.

But for the remaining hour I watched her from the corner of my eye, swirling in and out of social circles, welcomed and clasped to the metaphoric breasts of the glitterati - fawned over by men and women alike. It wasn't just her new-found writing fame or her natural beauty that had them flocking to her. She has a charm and a warmth I will never possess in a lifetime of trying. That's if I wanted it; I certainly do not.

Right now there's only one thing I want. And she's now at my door.

I touch my hair, feeling the faint crinkle of hairspray and, reassured, turn the door handle.

God. She just ... How does she...?

She takes my breath away. What a cliche, but so help me, it's true.

I smile, just enough to convey my appreciation, not enough to give her a shock, and step back gesturing her to come inside.

The door is closed, with a Do Not Disturb sign affixed outside and locked. (One cannot be too sure.) I've already instructed the front desk to hold my calls, turned off my cell and threatened my Runway entourage that only a catastrophic event involving my two teenage girls will be considered acceptable grounds for interrupting me tonight.

"Emily" whatshername nodded numbly, the girl's eyes darting all about in confusion. Nigel's instantly indifferent expression and his pointed focus on the chandelier seemed far too knowing for my liking. Well, to be fair, he had caught me (at least three times) wandering my eyes up the curves of my former assistant.

Wisely for both their career prospects, neither asked questions.

My eye slides indolently over Andrea's form once more. She is delectable. I force myself not to smack my lips. I am not, after all, a 15-year-old teenaged boy. Although I'm not entirely sure my suddenly tingling body got that memo.

She stands to one side, hands clasped at the front of that silver Valentino vision, eyes dark and full of desire. I realise when my eyes finally lift higher that she is staring at my clothing.

Ah yes. I changed into the robe. The grey, silk one from *that* night.

"Well, you did say we had unfinished business," I murmur with a tug of my lips, eyeing her suggestively from under my sweep of hair.

Andrea smiles, eyes dancing. "Yes," she says breathily. "I certainly did."

My body is aching at being this close. How can she be so poised at a time like this? Where has that panicked creature gone who would fling herself up and down stairs for me in her pursuit of my perfect coffee? Not that I want her back. She is a girl. Tonight I'm in the presence of a woman, and I must say the improvement is in both of our interests.

Now, God. Just look at her.

"You're beautiful, Andrea,'' I say, finally finding my voice. "The passing years have suited you."

"You look," she begins, tilting her head, and slowly scraping her gaze across my form like fingertips, "exactly the same."

I lift my eyebrows. Hardly. I see in the mirror each morning the extra lines I have to bury under make-up, the tiny sun spots on my hands I now hide with gloves when possible, a fatigue in my eyes that never entirely leaves me after the unrelenting grind of being at the peak of my game for decades.

She takes in my incredulity and her eyes warm. She looks at me directly, but softer this time. "I mean, you look like a queen. You always did and still do. You are magnificent. I loved seeing you in your gown tonight. Givenchy, right?"

I nod, somewhat surprised she'd still be able to spot a label given she barely could as my assistant.

"Some things do stick," Andrea says with a self-deprecating smirk. "And while you were perfection owning that ballroom tonight, my favorite look was always the one you're wearing now."

She steps forward and suddenly runs her hands down the lapels of my grey robe. "This is the look I think of when I miss you. It's what you were wearing when you were thinking of me in ... an intimate way. Because you were, weren't you? The night in Paris - you considered saying yes to more."

She didn't phrase it as a question so I considered just leaving her statement unanswered and salvaging my pride. If it had been anyone else having the presumption to speak to my thoughts or feelings, they'd be turfed outside already with my indignant snort ringing in their ears.

But this is Andrea. The one I have ached for for five years and two months. Normal rules no longer apply. I consider what she has asked. The night she speaks of - truthfully I have relived it many times in my mind. All the ways I might have handled her proposal. All the outcomes it might have had. How it might have gone if I'd said yes. All the reasons I had to say no. All the times, in the middle of the night alone with my thoughts, that I desperately wished I'd thrown common sense out the window and let her have me. Just let go.

But Miranda Priestly doesn't let go.

"Yes, Andrea," I confirm in a low voice, surprising myself with my honesty. "I thought of saying yes."

There, a gift. For her. Because I care and it wouldn't do for her to think this evening is nothing more than me scratching some old itch. This means far more to me than that. If she's smart she'll understand what I'm saying without me having to say it. And she always was smart.

She stops that sensuous, hypnotic stroking along my lapel, and her big brown eyes fix on mine.

"I'm not disposable anymore," she tells me hesitantly, but there's a fire in her eyes. "You ... you don't get to throw me away this time if you panic. I'm not your assistant any longer. Do you understand?"

The intensity of her tone stymies me for a moment. Her brown orbs are fixed on mine, as if willing me to understand some vitally important thing.

Her hold feels tighter and I look down. I find a hand scrunching the front of my robe with shaking white knuckles. I cover the hand with my own, and gentle it out, flattening it against the silk lapel.

"You weren't disposable to me then, either," I tell her quietly, recapturing her gaze. "If you were I would have fired you for making me feel ..."

I stop. I haven't even worked out what she made me feel then - or now. Not exactly. I touch her cheek briefly and feel exposed for doing so. I drop my hand and tell her: "I cared enough not to fire you when it would have been the easiest choice."

She considers my words, which I've carefully parsed to not give too much away. I wonder if she realises how many exceptions I made for her that night - even though I'm sure by any decent standard I still am pictured in the dictionary somewhere under "Heartless (n): *see Miranda Priestly".

She nods, though, seeming to hear what I can't say. She bites her lip and then says softly: "I'm sorry for leaving you in Paris the way I did. It was unprofessional, regardless of the reasons. I've always felt bad, leaving like that."

"I said what I did, on purpose, so you felt you had to," I say, slightly anxious to finally admit my manipulation. But I'm too old and too weary of the secrets, the distance between us.

She eyes me for a beat, clearly unsurprised, and then leans softly against me.

She knew. I see it on her face.

Andrea never ceases to amaze me.

I feel her resting against my heart, and wonder if she can hear it racing. I feel regret. For the lost years, lost opportunities. I wonder if I should apologise for my part in all this muddle. Or would her fainting in shock ruin the mood? And the mood is very desirable.

Maybe later.

Ghosting my fingers under her chin, I tilt her head up and seek her lips out. She responds immediately. Her lips move against mine and then hesitantly her tongue runs along my lips, seeking permission. I open my mouth, and welcome her. The feel of her touching me so intimately sends desire rocketing down to my core. I hide the tremble but, hell, it's a close call.

My nipples, bare under my robe, have hardened into tight knots. She must feel them. I feel her hand sliding up and giving my right breast a playful rub. Oh. Oh yes, she's felt them. My knees almost buckle.

I step back suddenly. Brown eyes fill with concern. I almost kick myself. I see on her face the question, asking whether history is about to repeat. Whether the willful and tempestuous La Priestly will now cast her away again and ignore her for five more years.

"No," I say, with a reassuring smile. "Whatever you're thinking, no. Never again. It's just that I very much appreciate the idea of finishing our 'unfinished business'. Before anything else." I gesture to the bed. "And I know from an impeccable source that you give an exceptional massage."

Her lips split into an impossibly wide grin, her perfect white teeth blinding me. How can this woman possibly choose me? She could have anyone. Half the ballroom downstairs alone would be jealous enough of me to scratch my eyes out right now.

My chest puffs out faintly at the thought and the movement catches her eye. She looks hungry and the pride and delight I feel ignites me. I give her a knowing smirk and she reddens, and for just a flash I spy the girl I first hired. And then, just as fast, she's gone as she orders quietly: "Get on the bed, Miranda. You're right. We have business to finish."

Miranda Priestly is lying, face-down, on a huge bed in front of me. Her grey robe is pooled over her ass only, and her beautiful back is bare. She slipped the robe down and arranged herself so swiftly that I didn't catch so much a glimpse of anything. I wonder, and cannot wait to find out, what I will discover when I finally get to pull the rest of the robe away.

Is she completely naked? I lick my lips in anticipation.

"There's massage oil on the table," I hear her muffled voice speaking into a pillow.

I glance around to the table she indicated vaguely at with the indifferent flap of an arm and find a small bottle attached to a "With compliments of..." hotel card. So she'd ordered it from the concierge. Thorough as ever.

I kick off my heels. And then, slowly, so the whole room is filled by the vibrating sound, unzip my gown.

I watch in amusement as Miranda, her face still buried in pillow, seems to freeze her breathing and then resume faster, if the rise and fall of her back is any indication.

I drop my gown to the floor and carefully step out of it.

"You'd better hang that up," comes Miranda's muffled voice. "It's too exquisite to crease."

I grin broadly. Ever the fashion editor.

"Yes Miranda," I tease in my old assistant's voice.

She snorts.

I quickly find a hanger then return to the bed side. I remove my stockings and jewellery, letting the latter tinkle on the chest of drawers by the bed. I notice Miranda is listening to every sound, as if painting the scene in her mind. I find I like the thought of being at the center of Miranda's imagination very much.

I am down to only my white, lacy lingerie set. Something for Miranda to inspect at her leisure later. I dig my iPhone out of my purse and select my meditation playlist. Soft sounds of waterfalls and a mystical melody fills the room.

I hear her sigh in anticipation - or impatience - and smile.

I finally take the oil bottle, climb on the bed, straddling Miranda just below her ass and sit back lightly, knees framing her narrow hips. I unscrew the lid and pour a dollop of oil into one hand and, thanks to spending 18 months working at Ohio's Wellness and Lifestyle Center, skillfully put the lid back on one-handed (this isn't my first rodeo). I place the bottle carefully on the bedside table and then warm the yellowy liquid in my hands, letting the vanilla and exotically spiced scent fill the air.

She's almost twitching with anticipation now, and I wonder how she's managed to refrain from ordering me to "Get on with it."

I lower my hands and smear the oil in gentle, wide arcs up and down Miranda's bare back.

I hear a low, stifled groan and feel inordinately pleased. For the next 20 minutes I make it my mission to smooth oil into every exposed patch of pale skin, paying particular attention to Miranda's intoxicating smooth shoulders, her meridians (which I aced in my massage course) and, lastly, her sides, sneaking swirls in along the edges of Miranda's breasts and ribs, just to see her squirm.

Squirm she does. Soft "oohs" float from her quivering lips and I find myself wondering what other sweet spots I can find. This becomes my goal for the next half hour, homing in on every part of Miranda which makes her wiggle and gasp, groan and arch her back.

Finally, when her breath turns less relaxed and more ragged, I head lower for the promised land. I swallow and ease myself up on my knees and reach for the grey robe still cloaking Miranda's ass.

"May I?" I ask. It seems only polite, somehow, to mark the moment that a semi-professional massage turns into a distinctly personal fondle.

A choked gurgle and adamant nod answers the question. I glance up curiously. Miranda is now strangling the pillow under her chin and chest and breathing hollowly.

I lift the grey silk off her swells slowly, trailing it teasingly across her skin before dropping it to the floor. A rush of goosebumps appears, followed by a shaky, erotic moan.

I gasp as I look at what I've uncovered. Miranda is wearing only the thinnest, flesh-covered, lacy satin thong. I glanced lower and see the material below is drenched with moisture. The juncture of her thighs is also slick and shining in the dimmed lighting.

"Oh Miranda," I whisper and drop a kiss on her left globe.

Her body trembles.

"You like that?" I suggest, letting my warm breath wash across her skin.

No reply. Then an anguished half noise. Then nothing.

"I think you do," I tell her creamy perfect ass earnestly and tilt my head to kiss the other cheek, letting my tongue give the expanse of skin an indulgent swirl.

The scent of her arousal floats up so I kiss the path from the thong's lacy waistband down, between her swells. And lower.

I hear a soft whimper. And what may or may not have been my name.

Smiling against her flesh, I resume my descent. With a groan of my own, I slip further until my nose is in line with Miranda's center. I run a single finger along the lacy strip, bisecting the soaking material. I run my finger up and down, widening the intimate line between her lower lips, enjoying the sounds my strokes make, and the roughness of the texture under my fingertips.

It is the single most erotic thing I've ever done in my life, and I quiver just watching my finger playing with her most intimate spot.

I blow against her covered core and whisper: "I think you like this very much. Now imagine what it's going to feel like when my tongue is on your bare flesh. In you."

A tremor runs up Miranda's thighs and the anguished gasp is louder this time. She's definitely thinking about it.

I lean forward and let my tongue drag up and down the material, deepening the crease, drawing out the flavours I find. Miranda has a heady taste, slightly sharp, distinctive and delicious. I could stay here for days. My own wetness is threatening to overflow my panties and I shift my thighs to relieve the pressure.

Miranda is starting to writhe and I seize her thighs and push them apart, opening up my access. Her growing arousal fills my nostrils now and she sounds tortured as she sucks in a ragged breath.

My thumb hooks underneath the thong and I feel her heat scald it. It's my first skin-on-skin contact with the woman who has haunted my fantasies for so long. She feels on fire. I give a small moan.

"Andreaaa," Miranda gasps. Her voice is rough, like worn sandpaper. "Will you ... please ... for the love of God ... take me!"

Her desperation - and use of the word please - is quite possibly the most arousing sentence I've ever heard from Miranda Priestly.

I grasp the thong and pull it roughly down and off. The sight before me makes my eyes go wide: Plump, swollen, perfect pussy lips; tiny white curls drenched with arousal, and a fleshy, deep red, dark entrance, tempting me in.

"Oh," I gasp, another ripple of arousal tearing through me. "I want..." I lean forward, my tongue twitching. "Everything," I exhale and immediately fasten my lips on her and begin to suck and lick as my hands float back to her ass and rhythmically rub her swells.

Miranda begins to gasp repeatedly. Incoherent words like "more" and "there'' escape but most of the time she babbles nonsense. I lock an arm over the small of her back to keep her in place and my other hand burrows between her twitching legs and seeks out her clit.

I give the small nub a powerful rub - which makes her arch and, unexpectedly, shriek and jerk - and then I swirl my drenched fingers over it, as my tongue plunges inside her.

Miranda shudders and her incoherent ramblings increase. She finally begins to fall apart. My tongue and fingers ride her relentlessly. When she arches, though, what she says is crystal clear. I almost come on the spot.

"Andrea," she cries. "My Andrea. Oh God."

My Andrea.

My mind whirls in surprise.

When Miranda collapses, boneless, back on the bed, I sit on my knees and urge her to turn over. I desperately want to see the goddess - all of her and I've been sorely deprived so far.

Miranda obliges, with a faint humph at being made to move, and then her blue eyes flicker open.

My breath catches. She watches me study her body with an unreadable expression. I take in her beautiful, full breasts, with pale pink-tipped nipples, still jutting proudly. Soft creamy skin, a flat stomach with a faint scar - the twins, I guess. Downy, white hair in neatly trimmed curls cover her core, and slippery pink lips, still liberally coated in her arousal, peek out, teasing me with visions of what I'd like to do with them next.

"Perfect," I offer reverently and then lift my eyes to her, still kneeling before her, as if in benediction. "You are gorgeous."

Miranda's mouth curves into a pleased smile and then her eyes flicker hungrily over me.

"Take that off," she orders, with a flick of her impatient hand in the general direction of my bra. "I wish to inspect you as thoroughly as you just did me."

Miranda's smouldering scrutiny does funny things to my stomach. I gulp.

With shaking hands I undo my bra and drop it to the floor. Then I stand and lower my panties to my ankles and step quickly out of them. I make to move back to the bed but Miranda whispers hoarsely: "Wait. I... Just give me a moment."

I stand before her intense gaze and try not to blush to my roots as she studies me with those half-lidded eyes. I remember that expression only too well from the ballroom. A sticky marinade sauce comes to mind.

"Now come here," Miranda says finally, in her cutting, down-to-business voice, the one she uses in the office to make all the Emilys tremble. It's decadent, somehow, hearing it in bed. Oh God.

I stretch out beside Miranda and am seized immediately in a ferocious kiss, claiming me with a passion I never expected. Hell, can this woman kiss when she wants to. I feel like I've just been branded: Property of Miranda Priestly. I come up for air and gasp in a breath, looking at her, startled.

"You make me crazy," she growls by way of explanation. "And that 'massage' was utterly exquisite." She smacks her lips in satisfaction.

I would have answered but my tongue has been recaptured by her wicked lips. And then my head is swimming as I feel long, smooth fingers work their way between my thighs and then slide upwards. She plays with me for a few teasing minutes, enjoying making me squirm as thoroughly as I did her.

The moment she enters me, though, I see shooting stars. Bright white stellar trails. I gasp into her mouth and Miranda smiles against me, then without warning begins to pump two fingers in and out me. I feel tears stinging my eyes, it's so good.

Miranda's mouth, so cruel at times, is doing erotic, brilliant things against my neck, which I have no words for. Some fancy writer I am. I feel teeth scraping, tongue grazing, and my arousal is ratcheting up to absurd levels. A slender thumb now slips above my mound and pushes against the side of my clit, on the left, just where I love it most. Oh God. Shit.

How does she know?

I am going to...

I gasp when she does it again and I shut my eyes tightly. She is so unbelievably good at this. Has she done it before, I suddenly wonder, as fireworks start to go off in my brain. Is that why she is so... ooooh. Another tremor hits and I realise I don't care at this moment whether Miranda has boldly finger-fucked her way through the entire Dallas Cowboys cheer squad to acquire the skills she's performing on me now.

I'm a quaking, complete mess, sweating, my hair stuck to my skin, trembling, moaning and when I think I cannot feel any better, she suddenly shifts and heads down the bed.

What?... Is she going to...? Oh fuck.

Miranda Priestly is actually going to eat me out.

Those perfectly vicious lips I've dreamed about for five years swallow my clit whole, her tongue swirling and twirling some insanely intoxicating pattern. I howl. I actually howl. And then I glance down and see white hair. The white hair of the icon.

La Priestly. Is. Eating. Me.

And she looks like she's enjoying it, too. In a state of shock I stare down at that famous head moving up and down between my legs. Blue eyes lock with mine, and I can see the hint of devil in her. She knows exactly what she's doing to me. She knows what I'm thinking most likely. It's all there in those playful eyes.

She loves that she's doing it to me.

She loves...

My mind suddenly starts to short circuit when she presses her tongue hard, flat against my nub, and drills two fingers inside me and holds them there. I gasp, my thighs going rigid.

Then I come.

It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. I wonder why that is, in some dim part of my brain that is still functioning. What is it Miranda Priestly has specifically done to me that's different? It's like she knows some secret button to push. Or is it just that it's her, and the fact I'm completely gone on her and have been for years?

Tears are leaking from my eyes as I twitch from the powerful aftershocks that she gently kisses away, and finally I collapse in a grateful moan.

She crawls up my body in the most feline move I've ever witnessed. She entwines herself around me, looking like the cat that got the cream (or my cream at least), and for one astonished moment I wonder if she's going to cuddle me then fall asleep.

Trust her to be the big spoon.

Instead she strokes my chest, my breasts, my hair and floats her hand up to my face. It's so itchingly, achingly domestic I can't help but wonder where this version of Miranda Priestly hides herself for most of the day.

As if reading my mind she suddenly rolls onto her back, snapping her hands back to herself and her shutters go down. She exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

"Business is definitely no longer unfinished," she declares firmly, talking to the ceiling.

I twist my head in confusion to look at it, wondering what on earth she's seeing up there that's so fascinating.


I glance down again and watch as her hands suddenly grab a spare pillow from the other side of the bed. She holds it to her chest. Well, clutches it, really, but I suspect Miranda would sooner die than be accused of clutching anything beyond a new season Louis Vuitton handbag.

Miranda appears to be waiting for something and I frown, wondering what I'm meant to say. Her lips seem to be getting thinner with every passing second as she glares at the unfortunate ceiling, hanging onto her damned pillow.

I reach over and stroke her hair. I've always loved it. She freezes for a second but doesn't pull away. I nudge over closer and nuzzle a little at the crook of the neck and drop a few appreciative kisses. Her lips become less thin. She even seems to push into me a little.


And then I get it. I remember the look on her face when she had me. How she delighted in me. She wants to do this again. Often even. And now she's waiting for the blow. For me to leave now our business is finished.

For a smart woman, Miranda is a complete idiot.

As if I could just get up and leave now.

I roll over onto my side, leaning on my elbow and trail a finger down Miranda's soft skin, pausing to twirl around her belly button.

Her head snaps over and she glares at me, flicking me away from her ticklish spot. Thin lips resume. Her bottom lip trembles faintly before she rakes her teeth viciously over it. That'll teach it.

I roll my eyes at her denseness. "Miranda, I have not waited five years, two months to get you into bed, just to let you go after our first time," I tell her quietly. "I suspect we'll have much, much more 'business' to conduct together - I mean, if you're interested."

Miranda's eyebrow lifts. But instead of the usual disdain that accompanies her oh-so familiar quirk I see only hope.

"You kept count?" Miranda asks, her voice a harsh whisper. "Of how long it's been?"

I grin. "Of course. You're unforgettable - as you well know. Honestly."

"I don't know anything of the sort," Miranda says and purses her lips. "Why on earth did you stay away from me for so long if you missed me enough to count the months?"

She looks so adorably outraged now, that I almost laugh. I resist the urge to soothe away her frown. I sober as I remember why I went away. I had good reasons. The best.

"I needed to meet you again as an equal," I explain gently. "Or it never would have worked. You understand that, don't you? Isn't that why you sent me away in the first place? So we wouldn't do something we'd regret, with our unequal roles, and never be able to do this the right way?"

Miranda blinks at me. "I have thought about that day many times," she admits. "But I never came up with an exact reason for sending you away. Or rather I had dozens of reasons, excuses and rationalisations, but none seemed to fit exactly. I think I like yours though."

She gives a small smile but it seems to light up the room with the amount of hope leaking from it. "So, when you say 'much, much more business' ..."

And just like that, Miranda's eyes are suddenly burning.

How does she turn her emotions on a dime like that? I stare at her in wonder.

"You see Andrea," she continues, as though pointing out the key points of a run-through, "This time I want to see your face when your tongue does unspeakable things to me."

"Oh," I respond faintly, greatly appreciating the visual image. "Well that can be arranged. With pleasure. Much pleasure."

I give her my cheekiest grin and tug at the pillow she's forgotten she's still holding to her chest.

"Miranda," I whisper, "Let go."

She looks at me, startled at the reminder of a time five years ago when those same words were uttered, and then down at the pillow.

"Let go," I repeat, and add with a small grin: "For me."

Miranda huffs once but it's definitely for show.

And then, finally, she slowly lets go.