A/N: Not a whole lot of plot – but a lot of feelings. Both points of views are in the first person, but I don't think you will find it hard to figure out who is who.

The Flower

A story consisting of MirAndy drabbles

By Gun Brooke

I regard my reflection and I'm not impressed. Have I had these shadows under my eyes earlier and not noticed? When on earth did Bobbi Brown's most expensive concealer stop working? Granted, my long hours and the demands placed upon me at the office could give anyone black circles. I just wish I'd noticed earlier. Glancing around the bathroom I see nothing remotely useful.

Oh. Well. Perhaps the poor lighting in the apartment would magically make them go away.

As I step out of the bathroom, something makes me stop on the threshold and take in the vision before me.


She's standing there, so still, as if she isn't even breathing. I, on the other hand, always lose my breath around her, which has gone from annoying to understandable in a few months. The light dances across the muted highlights in her hair, like honey dribbled over chocolate. The analogy makes me lick my lips.

"How's your coffee?" she asks and I remember the mug in my hands. It's rustic and too heavy, which fortunately keeps my coffee hot longer than those thin china cups my former mother-in-law gave me. I should have let Stephen take them. Too late now.


I sit next to her on my couch and wonder if she'll kill me if I apologize one more time. I have already apologized for the old couch, the threadbare rug, the absence of furniture, and the presence of noisy neighbors. She's here and knowing her, she wouldn't stay a second longer than she wanted…so, she wants to be here. For now.

"The coffee's fine." Her words pull me from my hypnotized state. I could easily get lost in watching her for hours, but such a thing would get me killed and then she would leave. I couldn't bear it.


Her eyes are darker in the poorly illuminated room, looking at me as if she is content doing so unless I stop her. I talk about the coffee and she jolts back to life. Her hands flutter as she straightens the hem of her black leather skirt just above her knees.

I want to shove my hands in under this skirt and find out if she wears thigh-highs or pantyhose. My intuition tells me; not pantyhose—not anymore. The way her eyes have devoured me lately, I'm sure her ever-hopeful nature dictates her dress code. I really should find out.


She places her mug on the coffee table and reaches for me. I have half expected it, and certainly dreamed of it, but now—I'm not prepared. Her feline move, so stealthy and without hesitation, tips me back against the armrest. I gasp, my mouth half open, and she is on top of me now, capturing the sound I make in her mouth as she kisses me. Whimpering, I fling my arms around her neck.

Her tongue is in my mouth, exploring and intrusive, even as a kisser, she is demanding. I let her have her fill of plundering me.


Her taste is sweet, light, but as intoxicating as the finest wine. I drink from her until my jaw hurts and drawing air through my nose is not enough. Letting go, I examine her now even fuller lips, afraid I have hurt her. She lets me, for a while, and then she smiles.

"I don't break that easily, Miranda." Her voice, husky, sounding equal parts drugged and amused, make me clench my thighs. I don't trust my voice at all by now. I gasp for air and I search her eyes over and over for…I'm not sure.

She leans closer.


I could swear she looks afraid. Her blue eyes are almost dark-gray and she squints at me as if to hide it. I slide closer, not allowing her to recoil, as I know, should I let her think about running…that's what she'll do.

Her lips are swollen and the coral lipstick she wore when I let her inside my apartment is gone. I figure it's my turn to set the pace and I brush my lips across her mouth. She gasps, again, and I inhale. I want everything she is willing to give me, even the very air she breathes.


Her hands are in my hair. I don't permit anyone to touch it, but her touch is awakening new sensations and I am after all an explorer. How could I refuse her when her nails against my scalp create tremors between my legs?

She draws patterns on my neck with her tongue. Does she realize how many times I've dreamed about this? I could never picture her doing it this way, as if I'm coated with chocolate. She worships my neck, every part of it, with kisses and nips. When she closes her teeth gently at my collarbone, I whimper.


Unbuttoning her blouse, I unwrap her as a fragile gift. I notice my mistake when she makes the familiar sound that means I'm too slow. I have two more buttons to go, but I can't keep her waiting. Conditioned to avoid this at all cost, I rip the blouse open and shove it down her arms.

She laughs. A thoroughly joyous sound that goes directly into my abdomen and sends moisture to ruin my favorite lace panties. I'm now looking at her beautiful breasts encased by a salmon colored bra. I grin when I spot the clasp in the front.


I don't think this woman could bore me if she tried. Who else would dare to tear the clothes off me, destroy them even, and then give that bold grin? The very same grin she offered after solving the Harry Potter challenge.

"You think you're cute?" I enjoy seeing her flinch and deduce I can still intimidate. Good to know. "Your turn." I can see she's not following, but she will when I reciprocate. Her shirt is already unbuttoned. All I have to do is yank it down her arms—so I do. And leave it halfway down her arms.


My arms are restrained. I could easily push the shirt off completely, but I don't. I'm curious, and yes, a tiny bit afraid, what she intends to do. Predatory and licking her lips, she nudges my bra straps off my shoulders. Kissing my skin from there to my neck, she hums.

"Oh, God." I watch the now-mussed white hair, her half-naked upper body and I want her fully undressed on my bed. My body burns, and I need to extinguish the flames licking me from inside, by devouring her. This can only happen with her—and I need her now.


"Andrea!" I call out as she suddenly stands and tugs at my hand. Something wild in her eyes, almost beseeching, has me guessing. And I hate guessing. I make a note to always know as guessing is merely a waste of time. Now, I'm running through different scenarios, most of them showing off my disgusting insecurities by showing me scenes where she pushes me out the door and yells to never, ever return.

I'm relieved when she guides me into her bedroom. Or, nudges me, while at the same time attempting to remove the last of my clothes. I surrender.


She merely stands there, allowing me full access. I push her clothes off, not very careful with them, but at least flinging them behind me, onto a chair. When she's naked, I shove my own clothes off and they remain on the floor as I have more important things to do and I cannot for the life of me turn my eyes away from the woman before me.

Her pale, creamy skin beckons me. Her eyes, now squinting again, which tells me she's hiding something, keep me mesmerized. I step forward, aligning our bodies. The heat from her scolds me.


I'm naked in a bedroom with Andrea. She is fully undressed and never in my life have I seen a more beautiful woman. Curvy, yet slender, pale, despite her dark hair and eyes. As she pressed up against me, I know this is going to happen fast. My multitude of fantasies always created this scene as slow and smoldering. Reality is quite different. It's fast, a little rough, and not at all graceful.

We tumble onto her unmade bed with Ikea sheets chafing at my twelve-hundred thread-count spoiled skin. In between me and the offending sheets, Andrea is pure velvet.


She's on top. Not because she used to be my boss, but because it just happened that way. We fell onto my bed, rolled and kissed—and there she was, settled between my legs. This means she knows full well how wet she's made me. This nearly obscene wetness makes me cringe. Does this mean I still do not trust her? Do I think she'll find this lack of self-control deploring and literally wipe her hands and walk away?

Silly me. She moves her hips against me, rubs into my damp folds and moans—a deep groan of unadulterated arousal.


I feel her tremble. Something is making her a little apprehensive, but when I keep up the undulation against her, she relaxes, only to tense up from a very different reason. I've pushed one hand between us and slipped my fingers inside her. Perhaps I should've asked, but it's too late now. She brought me in here. She tore my clothes off. Now, I'm making her mine.

She wails and kicks her legs up. Wrapping them around me, she gives me room to maneuver. I gasp her name over and over as my thrusts drive my fingers deeper and deeper.


"Miranda. Oh, please. I'm gonna come." I grunt the words, and she locks her eyes on me, scanning my face as the convulsions begin. Slowly at first, the pleasure simmers around my clit only to then shoot out in all directions, piercing my body. I cry out and then I have to close my eyes. I arch, buck, and grind into her as the orgasm tear through me. I'm now sweaty and shaking uncontrollably.

"Beautiful," she whispers and keeps rubbing against me. "My turn, don't you agree, Andrea?"

"Yes. Yes!" I roll us over, despite my shaking limbs. "You're mine."


How silly of her. No need to point out the obvious. I'm about to tell her this, when she slides down my body and disappears from my view. I rise on my elbows, intent on demanding her return when she parts my legs and my drenched, swollen folds. Her tongue makes me lose all cohesion in my joints and I fall down onto the bed again.

Her tongue. Hot. Agile. Greedy. She seems to know what she's doing. Perhaps she can read me as well when it comes to sex as she did when it came to being my assistant?


I go down on Miranda and it's the best thing ever. Better than my orgasm just moments ago. Better than getting the dream job. I never want this to stop as I've never felt closer to her than now when she allows me to give her pleasure.

Her pleasure is no secret. She's sobbing my name, bunching up my sheets with her fists, and rolling her hips to meet my tongue. I open her more and push my tongue inside her. She's hot, blazing hot, and I flick my tongue inside, as far as it will reach.

"Andrea!" she screams.


I come so hard, it's hurting me. She immediately slows her tongue, turns from burning to soothing in a second. I sob behind my bent arm, the aftermath not what I expected from my fantasies either. She's picked me apart and now I fear she won't want to, or perhaps can't, put me back together. If she leaves me in pieces like this, how can I go on?

"Shh." She shifts against me, her lips suddenly at my ear as her lanky arms pull me close. "I have you, Miranda. It's okay to cry."

And just like that—I'm whole.


She stills against me and we rest for a moment. If it had been any other person, I would call it snuggling, but Miranda Priestly doesn't snuggle. At least, she would never confess to it. I draw little patterns on her back as she breathes evenly against my neck. Her breath is reassuring, calming, and I hope my touch makes her feel safe and cared for. I could tell her near-panic earlier has abated, but you never know with her. She sees ghosts where there are none, sometimes.

"I should be going," she says and I grow rigid.

"What? Now?"


She's trembling again and I can guess she's doing her best not to sound clingy. I realize I've been too brash. "Calm down, Andrea," I say, keeping it light. "I didn't say I was going to. I should go. But I won't." I chastise myself. I still sound too must like 'business as usual.' This won't do. "I can't leave you." This is better. Her tremors abate.

"Why?" she asks quietly.

"You know why. Same reason as my showing up on your doorstep at bedtime. Not to mention coming here by cab." I shudder.

"Now there's a sign of self-sacrifice."


I have to smile at that. "This was bound to happen." The words are out before I have time to self-edit.

"Making love?" Miranda looks surprised as if she meant to say 'having sex?' but changed her mind without realizing it.

"No." I chuckle now and hold her closer. "Well, that too, but…one of us taking the plunge. We tip-toed around each other at Runway for two years. I left for the Mirror, and we kept ending up at the same venues. We were never apart long enough for it to die."

"For what to die, exactly?" Her eyebrows rise.


She is so pretty when she blushes. "I can only speak for myself, of course," she murmurs. "And you're not blind. You must've known, realized at some point, that I love you."

And there it is, that feeling in my chest, the sensation of a flower opening its petals to the sun and life-affirming warmth seeping in with each new breath. It's such a rare emotion and it has only ever happened with her. Even before, when I thought I was the only one feeling this way. Even then, her presence was all it took.

I hold her closer still.


"I love you, Andrea." Her voice is barely audible—which is totally in character. The more important her words, the lower her voice. That's the rule of thumb when it comes to her.

I frame her face with my hands and kiss her. Not the devouring, sexy kisses from earlier, but with happiness and gratitude in equal measure.

She returns the kiss and clings to me. "How can I ever leave you?"

"You can and I know how." I smile against her lips.


"I'll be here whenever you come back."

"What if you leave me?" The low voice again.


I know I'm being ridiculous, but this is what she gets for falling in love with Miranda Priestly. My track record isn't promising.

"Are you going to be around when I come back?" She smiles at me, warm and reassuring.

"I am."

"That's settled then." She pushes a hand down between us, cups me without preamble. "And just to make sure you know what you're coming back to…" She finds my clitoris and begins an agonizingly slow caress.

I fall back onto the pillows, my legs opening to allow her access. She kisses me and goes inside with her fingers.


"Just like this," I say. Starting to move in and out, I feel her clench my fingers.

"Oh, God." She moves right along with me and her face glows.

I have never known anyone like her and I doubt I ever will again. The months after leaving Runway have been professionally rewarding and emotionally draining. Now I'm replenished just by looking at her, taking her again, and watching her come undone.

Her hair is damp; her forelock has fallen back, away from her face. Her mascara has smeared a little. I can't take my eyes off her.

She loves me.