“Remember the last time?”
“Don’t mention the last time.” Miranda shot Andy a scowl that would have been a lot more effective if she weren’t white and shaking.
“It’s just drizzling, Andrea,” Andy mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Get me out of here, Andrea. I have to go to a recital, Andrea.”
“That was a Category 1 hurricane. This is a Category 3.”
Hearing the unusual tremble in Miranda’s voice, Andy pulled her into her arms, pressing her cheek against the side of Miranda’s head, breathing in the familiar scent of her conditioner. “Hey. We’ll be okay.”
Miranda sniffed, leaning into the embrace for a long moment before stepping away. “Of course we will, Andrea. I refuse to perish at Disney World. Nigel would have far too much fun with my obituary.”
Andy made a show of looking around their sumptuous suite. “I don’t know. There’s something to be said for dying in the Grand Floridian. Especially if our bodies are found in flagrante.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Miranda gasped. “Andrea!” Her eyes darted furtively, as if expecting someone from Page Six to leap out from behind the Mickey Mouse-themed couch with a camera.
Another powerful gust of wind thrust itself against the window, the rattle of the impact making them jump. The weatherman on the TV said something about a tornado warning in Osceola County.
Andy seized Miranda’s hand and dragged her toward the bathroom. “Come on, we’re supposed to be sheltering in a room with no windows.”
Miranda’s lips tightened. She yanked her hand from Andy’s grasp. Before Andy could protest—was Miranda really so stubborn she’d rather die out here than hide out in a bathroom?—she stomped to the bed, snatched up an armful of thick pillows, and pushed past Andy into the bathroom.
Andy sighed. So it was going to be one of those nights. Bad enough that Hurricane Irma was bearing down on them; bad enough that the conference they’d flown down for—Andy’s first as a keynote speaker—had been cancelled; bad enough that they were in Florida at all; but now, Miranda was going to be in one of her intolerable moods. Those had become few and far between over the three years they’d been together, but they still reared their head on occasion, and often at the worst possible time. Andy glanced at the bed, wondering whether Hurricane Miranda was really any safer to endure than Irma.
The warning note in Miranda’s voice made up her mind for her. Shaking her head, Andy girded her loins—figuratively speaking—and headed into the bathroom, preparing to repeat her explanation for why, exactly, they hadn’t been able to get out ahead of the storm.
Then she caught sight of Miranda and stopped. Dead.
The massive clawfoot tub had been filled with pillows, creating a cozy nest. And lounging on top of them like some kind of Sapphic fantasy was Miranda, stark naked.
Andy swallowed. Her lower half clenched. She swallowed again.
The wind howled; she twitched. Miranda gave her a long, slow smile, tracing her own nipple with the tip of her finger.
“Close the door, Andrea,” Miranda whispered.
The door shut with a click. Andy’s shirt hit the floor, quickly followed by her bra, slacks, and panties. She looked Miranda up and down, licking her lips. The weatherman, his voice muffled by the door, said something about Irma. Irma? Who was that?
Miranda’s hand dropped between her legs. “Now, come here,” she purred, “and distract me.”
Chapter 2: Morning After (a Hurricane)
I survived Irma, and it didn't seem right to leave you all where I left it last night, so I wrote a conclusion and oh my god it's smut. I've never written smut for our two favorite ladies before--nor, indeed, have I ever written f/f smut. So...I hope this is okay!
Please note the rating change.
The worst of the storm hit between the hours of 1 and 3 a.m. Miranda, miraculously, slept through it, her legs twined with Andy’s, head on Andy’s chest, both of them cushioned and contained by the much appreciated tub. Andy, equally exhausted from “distracting” Miranda, couldn’t convince her mind to rest. The howling of the wind and the rattle of the windows, even muffled by the thin bathroom door and walls, were like something out of a Stephen King movie. The sounds were relentless, unceasing, made all the more terrifying because she couldn’t see what was going on outside.
She clutched Miranda a little tighter when the winds peaked with a high-pitched cry like the scream of a very small child. Miranda mumbled in protest, causing Andy to relax her grip. The last thing she wanted was a conscious Miranda Priestly demanding to know why Irma hadn’t been convinced to go away.
Andy was not a religious person. Nor was she the fair weather type who only prayed when the going got tough. So there was no specific entity to whom she directed her quiet, solemn words as she tenderly traced her thumb along the silky skin of Miranda’s shoulder. “Please, I need more time with her.”
Eventually, the winds died down. Andy allowed herself to relax for the first time in hours as she began, cautiously, to believe they weren’t about to be blown away to die in a Disney swamp.
She woke, briefly, sometime later, to Miranda gently tugging her up and out of the tub. “The worst of it’s past,” Miranda murmured, wrapping her arm around a groggy Andy’s waist. “You’ll sleep better in the bed.”
She attempted to lower Andy to the mattress. Andy, too tired to be graceful, fell onto it like the proverbial tree in the forest and was asleep again before Miranda finished pulling a sheet over her naked body. Even so, her sleeping mind was distantly aware of Miranda’s warmth against her back, sheltering her from the world.
This time, she slept until morning. In fact, she slept well past her usual wakeup time, an ungodly hour Miranda had established years before because she was a sadist who believed in maximizing time with her lover in lieu of sleep. She would have slept longer, too, if not for the fact that Miranda’s mouth was doing some very interesting things to her chest.
Andy’s eyes fluttered open to meet Miranda’s predatory gaze. “Good morn—” She cut herself off with a gasp as Miranda gave a particularly hard suck to her right nipple and reached down to give a firm, slow rub against her clit. Andy’s hands came up to clutch Miranda’s soft hair.
Miranda took the hint and kept going, sucking and licking and occasionally nipping at Andy’s nipple before finally switching to the other and giving it the same attention. Andy writhed and moaned beneath her, pushing up against Miranda’s thumb in desperate need of relief. Cruelly, Miranda pulled her hand away whenever Andy did so, insistent on keeping the pressure slow and steady.
“Miranda,” Andy choked out when she couldn’t take it any more, when she began to wish Irma had carried them away after all instead of leaving her to this delicious torture.
Miranda smiled wickedly and pulled her hand and mouth away. Before Andy could do more than whimper in horror, she slid down Andy’s body and unceremoniously sucked Andy’s clit into her mouth.
Andy, too worked up to have any kind of endurance, came, shouting something that would later cause the mother next door to give her an extremely dirty look at checkout.
Miranda pulled away to give her a dirty look. “I hope you don’t think you’re done, Andrea. I’ve been waiting hours for you to wake up.”
Andy couldn’t formulate a properly snarky response, what with her brain having just been turned into oatmeal, and settled for saying, “Less talking, more—mmmph!”
The “mmmph!”, which thankfully cut short a rather weak retort, was because Miranda had just licked a long swath between Andy’s thighs. That wicked tongue—so vicious in other circumstances—went to work, tasting the arousal seeping out of her, leaving no piece of flesh unexplored. Miranda hummed with pleasure, knowing how her enjoyment of this task was half of the fun for Andy.
“Don’t stop,” Andy panted, though Miranda had threatened no such thing and evidently had no intention of pausing until the next hurricane came by in a decade or so. “Oh—Miranda—don’t stop.”
Miranda didn’t stop, not until Andy was sobbing, her hands fisting the sheets, heels pressing hard into the mattress as her hips jerked against Miranda’s clever, clever mouth. Finally, Miranda took pity on her and slide three fingers into Andy’s center, thrusting hard and moaning at the way Andy’s inner muscles clamped down around her.
“Who—said—you—could—take—your—mouth—away?” Andy grunted.
Miranda laughed, a musical sound that Andy had still only heard a handful of times, and returned her tongue to Andy’s clit, swirling around it with just enough pressure to send Andy soaring once more.
When she came back to herself, Miranda was resting her chin on Andy’s stomach, face and hair a beautiful mess, smirking.
“We should come to Florida more often,” Andy said hoarsely.
Miranda laughed again. “I knew we wouldn’t die last night, Andrea. Do you know why?”
Andy tactfully refrained from mentioning Miranda’s desperate need for a distraction the night before. It wouldn’t do to deter future distractions of a similar nature. “Why?”
Miranda stroked her thumb over Andy’s hipbone. “Because I love you,” she said, uncharacteristically frank. “And a world where you die with so much ahead of you—and I’m not talking about me, Andrea, although I hope always to be part of your life—is simply unacceptable. That’s all.”