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Miranda never gives her a moment's fucking slack, even when she's dead on her feet and she's bringing up the fourteenth latte just so Miranda can tell her that she'd really prefer another Perrier and why does she have to be so difficult?
And Andrea just takes it without ever saying a word, every snide remark caught behind her teeth even as she's saying, "Yes, Miranda." She's practically licking Miranda's Jimmy Choos and it's really not fucking worth it.
Except for when it is.
Because sometimes, she doesn't fuck up, she gets the girls their impossible Harry Potter books and off to grandma's house or wears an outfit that doesn't make the clackers giggle behind their well-manicured hands. And Miranda looks up at her over her glasses, this long, slow look from her feet up to her eyes and it's better than sex, the way she can feel Miranda's eyes and they're saying yes, Andrea.
One day, Miranda's just finished giving the Look, the good one and not the flesh-melting one, and Andrea's thinking of making a run to find something to eat. She's taking a step towards the door, and Miranda says, "Are you going somewhere, Andrea?"
"I, um, lunch?"
"No. Come here." Miranda crooks her finger, and Andrea can't do anything but obey, even though she's ravenous. "I have something for you to try."
Miranda holds up the dress, a filmy, flimsy piece of something with the lift of chiffon and the texture of silk. There's no fucking way Andrea's going to fit into it, even with her new and improved size 4 ass. "Miranda," she tries, but Miranda just holds up a finger.
"Well, are you waiting for something in particular, or am I supposed to be impressed by your modesty?"
Andrea just stands there, and then she starts unbuttoning her shirt. She shrugs it off her shoulders, throws it over a chair, glances to make sure nobody'll be able to see in from the anteroom, but it seems unlikely, from the way she and Miranda are standing. She slides her skirt down off her hips, and she's left in thigh-high stockings and the kind of lingerie Nigel insists must be worn with couture: wisp of a coal black thong, matching push-up bra.
Miranda's look says Not bad. Tosses her the dress, and Andrea's considering how she's going to get the tiny thing on while Miranda taps her toe. "Andrea," she says, warningly.
"I can't," Andrea starts, but then thinks of how she hasn't given in yet, and how she's not going to start now. Of course, the dress gets caught around her arms and won't slide down over her hips, and she feels hopeless, must look hopeless, feels herself blushing and all she can think is fuck fuck fuck!
But then Miranda says, "I see," and Andrea doesn't know what she sees but she must like it, because then Miranda's hand is touching the skin just above Andrea's stocking.
"Miranda!" she means to say, but it just comes out a little squeak and Miranda says, "Shh!" very seriously, slides her fingers up and up and under, until Andrea's thanking God she's started to get Brazilians.
"Oh," Miranda finally says, very self-satisfied, pushing Andrea's legs apart with a twist of her wrist. "I see," she says again, and this time she means that Andrea's wet and well, yes, she is, because there's something about Miranda's approving eyes that makes her skin fucking hot and it's embarrassing but she can't really help it, can she?
And then Miranda's fingers are in her and everything's lost, and it's six months of late nights and no thankyous and wanting to fucking kill Miranda Priestly, all brought to this bright, hot point. And yes, Andrea's wet, and yes, she wants it, and worst of all, she wants to want it, wants to show Miranda how she wants it, wants to come dramatically so that Miranda can see what a good girl she is.
And Miranda's fingers are long and unforgiving and Andrea can't hold out very long. She's reaching down, touching her own clit through silk and Miranda's laughing and saying, "Very nice," and Andrea can't help herself and she comes with a shout.
Then Miranda's gone, wiping her hands on a towel from the bar, tossing it at Andrea and saying, "That's all," and Andrea would be mortified, livid, except for the color high on Miranda's cheeks, and so instead, all she feels is sated.