Chapter Text
Some people know pride well. This pride would be the thing to give them closure when met with disappointment, and stop them from doing something eager and desperate.
Emily likes to think of herself as proud, poised… Tasteful and a hard character. She executed things with determination, with precision, and she did it fast. There wasn’t a task left unfinished under Emily’s hand.
Ever since her early teenage years, she’s strived to appear tough as a rock. A thick skin that wouldn’t let any intruder in and would not let her be deterred from her goal. She was solid, never lowered her standards, kept her chin high up.
Or at least that’s what she’s still trying to do. Perhaps that’s still a work in progress. It’s not big of a deal anyway, she’s only twenty-three. Some would argue she’s barely a full-fledged adult. That what she’s doing is barely a setback, if you look at it from her angle, that’s what she tells herself.
The seam of her shoes tear at the skin of her feet every time one meets the pavement. The arch of her foot protest the trek, her calves are starting to burn, and the crisp evening air does not help the cramps in her legs either.
Each step shoots sharp pain up her legs like stepping on a needle. It’s what makes her wonder if she’s completely lost her mind. It’s the only rational explanation for the way she’s behaving, so out of character.
The dial sound’s still ringing in her ears, piercing and mocking, scolding her for ever going down such a foolish road. It’s been eight days since she’s called Andy, in a position much similar to the one now.
She was walking home, the wind cold against her cheeks and the shoes unforgiving on her feet, but she just… needed a breather, because at Runway a breather was an abstract concept yet to be seen, and at home she would find herself distracted with whatever chore was left unfinished for days, her job making her neglect a basic living conditions.
Eight days ago, she dialed the number without even half a speech prepared, which should’ve been the first tip-off, because Emily Charlton never came into anything unprepared. Even if she did, it was because of a once well-rehearsed monologue that found its way to her tongue like a second language. Just like the way she was when dialing Demarchelier.
But the air was a welcome distraction, or rather a necessary break for her brain, and she dialed without a thought and hung up without a thought, because it was never picked up. A pang hit her chest at the beep her phone made when she hung up the line. This was the point where pride should’ve kicked in, made her chin up and go on with her evening, then her life.
Instead, she found herself staring at an empty desk, plain and soulless without its owner, and wondered, for a moment, if Andy’s switched numbers. Or if she simply thought it was a pocket dial, or if… If she lost the phone… Or if she was simply done with everyone associated with Runway and just didn’t want to answer Emily’s call.
Then the new assistant came and Emily was just as hard on her as she was on Andrea, if not a touch harder. It was hard finding someone to replace herself with, someone to fill her old shoes, but finding someone to replace Andrea’s would be like giving the ugly sisters Cinderella’s shoe.
Not that Andrea was a Cinderella in this metaphor, far from it, Emily argued. But Emily would rather eat a cube of fat than see another ‘fat’ girl be hired and then have a glow up in the same way Andrea did, simply because it would drive her insane to witness it all over again.
So she watched the new girl, whose name she didn’t bother to remember, and noted the way she obviously thought she was pretty and poised and knew what she was doing, yet was rather incompetent, and thought about Andrea and how at least she had the decency to be aware that she didn’t know what she was doing.
Emily compared the new girl to Andy for days and grew to completely despise her. She didn’t want to admit she knew how the fashion world worked, or how fast to run to Miranda’s office, or at least knew how to bloody spell Gabbana and spare Emily a stroke. But the new girl had grit and character and that sharp chin that rose far too high to not be repelling, and Emily finally started admitting she just might be missing Andy.
She hated the way new girl moved, took her coffee, talked, and the way she wasn’t anything like Andrea. And the fact that that was the reason she despised her was what was driving Emily slowly towards insanity. That’s what made Emily recall all the small things Andy would do, like the way her fingers would hover over the keyboard even if she wasn’t writing anything, or the way she carefully put down her cup of coffee, or how big her eyes would get whenever Emily called her name.
Emily scrunched her eyes shut, arms crossed over her chest as she walked down Manhattan’s streets, just for one moment before breathing in. Those eyes had no business being that big and staring up at Emily the way they did — intent and sparkling and completely devoted to her, making Emily fight through her sentence lest she melts and gives in to their captivating magic.
Even once Emily stopped looking at the new girl, pointedly and in order to not think about Andy, her mind would drift off and wonder what she was doing right at that moment. If she found a new job, finally one in journalism. Were she at home and how her place looked like? Did she go out after work with the friends she mentioned, that Emily found herself remembering about even though she told herself she couldn’t care less about Andy’s life.
She can barely recognize her own train of thought these past few days and keeps wondering, against better judgement, what she would’ve said had Andy picked up. She wishes she did, so Emily would’ve conjured up some excuse on the spot. Or maybe, in her imagination, she calls to see how she’s doing. If she landed a job she wanted. If she wanted to stay in contact.
The last one is a foolish thought because… why in the world would Emily say that? She barely tolerates her, she… Maybe she doesn’t hate her guts as much, but she took Paris from her. Or she was… Maybe she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Emily shakes her head. No — she’s still mad about Paris, that’s for sure. The clothes are a nice touch, but they hardly compensate for the whole experience. Andy’s heartbroken face when Emily yelled at her has nothing to do with… nothing to do with anything. Nor does the touch of Andy’s hand on Emily’s arm at the gala, warm and steady and soft, soothing above the cold she was harboring.
It’s silly — that’s what it is, Emily shakes her head again. She was exhausted, sick, and wasn’t eating, and Andy’s touch was a simple distraction in the sea of suffering. Anyone’s touch would’ve been. And all Emily felt when she touched Andrea, dragging her through the office, was simply power and control. Nothing else, because the electricity in her hands and the hum in her stomach has no other explanation. No other acceptable explanation.
Eight days later, Emily’s walking home, again, and pleads to the city of New York to be just a bit louder. To the drivers to honk a little more often, to accelerate a bit louder, for the people to talk a bit more and for the music in the bars to be a little livelier. She needs it to distract her, to put her in a state of mind where her mind would turn to static, just shut up about Andy and anything at all.
Because that’s not what she does. Emily does not dwell on things, not unless they are a choice between two pieces of couture or whether a designer’s success is getting better. Emily does not walk around aimlessly and wonder what Andy would say to certain thoughts Emily would never say in reality. And most of all — Emily does not wonder whether Andy’s lips are soft, of how her body would feel beneath her hands, or what sounds she would make in response to some things, because Emily does not pine over weak, incompetent, fashion-offensive, sickeningly-sweet girls who quit a million girls’ dream job in the middle of Paris.
Emily’s gaze drifts to a plate on the building and the words come into focus with a quiet recognition. An HR file she was digging through flashes before her eyes, trying to find a flaw in it, while her eyes landed on an address with a same-named street as this one. Her heart and stomach do something dangerously similar to acrobatics, and she replays her own thoughts from just a moment ago and tries to reel herself back, wondering when she had wandered to this neighborhood to begin with.
She just needs to pass the crossroads and go on. Her foot hits the sidewalk on the other side of the street, but she falters, briefly, and thinks that out of all the adjectives she used for Andy, the only one that’s true is that she’s an idiot to quit in the middle of Paris.
So, with that in mind, Emily bites her lip, swallows down her pride, and turns on her heel to the right. She stops in front of number thirty-two, lifts her hand to the buzzer number seven, pauses there.
And then what? She actually rings Andy’s apartment at 10pm? Say Andy answers this time — then what? How does she explain to her what she’s doing at her doorstep? How does she explain that to herself?
“Emily?”
On reflex, her head turns to the left, but of course she recognizes the voice long before her eyes land on its owner, just a few meters away from the entrance.
“Hi, what are you doing here?” Andy, ever the kind spirit, gives her that signature wide smile of hers and something catches in Emily’s throat. Her heart beats a fast staccato in her chest, and her mind can’t decide whether to be mortified at having been caught in such a moment, or actually be happy to see her.
It’s obviously mortification first, the only reasonable choice here, “I was just…” She swallows, shakes her head once, “Visiting a friend.”
An eyebrow raise from Andy, a glance to the entrance, “Really?” A firm, quick nod from Emily, “Hm, most of the people are seniors here. Oh, I live here by the way!”
“Do you now?” Emily finds herself muttering, then clears her throat, “Yeah, well, best I get going, it’s getting rather late,” She clasps her hands together, steps away and unfortunately, towards Andy.
“Weren’t you going in?” Andy’s eyebrows furrow.
“No.”
“It looked like you were trying to find a button on the intercom,” Andy counters again.
“No, I wasn’t,” Emily insists, walking again, “Now if you’ll excuse me-“
“Wait!”
Andy steps in her way, not actually blocking her, or stopping her, but making her halt her steps immediately, less than two meters away from each other. Emily’s heart picks up its pace once again, and that same traitorous thing catches in her throat like a toad, yet despite it, her annoyed persona raises a challenging eyebrow at Andy. Emily would never admit it out loud, but she can’t help but enjoy the few moments of the interaction, and it’s utterly embarrassing.
“I mean…” Andy stares for a second too long, visibly swallows. For her part, Emily takes in the slightest relief that she’s not the only one raking with nerves, “This is probably gonna sound utterly crazy to you but, would you like to come up for a drink?”
Emily’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide, before she can register it. Surely Andy’s just being nice like she would with anyone, but her mind supplies with implications that she definitely does not want to unpack. She marks them as intrusive and files them on the furthest shelf in her mind, then takes a deep breath before the heat in her neck becomes visible. She refuses to acknowledge why she’s been so drawn to Andrea, and why she ended up at her here in the first place.
“A drink? With you?” The words don’t come naturally, mainly because there was a scenario in her head similar to this one. She’s not going to unpack that either.
“Yes, I’m surprised by my own idea, since you were never anything but a jerk to me,” Andy’s words are more of a deadpan, yet not completely accusatory, “But, I don’t know, now that I don’t work at Runway anymore and you don’t have an actual reason to snap at me all the time…” She trails off.
Emily stares at her for a long moment, cataloguing her features — hair down, dark yet casual makeup, mild tiredness on her face, and the outfit that Emily would roll her eyes at were they at Runway. But they’re not, so the simple black top and blue jeans that hug Andy’s hips in a way that makes Emily want to lick her lips wet, does not seem foul at all.
She meets Andy’s eyes again, chin up, as if she’s doing her a favor, “I suppose that’s not an entirely awful idea. You’ve caught me on an evening where a drink would sound best.”
The blinding smile Andy shoots her makes Emily spin on her heel again, pursing her lips together to hide her own smile as she walks back to the entrance.
Halfway up the stairs, Andy pipes up, “I should warn you, I wasn’t expecting company, so the current state of my apartment might not to be… up to certain standards.”
“Please, you know how much Miranda takes up of your time. I know a thing or two about having no time to clean,” A smirk pulls at her lips and Emily, possibly for the first time, finds herself actually sharing something personal with Andrea. An odd feeling, yet she’s not completely repulsed by it.
Andy’s apartment, well… it looks like it’s in various states of either moving out or moving in, or like someone moved out and there’s suddenly empty space. It’s messy, but it’s messy in a similar way Emily’s own apartment is — plates with crumbs left on the table, coffee cups dried off on the table, a blanket balled up on the couch with cushions haphazardly thrown around, shoes scattered all over the floor, mainly around the front door; unwashed dishes and far too many washed ones sitting on the drier rack.
She moves the blanket to the arm of the couch and deposits herself on the side, crossing her legs.
“I only have some red wine that I got as a gift, is that okay?” Andy shouts from the kitchen.
“It’s fine,” She bellows back.
Then Andy sits next to her, on the other side of the couch, yet closer than she’s ever been. They’re not standing side by side in Miranda’s office, they’re not trailing after Miranda at the gala either. They don’t have any obligation towards anyone, or to each other. Andy is sitting next to her, on the same couch because she apparently wants to be sitting there, and Emily is in her apartment because, frankly, she wanted to end up here.
Then Emily finds herself asking Andy all the things she’s been wondering about for the past eight days, and Andy tells her how she likes her new work, how it’s demanding and the absolute bottom of the food chain, but how after Miranda it’s almost easy, and Emily actually laughs at that because she definitely relates to it. Then she tells her about Nate, the boyfriend who’s now an ex, who’s moved out about two weeks ago and now she either needs a roommate or to move to a smaller and cheaper place. Emily thinks how this is going to turn into a sob story post-breakup, but when Andy tells her it’s for the better and that it was a long time coming, how she came to be at peace with it, she believes her.
Andy asks about Runway, and laughs when she finds out they call the new girl Andrea, a little sorry for the girl. She asks about Nigel and how he’s doing, how Miranda’s being with the change.
“And how are you?” Andy asks, softer.
“Oh, same as always,” Emily sighs, “The crutches and the cast were a nightmare. Do you know how hard it is to wear anything with it? I mean, the skirt and dresses alone are fine, but getting stockings on was impossible! I had to cut two pairs so one leg was cut above the knee!”
“I’m sorry,” Andy says quietly, with a small smile.
“What are you sorry for? You weren’t driving that cab,” Emily brushes it off.
“No, but I was distracting you,” Andy’s voice sounds small, “Maybe if I wasn’t keeping you on the phone you would’ve seen it in time and stopped.”
Emily sighs, “Don’t be ridiculous. Miranda would’ve sent you to Paris either way, that’s what you told me,” She leans back on the couch, “I mean I was furious with you, but now I’m starting to realize it was all her doing, as much as I hate it.”
Emily watches the liquid in her glass, dark and rich, until she realizes Andy’s been silent for a handful of moments now. She tilts her head up and finds Andy’s eyes trained on her. Not sad, not angry — searching, is probably the best word for it. Determined. She breathes in and out louder, and it makes Emily scrunch her brows in confusion.
Andy speaks before she can, voice curious, “Did you call me?”
Oh, Emily thinks to herself, and feels her eyes widen. Apparently it’s the only confirmation Andy needs, “You did. I thought it was a pocket dial.”
Andy’s gaze stays that way, searching, but this time it feels like she’s prying Emily open and actually trying to see what she was thinking, and it makes Emily clutch her glass tighter, suddenly aware that she’s at the end of the couch and has nowhere further to go.
“Why did you call me?” Andy asks with a subtle shake of her head.
Fuck. Maybe she should’ve thought this through after all.
Emily swallows, though completely at loss of words to say. Her mouth opens, forms around a word but nothing comes out, closes, then does the same all over again.
Andy leans forward in her seat, tilting her head to the side as if she’s figured something out, “You weren’t visiting anyone.”
Okay, so she might have figured it out. Maybe this is what Emily deserves after all, after behaving so rashly, first with the phone call, then with coming to Andy’s building. She lets out a defeated sigh, aware she’s just going to look stupid if she tries to lie further, “No, I wasn’t,” She admits reluctantly.
“Should I be scared that you know where I live?” A raise to an eyebrow, more playful than accusatory.
“You know where I do, so I’d say no.”
“That’s because Roy dropped you off while I was in the car.”
“Hardly an important detail,” Emily rolls her eyes.
“So,” Andy shuffles in her seat, just a tad closer to Emily, subtle enough not to notice, “Why did you call me and why were you standing outside my building?”
Emily huffs out a long breath, not liking the head-on confrontation, “I don’t know why I called, not completely at least,” She rolls her eyes, casts them down to her lap, it’s kind of the truth.
“Okay,” She says slowly, “Then what was partly why you called?” She asks in that sweet and patient way of hers and it only angers Emily that she’s not pressing her harder about this like Emily would if the tables were turned, or just sent her home for being a creep.
No, Andrea has to be utterly infuriating about it, “Bloody hell, you’re impossible, do you know that?!” She shoots her a nasty look.
“Oh, I’m impossible because I want to know why you called me after months of hating my guts when you had no work-related reason to, and then showed up at my place on a Tuesday night?” Andy stares at her, “Geez, you’re right, what’s wrong with me?”
Well that’s new, Emily thinks to herself with raised eyebrows. Apparently, Andy grew a spine sometime during Paris. Probably in time to quit her job there. It’s almost attractive, but Emily flings that thought to the back of her mind too.
Then, it seems, Andy remembers herself and adds in a much softer tone, “Why are you still a jerk to me? Why did you come to my apartment if you’re still gonna act like this?”
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Emily rubs her temples, eyes closed.
She can feel Andy leaning closer again by the shift of the couch. She keeps her eyes closed, willing the sudden pounding in her head to go away, facing the coffee table.
“Why did you come over, Emily?” She asks firmly this time.
“God, I couldn’t get-“ Emily snaps her eyes open, shouts, then realizes her mistake. She takes a deep breath, no use in going back now, resignation settling in, “I couldn’t get you out of my head, alright?” She adds quieter.
Eyes closed, she huffs out slowly once again. Well now she’s definitely fucked up whatever version of herself she’s been curating in Andrea’s mind for months. What was the purpose of telling her anyway? She knew she wouldn’t get anything out of Andy knowing she secretly fancied her, and unfortunately, still fancies her.
Met with silence, Emily turns her head to a stunned Andrea, wide eyes and slightly parted mouth, and that annoys her most because it just proves her right in the most frustrating way. Now not only did she embarrass herself, but she also let Andy in on a secret. Just perfect.
Emily groans softly, “This is why I should’ve said it doesn’t matter, but you wouldn’t have left it at that, would you?” She tells mostly herself, “Just say that you don’t swing that way and we can forget that I made a complete fool out of myself,” She rolls her eyes, standing up, intent to leave while she still has some dignity left, “I’ve already embarrassed myself for a lifetime, I shouldn’t have come up-“
A hand wraps around her wrist and tugs just enough to stop her from walking away. It’s a stark contrast to the precious atmosphere and it makes Emily whip around to face Andy, surprised at the sudden boldness.
Andy’s sitting in her place on the couch, fingers wrapped around her wrist, looking up with those big bambi eyes that haunt Emily whenever she closes her own.
Andy’s fingers press against her pulse point, just a touch firmer, feeling. One of her eyebrows raises and her face twists in such a flirty way it catches Emily off guard, “And who says I don’t swing that way?”
Emily’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. This is getting out of hand. This is… not real. Andy shouldn’t act like this, so unlike the way she was at Runway, and playing with Emily? In all her imaginations, this never happened, and it curls a ball low in Emily’s stomach.
“So… This development…” Andy runs her thumb over the thin skin on her wrist, watched the movement, and Emily grits her teeth not to shiver at the featherlight touch, “Is it recent, or did you have a thing for me all those times you snapped at me for just breathing too loudly?” Andy’s lips curl in a devilish smile, openly teasing now.
Emily licks her lips and swallows, not completely sure of the answer herself. She’s not sure which option is more humiliating, to be frank. Not that it matters now.
Apparently, Andy doesn’t need a verbal answer to continue, her eyes shining, “Well,” She looks down to the wrist again, “Let’s just say,” Looks up, through her eyelashes, “That the sentiment is returned,” And this time, tugs harshly on the wrist.
Emily falls right on top of Andrea with a gasp, knees bending until they brace against the couch on either side of Andy’s thighs, her skirt hiking up and straining against her ass. Somehow, in the midst of all this, her hands have wound up on Andy’s shoulders and Andy’s hands are holding her waist, drawing her body closer.
“You know, you say I’m dense, but,” Andy’s face is close, eyes dark and hungry, eyelids heavy and her hands grip at her waist and make Emily’s breath hitch, then slide to her hips and Emily rolls them without registering, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to just take you by the hips, push you against your desk, and kiss you breathless until you forgot what you were mad at me for?”
And no, that’s too much for Emily for one night, one too many revelations. Everything about is downright insane. So she does the only thing she can think of and cups both sides of Andy’s jaw, and kisses her hard.
And God, does Andy respond gloriously. She pulls at her hips until they slide forward and their fronts press, and Emily can feel the curve of her breasts slot with her own. She sighs into Andy’s mouth, slips her tongue past Andy’s lips and meets hers, hot and wet and eager against Emily’s.
The curl in her belly turns to a fireball and lights her all over. She slides her hands into Andy’s hair, threads the locks between her fingers and tugs just a little, just to let her know she can’t be completely in charge. Andy whines a little into her mouth, hands tightening on Emily’s hips before they move up her sides, feeling the shape of her. It makes something in Emily surge up and take over.
She pushes Andy by the shoulders, back against the couch as she ducks her head and her lips find Andy’s neck. Her mind only half-registers what’s happening. It’s shut down somewhere around the time Andy exposed she was attracted to her and she has since then acted without inhibitions, finally letting herself loose.
Andy’s hands against her bare skin, however, snap her back to reality. She gasps, and realizes Andy’s toying with the hem of her crisp white shirt, lower than her corset reaches over it. Emily looks up from her neck and meets Andy’s patient eyes, waiting.
She holds her gaze as Andy sits up, “We don’t ha-“ But Emily shuts her up with a kiss, a hard one that makes Andy groan against them. Emily nods against her lips eagerly, undoing her corset and throwing it on the floor, feels Andy’s fingers grip the shirt and pull it over her head, too eager to unbutton it.
Emily rids Andy of her own top and kisses her again, messy and eager and desperate now that she knows she can have what she didn’t let herself even admit she wanted an hour ago. Emily eyes the sheer black lace Andy’s wearing, the little details that make her tits look the hottest sight Emily’s ever seen. She’s sure, as her brain almost short circuits.
Andy grabs her hips again and rolls them, and the feeling of bare skin against bare skin, with only two bras between them, with the friction her underwear makes against Andy’s jeans, elicits a loud moan, high and feminine, and Andy groans in her mouth in response.
God, the friction is delicious, it makes her hips roll harder without Andy’s help. She knows she’s going to soak through them at this rate, but the thought of staining Andy’s jeans thrills her in ways she hasn't experienced yet.
Andy pulls away from her and kisses down her jaw, her neck, bites lightly on her collarbones, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make her whine. She kisses the tops of her breasts and she’s actively panting now, rocking against Andy’s thigh, feeling how soaked she is inside her underwear.
“Fuck, Em,” Andy growls between her tits, looks up at her, “Are you gonna make yourself come against my thigh?” She asks breathlessly.
“Are you gonna do something before that happens?” Emily tries to bite back, but her voice comes out strangled.
“Can I take the rest off?”
“Yess,” Emily hisses at the picture, arms tightening around her neck, and feels Andy unclasp her bra, flinging it to the side, then slides down the zipper of her skirt, pulls it down along with the stockings, and at any other moment, Emily would snap at her to be more careful with designer clothes, but right now, the only thing she can think about is how she needs to feel Andy’s fingers on her and in her.
Her panties join her clothes on the floor, and Emily hovers over her for a moment, spread and open. Then Andy’s kissing her again, hard and messy and all tongue, and slips her fingers against her cunt, feeling the whole length of her and it makes Emily shudder a full body shiver. She’s already so wound up, can feel how easily Andy’s fingers slide.
She can’t control herself when Andy’s fingers focus on her clit, just once, enough to make her hips twitch and for her to moan needy. She needs Andy to consume her whole.
“Inside,” She pants into her mouth, “I need you inside.”
Two of Andy’s fingers line against her entrance, then enter with ease, to the last knuckle. On the way back Andy curls them and there’s a white flash in front of Emily’s eyes. She can hear herself cry out.
“Like this, baby?” Andy’s low voice vibrates against her lips.
Oh it doesn’t help her dignity that Andy’s dirty talk is absolutely working, “Yes, yes…” Emily rolls her hips in time with Andy’s thrusts. Emily keeps kissing her, even though her own gasps and moans interrupt them.
“Please, please,” High and whiny, but Emily can’t find it in herself to feel embarrassed. Not when Andy’s fingers feel so good inside her, and when she curls them just against the spot, and when her whole head swims and her body feels alight and her cunt burns for more.
“I think you can take another,” She positions another finger, ready, pushes in when Emily nods eagerly and moans against her mouth.
Emily can’t remember the last time she felt like this, she thinks faintly as she throws her head back. Her head feels light but her body needs to be closer to Andy and she needs more of whatever Andy’s willing to give her. Oh, and the sounds of her fingers inside her are so vulgar and so dirty and Emily loves that Andy takes her like this, loves that the roles are somewhat reversed.
To think the scared little assistant would fuck her this good, it makes her head spin even harder.
She feels Andy’s lips wrap around her nipple, sucking and tongue lapping at it, and she’s so damn close. She can feel the shape of Andy’s fingers inside her, crushed by her but they keep moving. Her thighs are clenched tight, shaking, she’s saying something, or more like mewling stuff out that she knows she will feel embarrassed about later, but right now her mouth’s working on its own.
Somehow Andy understands it, because her other hand slips between them too and starts flicking her clit, pressing hard, fast and purposeful, and Emily’s gone.
Her vision blacks out, and she can hear herself moan loudly enough to wonder how thick the apartment’s walls are. Her muscles tense, her walls tight around Andy’s fingers, pressing against all the right spots, Andy’s other hand is ruthless on her clit and it keeps her hips rocking, hot white pleasure coursing through her whole being. Her skin is sweaty and clammy and she feels herself moaning out something like don’t stop, don’t stop as she keeps rocking into Andy’s hands, and the orgasm likely turns into another, she can’t be bothered to distinct them, not above the way her mind drifts into some other dimension of sorts.
She’s not sure how much time passes until she sags, spent and sated and sensitive, into Andy’s arms, panting to catch her breath, “Just give me a minute…” Because like hell she’ll leaving this apartment before she gets a round on Andy.
Emily’s breathing hard into the hollow of Andy’s neck, nuzzling the skin there and feels Andy shiver at the contact. Her lips replace her nose, brushing against the thin skin before she licks it, kisses it, a sigh from Andy’s lips, then she bites it.
Andy’s back arches into her front, Emily’s lips and teeth find her collarbone, recalling how that felt when Andy did it to her. Her hands feel up Andy’s sides until they reach the lace of her bra. And okay, apparently Andy does have some taste, not that it would matter to Emily in this point.
A need consumes Emily whole, hands scrambling for any contact with Andy’s skin, that bloody bra, the jeans she tries to unbutton. She tugs the zipper down and hovers over Andy’s hips so she can get them down, and Andy trembles in anticipation, hands palming at her back to keep her close.
Andy unclasps her own bra and throws it to the side, hurrying to kiss Emily on the lips, pulling Emily’s body into her own until their breasts press together, until she feels hardened nipples press against soft skin and she moans into Emily’s mouth.
“Touch me,” Andy breathes against her mouth.
Come tomorrow, Emily will deny that she actually listened to an order from Andrea. No, that’s completely and utterly embarrassing. However, it’s also incredibly hot, how Andy knows what she wants and knows how to get it. And Emily? Well, Emily might just be too far gone to care about anything other than that.
Emily kisses her hard, slipping her tongue inside as she wrestles the panties down Andy’s legs and repositions herself to hover over one of her legs so she can spread them. Andy moans into her mouth, maybe in anticipation, maybe at the cool air.
It’s a sort of a revelation when Emily finally touches her — the way Andy cries out, her back arching off the couch before she slumps back down and tries to push herself harder against Emily’s fingers. She’s so wet, Emily can’t help but moan at the silky warmth she’s swiping through. God, that’s gonna stain the couch, and it thrills her that Andy’s going to have a testament to this.
The sheer speed of her own searing blood in her veins keeps her going, keeps collecting Andy’s slick against her fingers, opens her eyes enough to see Andy’s arched eyebrows, blissful, and she wonders how she hasn’t figured out this sooner. How she hasn’t realized months ago how much she desired Andy like this, beneath her and moaning and a sticky mess, unraveling on her fingers.
She doesn’t think about it any longer though, not now. Not when Andy’s gasps pierce her ears louder than a siren’s song, reaching deep within something buried.
“Em,” Andy moans, “come on…”
“What do you want?” But it’s so different from that snappy tone she always threw at Andrea. No, this one is breathless and an actual question, and Emily says it before she can remember to be mortified that she actually wants Andrea to tell her what to do to her. Later, she will reason with herself that both those sides oh her can exist together
There’s a flicker of something in Andy’s eyes, a momentary confusion before something settles in them, and they’re no longer unfocused and hazy, but determined and even darker somehow.
“Focus on my clit,” She grunts when Emily does so, “Lightly! Or I’m not gonna last long,” She pants against Emily’s face.
So Emily cranes her head up and circles Andy’s clit, light enough to be teasing, and Andy moans highly into her mouth, whimpering, “Harder,” She breathes after a few moments, and Emily loves how she gives up on the act under Emily’s touch, desperate thing.
Emily presses harder, puts a little more pressure and circles more precisely, and Andy’s hips jump into her hand, “I-I’m close,” She’s panting now, moans interrupting her, “D-Don’t stop, Em, don’t stop.”
What a glorious feeling, to have a woman come undone on your fingers. Andy’s muscles go tight for a long second, mouth open silently before she’s rocking jerkily into Emily’s hand, moaning loudly into the space between them, and Emily ducks to suck at her neck.
She’s still jerking into her hand when she manages to speak, voice hoarse, “Fuck me, Em, I know you want to, I know you’ve been thinking about it too.”
Andy has no business throwing Emily’s subconscious thoughts in her face, her mind tries to tell her. She’s definitely going to be the death of her, Emily thinks as she moans at the picture, leaves her clit and gives her shaking legs a break, entering her with a single digit. Andy lets out a wanton moan, trying to roll her hips in search for more, keens when she doesn’t find find it.
“More, Em, I can take at least-“ Her words turn into a choked moan when Emily slips in a second finger.
Emily hovers over her, waits until Andy’s eyes open and settle on hers, “You feel so good,” Because, God, does she. Emily can’t remember the last time she’s felt this good, in every inch of her skin. No amount of couture compares to the feeling of Andy — slick and warm and tight around her fingers, moaning and all because of her.
“God,” Andy throws her head back, “Go slow, deep… I want to feel every inch of your fingers, I want to have you inside me for-“ Words die on her tongue when Emily crooks her fingers inside her, or maybe she purposely stops them, she wouldn’t know. Emily’s a fast learner after all, especially when she wants to play Andy’s body like an instrument, to make it sing with virtuousness.
“Another,” Andy breathes out, probably meaning for the word to sound way steadier than it is.
Perhaps Emily can make an exception, maybe when it comes to Andy, to listen to her commands. She tells herself it’s more than okay, now that they don’t work together anymore, and especially because she’s two fingers deep in inside her, and gladly makes it three at her request.
Oh, it’s more than fine, Emily closes her eyes and lets herself moan with Andrea, long and breathy and the feeling of her, stretched and tight and wet around her fingers.
She pumps her fingers slowly, lets Andy feel every inch that she moves inside her, lets herself hear every moan that Andy breathily lets out every time she goes in.
“Emily,” A breathy little sound, barely a voice, and it makes Emily’s head spin. They should’ve done this a long time ago. Maybe at the office, after hours, with those lights dimmed after mostly everyone’s gone home…
“Faster,” Another breath, a cry when Emily does speed up. Emily can feel her clench harder and her thighs shake a little, supports herself on her knees and rubs at Andy’s clit with her other hand and it’s game over.
Andy throws her head back when she comes, claws at Emily’s waist and nearly throws her off balance, but somehow Emily manages to stay upright and fuck Andy through her orgasm until she’s flinching away from her touch.
She pulls out of her and, before she can think even once about it, sucks her fingers into her own mouth, eyes rolling back at the taste of Andy on her tongue. Andy’s jaw drops open at the sight, even wider, and her eyes rake over her face, her fingers, her naked body still hovering over her and all of it makes Emily hungry for more, her cunt throbbing with a fresh wave of need.
Andy’s hands splay against her ass and pull her forward, make her straddle her properly again. Emily lets her fingers pop out of her mouth and braces against Andy’s shoulders, aware of her own spit making contact with skin there. She wonders if she’s ever going to pull herself away from Andy tonight.
Andy, ever full of surprises, guides her up until her hands find purchase under her thighs and she’s suddenly lifting them both up off the couch, Emily realizes with a yelp and lets her arms circle Andy’s shoulders, her legs wrapping around her waist tightly.
Her mouth stretches in a devilish grin at the sight of Andy’s bitten lip, obviously leading them towards the bedroom.
“When did your size-six arms get so strong?” Emily teases, trying to focus against the feeling of her center brushing Andy’s stomach.
Andy hums, glances over her shoulder as she walks them across the apartment, “Probably around the time I became a four.”
“Wonders never cease,” Emily’s thumb brushes her jaw, “Knew there was a reason I was acting like this.”
Andy barks out a laugh, flicks the light on and fixes Emily with a fond gaze, “Sure, Em. That’s why.”
As Emily’s back hits the mattress, her breath briefly knocked out of her, she thinks, just for a moment, until Andy climbs over her — how she nearly missed out on all this, ignorant to think her dignity wouldn’t survive.
Her back arches up towards Andy when she kisses her, lips firm and sure against hers, and thinks how maybe, some things just deserve to change.