A/N 1: I didn't want to bother my beta, so all mistakes are mine.

A/N 2: I feel like this is missing something. Oh well.

You spend the entire year building towards Paris Fashion Week. Bits of the event spill over into issues of your magazine for months afterward. You live for the excitement of fresh designers, renewed designs, and a constant flurry of movement. With that being said, and while you would rather not have things any other way, you are incredibly glad that it is over.

You are the first to admit that you're constantly running on a speed well above 100 miles per hour. You have become accustomed to a steady fast pace, and a constant state of flux. However, after weeks of galloping at top speed – overseeing run-throughs, negotiating with advertisers, sifting through endless designs – You are tired, and you need a break. Well, as much of a break as you can afford to take.

It had taken very little convincing for you to persuade the whole team of creative directors and associates to pursue a photo shoot in the San Joaqin Valley in the heart of California. The venue is quite beautiful, if you do say so yourself, and the weather this spring should be mild and temperate enough to work comfortably. The secured location also features a large, stone-front mansion that will double nicely as a backdrop for the photos and as living arrangements for your stay.

You have a vision of flowing, pastel-colored gowns paired with rich, wine red jewelry and accessories. You can feel that it would look amazing against a vineyard backdrop, if your vision is properly carried through. In your mind's eye, you picture the models in the selected gowns. A number of them were pulled from the vintage selection of the closet, and the others were procured by Andréa after she worked her usual magic to get them in your possession in a timely manner.

Cartier has a collection of jewelry featuring garnets and rubies that will contrast nicely with the gowns, and also supplement the surrounding orchard trees and grapevines. The pale but pleasing colors of the gowns will represent spring, and the deep ruby wine shades of the jewelry embody winter. You're trying to conceptualize how the seasons blend into each other. It looks wonderful in your head, but it's up to your team to put it together on paper. You continue to live on hope.

Although it's been about a month since the end of Fashion Week itself, April has been stressful, and you wanted a shoot that seemed light and carefree. The flight to your location had gone as smoothly as possible, but perhaps your serenity is based on the fact that you spent the 6 hour journey next to Andréa. In fact, being confined within a stuffy plane for that amount of time did not bother you in the least, because every time the beautiful woman next to you moved, you got a whiff of her sweet, heady perfume.

You still don't quite know what to do about that. This thing you have with Andréa truly does not have words. You have never kissed, or touched, or even breathed a word to each other about your undeniable attraction to one another. But somehow sometimes after your eyes meet, even amongst a crowd, you feel thoroughly caressed.

You are currently standing amongst a plethora of different monitors on the rear deck of the sprawling California mansion. The masonry of the building is simply exquisite, and the entire structure has 24 rooms, a tennis court, two pools, and a waterfall. For a moment you take a second to miss your daughters, because if it were not for school, they would be here enjoying themselves without a doubt.

The monitors connect to the digital cameras that are currently in use 20 yards away to capture the models' poses. You've never used this photographer before, but so far you are pleased, even if you would never admit it. Nigel is pressing various buttons to make the screens zoom in or pull back to your liking, and you lean in closely to examine the photos in detail. He speaks to the photographer on a walkman, barking out directions.

The first model has blonde hair and green eyes, and knows exactly what to do with her body to make the fabric of the dress swell out like a sail. The second's hair is a few shades darker, and she is adept at catching the sunlight to make the jewelry on her wrists sparkle in the light. Both are sharing these frames, and have bodies most people in the fashion industry would die for. Despite this fact, you cannot help thinking that every ensemble would look much better when wrapped around Andréa.

Speaking of Andréa, she stands under a tall orchard tree talking to Serena as she applies makeup to another stick-thin model. She's carrying a parasol, like a Victorian queen, and when someone tried to mock her for it, she told endearing stories of her most embarrassing sunburns. She indeed looks kind of silly, but still, you would feel terrible if anything happened to Andréa's enticing milky skin.

As if she feels your eyes on her, she turns around to you and pierces you with those brown pools of hers. You curse the fact that you are too far away and among too many people to caress the few tendrils of hair that have fallen from the pile of hair atop her head. They frame her face in such a charming way. She smiles that smile at you, the one that makes your knees feel like water. The heat in the air disguises your returning blush.

Thankfully no one has noticed, and you quickly direct your attention back to the photo screens and whatever Nigel has been rambling on about. When you look back at Andréa, she too has turned away, so you return to admiring her bare shoulders in the afternoon light.

This is the last day you will be in California, and perhaps it is the last day that you will be able to resist your first assistant. She's ready to move on to another job, anyway, and you will encourage her to do so when you return to the city. You stand here torn, because as long as she remains your assistant, you do not yet have to summon the courage to express your feelings to her. It's one of your deepest fears that your mutual attraction is just a figment of your imagination. It's not often that you have doubts, but sometimes you wonder if you are just a silly old fool.

You would never tell Nigel amongst this many people, but the last frame of the camera that appears on the screen is dazzling. You whisper to him that after a few more shots, he can feel free to wrap up for good. It's perhaps time you raised Nigel's salary, due to the fact that the man has endless knowledge about photographic light.

Nigel wanders over to the photographer, and the models relax their poses. You watch as he says something to the man with the camera, and the eccentric photographer pumps a fist in the air and yells, "that's a wrap!" You roll your eyes.

Slowly people begin to pack up their things, and once again you search out your assistant. You find her leaned against the same tree with an effortless sensuality, typing into her cell phone. She's probably doing more work than you pay her for, and you try not to cringe. The floral dress she's wearing while holding that silly parasol makes her look like a flawless post card image. The sweetheart neckline and clingy fabric makes your heart speed up just a little when your gaze pauses on certain parts of her.

When you are close enough, she lifts her eyes to meet yours, and you forget what it was you came over to her to say. Sometimes her beauty is so breathtaking, that you wonder what it is you are waiting for before kissing her senseless. Of course under a tree in a vineyard in California would be host to a perfect venue to do so, if it weren't for the fact that a number of your underlings are currently milling about. You'll just have to save your passion for another time.

"Did you need something, Miranda?" Oh. The question was so innocent, but the mischief in her brown eyes makes your mind come up with all sorts of inappropriate answers. You want to chuckle at the gall of this girl, but you settle for a smile. The risk of such a gesture is only because your back is to everyone on your payroll other than the pretty woman in front of you.

Sunlight filters through leaves and branches, wrapping you both in a twinkling shadow of intimacy. Her gaze lingers on your neck when you swallow, in preparation for doling out instructions. They don't stop there, you can feel her eyes all over you as you speak. You try your best to focus on your instructions, asking her to call caterers and set up a dinner party in reward for everyone finishing their work on time. Under her eyes you feel like you are melting, and ask yourself how you could have ever thought your mutual attraction was all in your head.

In regards to food, you know of a certain catering company just south of Sacramento, that wouldn't mind delivering to your rural venue, especially for the hefty tip they're going to get. You hope the food is worth it. When Andréa asks you if there's anything in particular you would like on the menu, you fight the urge to say, "You."

Instead your only request is tarts filled with warm rhubarb compote, one of your favorites. She wrinkles her nose adorably, and you want nothing more than to gently plant your lips on the tip of it.

You also tell her to pick something she'd enjoy eating at the party. Her expression morphs into one of surprise, and god bless you, she hits you with one of those smiles. You roll your eyes with no real malice and say, "But for the love of God, no "pigs-in-a-blanket."

Her expression transforms from surprised, to surprised delight, and she clutches a hand to her chest like the true Victorian beauty she is portraying today. "Why, Miranda Priestly! I'm shocked and appalled you even know what that is!"

Instead of laughing like you want to, at the ridiculousness of this beautiful woman, you turn and walk away. As much as you want to look over your shoulder at her, you resist the urge. Her eyes bore holes into your back anyway. You will be lucky if you can make it through the day without pouncing. Perhaps your moniker should have been a tiger instead of a dragon.

No one stops you as you make your way to the fourth floor of the house, which houses not only your room, but the rooms of Nigel, Emily, Andréa, and other minions you didn't bother to notice. Everyone around is practically buzzing, all so excited at the prospect of a fun-filled night off from work. Not to mention, the vineyard has offered you all unlimited beverages for the night, since you were kind enough to throw in a blurb about the location on the spread of your magazine. It was a small price to pay, really, for all the free booze. This is one of those times that you truly don't mind having such an influence on the world around you.

A shower after being in the sticky sun all day sounds positively amazing. Your room is the only one on the floor with an in-suite bathroom, and you are incredibly grateful. After stripping to your underwear, you gently place each item of clothing reverently on the bed in preparation for stowing it in your garment bag for the journey home. You choose a new outfit carefully, wanting to look enticing without seeming too forward. It is in fact a very fine line.

When you're satisfied with your choices, you grab your towel and robe, clutching them in front of you as you make your way to the bathroom. Your shower at home is a world wonder, but the one in your suite is comparable, you suppose. The water warms, and the steam welcomes you into an embrace.

You remove your undergarments, and step into the healing spray, letting the water melt away all your makeup before washing your face. Your hair is next, but it doesn't take much work, so then you move on to the other necessary parts of you. Without your permission, your mind suddenly turns your hands into the hands of the object of your affection. You can practically feel Andréa behind you, caressing your slippery stomach, her hands sliding lower by the second.

You are so turned on, and you can't even help it. Your skin feels warm and sensitive, and not just due to the hot water. Your sex feels like it's practically on fire. You think that if this were just lust, you could both just fuck until it's out of your system. You've certainly done that with others before. But you know in both your mind and your heart that you want more from Andréa than just her body.

When your fingertips reach the juncture of your thighs, electricity courses through your veins, but it acts as a bucket of ice water. Immediately you feel guilty for fantasizing about a woman half your age touching you so intimately. To shock the guilty feelings out of your system and put your icy mask back in place, you yank the water temperature as cold as it will get.

The cold water barely works to cool down the inferno inside of you. It truly is exhausting to sit next to Andréa, or talk to her, or breathe in her scent on a daily basis without losing your mind. People have tried to tame the dragon, so to speak, many times in the past. Little did you know, it would only take a few lingering glances from large, brown doe eyes.

It's time. It's time to get out of the shower and go downstairs. It's time to decide if you want to take a chance at being happy or if you want to let it pass you by for the sake of propriety. Or for the sake of your magazine. It's got to be tonight that you gather up the guts to approach Andréa. It's either tonight or never. This will not wait forever, someone will scoop her up soon if you decide not to.

Screw it. Screw propriety, and screw what's best for Runway. That magazine has been your significant other for decades, and for once you are ready to be involved with a person instead of a stack of paper. Admittedly, the allure of fashion and your magazine has gotten you through more hard times than you can count. But being next to Andréa is also the closest you've felt to being alive in years. The pull of her has become too strong in the very best way.

Back in your room, with your decision made and under a fresh set of clothes, you feel like a new woman. A dab of perfume to your wrists, and Loubotins on your feet only add to your regality. You nod at yourself in your reflection, and challenge yourself with a smirk. The confident sway in your hips as you walk downstairs only solidifies the confidence in your spirit. Still, it's a good thing you're on a vineyard, because a little glass of liquid courage could surely help.

When you reach the main living space just off of the main massive kitchen, your dinner party is in full swing. Not only did Andréa have the soiree catered, but there are waiters milling about with hors d'oeuvres on trays. Even the models are happy to indulge, knowing that relaxation is rarely permitted and certainly never promoted.

There's a corner nook off the side of the swirling staircase, a perfect place to compose yourself before venturing into the kitchen, where you can hear forks clinking and people laughing. Your staff seems to be enjoying the party, all of them in various states of inebriation. Although the vineyard owners offered all bottles consumed tonight free of charge, you decide to pay for them anyway from your personal account, feeling generous, or perhaps a little tipsy.

You spot Andréa from afar, talking to Emily by the door that leads to the pool on the back deck. Something Andréa says makes both Emily and Serena cackle loudly, while Andréa's features just hold a smirk. It is not lost on you that she seems to be able to effortlessly warm the most unlikely hearts, including yours. Typically, Emily can be just as frigid and intimidating as yourself, but leaned against Serena with wine in hand, she looks pleasant and warm.

A cater waiter with a tray of tarts floats by you, and without even pausing, you grab yourself a delicious morsel. Upon sinking your teeth into the treat, your eyes close as you savor the unique flavor in all its perfection. When you open your eyes, Andréa is at your elbow with a glass of white wine. You typically go for reds, but the flavor of this particular drink compliments your rhubarb tart wonderfully. You gratefully accept the glass from her, while she slides just a few inches closer to you, not missing a beat.

"Thank you for the arranging the party, Andréa," you murmur gently while smiling in her direction, "everything looks wonderful."

She sends a smile right back at you, then leans in to whisper to you conspiratorially, as if discussing the world's many secrets. "Indeed it does," she says into your ear, her warm breath washing over you and making your head swim. The roll in your stomach makes you blush for the first time in probably a decade. Andréa simply winks.

A burst of laughter filters in from the back deck, where you crane your neck and see a gathering of models submerged in the pool. The blue lights under the water make them look slightly mystical like mermaids. A staff member whose name will forever escape you dashes up to Andréa and drags her away, claiming that she simply has to meet the photographer, due to the fact that he is "like, the funniest person ever." You take the opportunity to mingle, something at which you have become quite adept.

Most people are pleasantly surprised to learn how personable you become when in a comfortable setting. At large charity functions and Runway galas, you are Miranda Priestly, Ice Queen. Your smiles are fake and deadly, while you play the room like a game of chess, figuring out who wants what from you. But here, in this beautiful house in California, under flattering chandelier light, you are trying to be just Miranda. You ask about the personal lives of your colleagues, and tell anecdotes about your own. You laugh at jokes and sip your wine and try to not turn every conversation back to your job.

After about a few hours of playing nice and a few glasses of something smooth and dark, Andréa is nowhere to be found. All of that gumption you conjured up in your room seems to have now escaped you. You wonder where she could be, or if she has forgotten about you entirely. You wonder just how funny that photographer was. You wonder if she spends half as many of her waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, as you do of her.

You set your glass on a countertop, knowing that in a few minutes someone in a bow tie will whisk it away to be cleaned. For the first time all night you wish that this were another one of your fancy functions, simply because if it were you could just call and have Roy pick you up in a matter of seconds.

A short stroll through the mansion leads you to a secluded side porch no one seems to have noticed. It's shaped like a gazebo, with twinkling strings of lights affixed to its ceiling and columns. It's a perfect place to sit and enjoy your night, away from the crowd like you're used to. The night is balmy and dark, and you're far enough away from the city to see more stars than you thought were in the sky.

Your ears can still strain to hear party sounds toward the back of the house. At least everyone else seems to be having a pleasurable time. You had high hopes for the night, but in the back of your mind you knew it had the potential to end up like this: you, by yourself, amidst a beautiful night. Disappointment tastes so comfortably bitter, and you know the flavor well.

It's a good thing you left that bottle of rich fluid on the kitchen counter, because surely at this point you would be drowning in it.

This photographer, while surprisingly funny, is not who you wanted to share this night with.

No matter how inappropriate it sounds, Miranda had looked absolutely delicious in just a dark grey pencil skirt and a patterned purple blouse. You should know the designers of those items by this point, but somehow every time you see her, you become distracted by the way fabric wraps snugly around those perfect hips.

It's almost become a problem, this thing between you and Miranda. You have spent your whole life with boyfriends, attractive boyfriends who happen to adore you. However, the past year you've been surrounded by beautiful women, and couldn't help but take a shine to the most beautiful of them all. The insane part, is that she seems to be attracted to you as well.

Miranda would have been just a passing crush if her allure were to end at simply being gorgeous. But no, she didn't stop there. The woman demands perfection, and because of this, she also demands respect. You know dozens of people that despise her, and the same people would gladly lick her pumps if she told them to. She had looked confidently regal standing on the porch directing the photo shoot among a bevy of digital monitors. You hoped that her artistic vision was properly carried though, knowing how frustrated she becomes when her genius ideas are not translated properly on paper. You really can't blame her for her constant impatience; relying on other people to personify her creativity has got to be exasperating.

You thought that your perusal of your love today had been sly, but Miranda occasionally looked in your direction and caught your eye. That shady tree was the perfect spot to hide from harsh sunrays that have never been your friend. But you were incredibly surprised when she had come over to your hiding spot, and approached you to ask about the party details. Underneath that perfect filtering of light, you had to restrain yourself from laying gentle kisses along her elegant neck. So, you settled for safely getting lost in those clear blue eyes instead.

It's the strangest thing how the connection between you and your boss is almost tangible. For it to be something you both have never mentioned or acted upon, sometimes it feels like you are holding it right in your hand. Lily says that you are asking for nothing but heartache for falling for a dragon, but Miranda seems anything but beastly to you.

It's shameful how many people see her as a cold hearted, wonderfully dressed icon. The woman reveals so much, if you know how to look for it. Of course everyone knows about the pursing of the lips, but Miranda's true emotions shine right through her eyes. They turn a flinty stone grey when she's displeased, and when she's pleasantly surprised, they gleam a friendly blue while the corners crinkle sweetly. Sometimes her eyes are a vibrant deep indigo, as dark as you've ever seen them, and at these times it looks as though Miranda wants nothing more than to eat you alive.

The latter is how she looked at you tonight. It's how you knew that after this night, there would be no going back for you. You had claimed tonight as the night that you would suck it up, and make your move. But someone had pulled you by the arm to the pool, thwarting your plans.

You still had the chance, though, to occasionally look in through the double French doors of the into the kitchen to peep and see Miranda throughout the night. Her smile looked genuine as she enjoyed herself and charmed the pants off of her underlings. The gross rhubarb tarts she likes had been a hit throughout the party, and you had stood true to her instructions by not ordering pigs in a blanket.

Enough time has gone by that you can casually slip away from the bustle of the event and seek out the lady who has your heart. With two glasses and a bottle of wine in hand, you look everywhere on the first floor, but she's nowhere to be found. Just when you think that she's retired to her room for the night, a screen door and a head of silver hair catch your eye. You make your way over to the side porch gazebo, the picture of your love sitting amongst all those little lights drawing you closer.

Underneath all those little twinkling bulbs, Miranda looks breathtakingly beautiful. You would almost be happy for your life's journey to end here, with this stunning vision in your head. She doesn't look so regal now, just pensive and gorgeous and…sad.

You've never met a sadness that wine couldn't cure, so you boldly take a chance, and sit right next to her. She's surprised but doesn't jump, and immediately you are pleased when that anchoring sadness seeps right out of her eyes. When the corners of her lips turn a little upwards, you notice that underneath the moon and misty string lights, her eyes look almost green. You are fairly sure that no one before you has seen her quite like this, because they would have never left her side.

Without preamble, you gently lay your head on her shoulder, and without missing a beat her arm wraps snugly around you. You want to question how comfortably you both fit together, but being pressed against her side this way makes you think of nothing but the warm buzz all over your body. Miranda Priestly is in fact not made of ice, but is enticingly warm.

You nuzzle your nose into her neck, smelling a mixture of soap and whatever it is that makes her smell so Miranda. She's poured you both a glass from the bottle you brought out, and when she takes a sip, the muscles under your cheek flex as she swallows. You want nothing more than to kiss her neck, so what's stopping you? She must like what she sipped from the glass because you hear a gentle hum come from her throat just as much as you feel it close to your lips. At once you can't help it, a your lips press against her throat, making her gasp. When she doesn't object, you do it again. And again.

These sweet tiny kisses make their way from your lips, to her neck, then to her jaw, and finally to those prominent cheekbones that make you swoon when she smiles. A ghost of that smile is on her lips now, even as she continues to let out those delightful little hums. You pull back for a second, just to look at her. Her eyes meet yours, and you know that there's no possible way you can go back now.

You meet in the middle, your lips brushing gently against hers for the first time. Any person you have ever kissed before this moment has been rendered completely insignificant. A heady heat washes across your abdomen when Miranda uses the arm wrapped around you to pull you closer, and kiss you more deeply. Your tongue teasingly slides against her bottom lip, seeking entrance, and your free hand wraps around her neck to pull her closer. She does not object.

She groans when your tongues meet, and your own moan answers her. You are both grasping each other as if in fear you will both disappear, or that this wonderful moment will have only been a lovely dream. Finally you come up for air, and at the sight of Miranda with swollen lips and sparkling eyes, you can't help but giggle at the ridiculousness of your whole life. She rolls her eyes, and the insides of you are boiling with want. At this moment, you want the house to be empty, so you can take this woman to bed and worship her entirely.

Instead, you take a moment to settle back against her, almost in your previous position. Her right arm is still around you, providing warmth that seems to stem from the inside. Turned slightly inwards towards her, it makes it easy for you to take her other hand in yours, playing idly with her fingers. She kisses your temple, and for some reason the warmth in the pit of your stomach makes you want to tear up.

You study her profile for a minute before asking, "Why isn't this weird?"

She looks a little appalled at your question before shrugging, "Maybe you're drunk."

You are mock offended and gently smack the thigh close to your hand, "I have only had maybe three, or four…hundred glasses of wine tonight." You deflate a little, all in good humor, and Miranda lets out a hearty chuckle.

She tells you that she too may have indulged in more wine than what is appropriate, but that she has no regrets because it made it that much easier to kiss you. You can't help that your liquid courage limbered up your gumption as well.

You sit for a little while longer, basking in the night, and the gentle lights, and the sweet smell of vines and orchard trees. Occasionally the urge to kiss the woman strikes you, so you embrace it wholeheartedly. You will never tire of the sounds she makes or the taste of rich dark wine on her tongue.

By the sounds of it, the party is wrapping up, and everything is being put away. The boisterous company from the back deck has returned inside the house, and is noisily making their way to their rooms for the night. You have a cleaning crew lined up for the morning, to make the place just as spotless as it was when you arrived. You'll be long gone by the time they are finished with their duties, but you are paying them well enough to know that they will do their jobs fully. It's time for you both to get up and go to bed, before some nosy model blows your cover.

When you stand, you feel chilled from the lack of an alluring woman pressed against you. Miranda looks entirely displeased, in fact, she's almost pouting. You bend over to kiss the adorable lip that's poking out before saying, "Come on, pretty lady. It's time for bed."

At those words, she stands, pulling you into her arms. Your embrace lasts a few moments before she presses a palm to your cheek in farewell, and saunters back into the house. You watch her go, those shapely hips swaying enticingly. Before heading to bed yourself, you stand under the night and send a silent thank you up into the sky.

Your bed seems lonely and stupid and cold. It's impossible to get confortable, knowing that Andréa is probably sleeping soundly right across the hall. At least your room has a pair of large, open windows that allow you to take in the picturesque moonscape. You don't know how long you've been lying awake, but at least you have the moon and stars to keep you company. When the alarm clock hollers at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, you will regret stargazing instead of sleeping.

A toilet flushes and a sink runs somewhere down the hall, and it's a little comforting to know that you are not the only one who is having trouble finding sleep. Footsteps come closer and closer to your door, and you expect them to pass and keep walking. However, when they reach your room, the late night wanderer pauses briefly, and that's when you know exactly who it could be.

You watch your doorknob turn, and then a set of sleepy brown eyes tentatively peeks in. "Andréa?" you call to the intruder, keeping your voice gentle so she knows that you are not upset or angry.

Andréa steps fully into your room and closes the door, looking absolutely adorable in just a large, white t-shirt. On anyone else sleep-mussed hair and t-shirts of any kind are deplorable but Andréa pulls the look off with a perfect mixture of innocence and sex appeal.

She stands in your room awkwardly for a moment before you nod your head and pull the covers back. She scampers over to your bed, and slides in, pressing her cold toes against yours for warmth. Her brilliant smile takes your breath away, and her pale skin looks luminescent in the moonlight. Facing each other, you feel like two giddy friends at a sleepover, awake long after your parents told you to be asleep.

"Hi."

You chuckle, "Hi."

You can't recall a time in recent memory that you've ever been happier. You free her messy bun of hair from the elastic holding it atop her head. Andréa takes a finger and traces some of the finer lines around your eyes. You close them for a minute, not knowing if the urge comes from feelings of shame or comfort.

"No, hey, stop it," she says lightly to you. "I love your eyes. Everything about them."

With her own irises looking so sincerely into yours, you can't help but feel her honesty, and can't help feeling like you want to weep. It's hard to say if anyone has ever looked at you in this way. You can't find words, so instead you take her lips with yours in a dance that already seems familiar, but exciting at the same time.

Your body acts without your permission, rolling on top of hers with ease. Andréa grasps at your back, pulling you closer to her. You both decided to forgo pants tonight, so you get caught up in the feeling of smooth legs and warm thighs. The way her tongue moves against yours causes your hips to buck against her own, and the kiss breaks in a gasp. Her shoulder is smooth against your teeth, and when you roll your hips again she moans, "Oh, God."

Andréa takes your hand in hers and crushes it against her own breast. You can feel her nipple harden in your palm, and it only adds to your frenzy. She bites her lip to keep quiet, knowing the last thing you need is for your minions to hear untoward sounds coming from your room. Looking up at her, with your hips pressed against hers, she looks stunning. However, you know that it is time to slow things down.

You bring the rolling of your hips to a casual stop, and remove your hand from the tantalizing chest before you. Andréa looks equal parts confused and turned on. "What?" she asks with swollen lips, "Why did we stop?"

You can't help but kiss her quickly before saying, "Andréa, I don't want to do this here."

She looks a little hurt and a lot confused, so to stop her from going down the wrong road you explain. "I've been waiting forever for this moment," and at once she looks mildly placated.

"But when I finally get the chance to make love to you," her eyes soften at the term "make love" so you take it as a sign to continue. "I don't want it to be quickly and quietly with half of my staff ten feet away."

For Andréa to be such a bright girl, it takes a moment for it to dawn on her. You smile, "I want to spread you out, and take my time. Is that clear?"

She has the nerve to blush. You can't help but peck each tinged cheek before settling behind her, with her back pressed against her front. You reach over her and set your alarm for 5 a.m. so she will have enough time to clandestinely sneak back to her room. For now, though, you are just content to hold a beautiful woman in your arms, excited about what the future may bring.

A/N 3: There is a part two to this written in my head, that will hopefully make it onto paper some time before I die.

A/N 4: Thank you so so so so much for reading. It really means the world to me.