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Strike pulled the BMW up outside the large country manor house the sat nav had directed him to, and sat for a moment, gazing at it. It was huge, looked as though it would have at least seven bedrooms. Fields surrounded it, divided by neat hedges and smart post and rail fencing. Horses grazed here and there. A Jaguar was parked to one side of the sweeping drive. Not for the first time, he reflected on the staggering amount of money some people possessed.
And yet someone here was greedy for more. Strike’s client, the owner of the manor house, had approached him via an intermediary and asked to meet privately, all very cloak-and-dagger. He bred showjumping and dressage horses, and had had several complaints from clients claiming the horse they had taken delivery of was either not up to expected standard, or not the horse they had seen and trialled. It would seem someone in the stables was substituting the horses somehow. When Strike pointed out that this would be fairly easily solved with a police investigation and veterinary testing, his client had confessed that he feared it was his daughter, who had taken over the breeding programme, who was to blame, and he wanted to sort it out quietly.
So Strike was here to buy a horse, something he knew absolutely nothing about, not a situation he liked to be in. Robin, with her more plentiful horse knowledge, had been given a job at the stables, helping prepare the horses for sale and delivery.
His thoughts drifted to his partner, and a smile stole across his face. Partner in all senses of the word now. He still marvelled that it could have happened, that they had somehow after all these years managed to drift together. It had been such an innocent moment that had finally done it, a stroll back from the Tottenham to the office, Robin laughing at his jokes and then suddenly realising she had just automatically walked back to Denmark Street rather than going home. She’d giggled at her mistake, and looked so beautiful suddenly in the early summer evening, it had been the most natural thing in the world to lean down and kiss her.
She hadn’t gone home that night, or the next. Eventually on Sunday afternoon she’d wriggled out of his protesting clutches and insisted she had to go home and change. In the intervening few weeks, they had spent most nights up in his tiny flat, discovering a compatibility within the bedroom that their friendship outside it had only hinted at. His quiet, well-spoken partner had turned out, with a little encouragement on his behalf to overcome her initial shyness, to be enthusiastic and vocal in bed in ways that never stopped surprising him. He couldn’t get enough of her.
This weekend was curry night and they were going to tell Ilsa and Nick. Strike grinned at the thought of his old friends’ reaction. Ilsa in particular would be delighted.
He pulled his mind back to the job at hand, and sighed and got out of the car. He stretched a little, and reached back into the vehicle for his tie and suit jacket. Robin had assured him that the sort of man who spent upwards of thirty thousand pounds on a horse did so in a very well-dressed way.
Satisfied that he was smart enough to look the part, he climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. His client he knew would be out, so the daughter, Saffron, would see to his sale.
She flung open the door and greeting him in a booming voice. Strike wondered if all horsey people were so loud. He recognised in her the confidence of money and good breeding that most of Charlotte’s friends had possessed. These people had always set his teeth on edge.
He allowed himself to be ushered through the house, out of a side door and across the yard at the back. His cover story was that he was looking for a horse for his seventeen-year-old daughter (“how old was I when I had her???”) to launch her pro eventing career, so he needed a good all-rounder. Robin had coached him in some of the phrases he’d need to know if he’d spent a decade travelling to gymkhanas and pony club rallies with a horse-mad daughter. Strike had decided he’d probably have delegated all that to the girl’s mother, and could get away with knowing the bare minimum.
Saffron took him across to an enclosed area of bark chipping surrounded by a fence that Strike knew from Robin’s tutoring to be called a school, and called into the stable block. “We’re ready, Robin!” She turned to Strike. “I’ll show you King of Prussia first,” she said. “He’ll make an excellent eventer, he’s forward-going with a scopey jump, but controlled enough for the dressage. 15 hands, so just about right for your daughter.”
Strike nodded wisely, and turned as he heard the sound of hooves approaching, ready to look interested.
His jaw almost dropped when he saw Robin. She walked briskly towards him, leading a horse that was some kind of brown - Strike was still a little hazy on the colour names - and she was certainly dressed for the occasion. She wore a fitted green jacket over a white shirt, cream jodhpurs and knee length black boots.
It was the jodhpurs he couldn’t take his eyes off. For a startled moment he wondered how on earth she had put them on. They were skin tight, moulded to her thighs and backside, which he could see all of as she turned the horse around for him. The jacket fitted snugly across her shoulders and stopped just below her waist. She wore a smart riding hat and carried a crop. Something about the outfit caused his libido to surge fiercely.
Strike realised his mouth was hanging open, and hurriedly closed it. Saffron looked delighted. “I knew you’d be impressed!” she cried. “He’s such a handsome chap. Can you put him through his paces, Robin?”
With the tiniest of sideways glances at Strike that told him she’d seen his reaction and knew exactly what she was doing, Robin nodded and swung herself into the saddle. She tightened the reins and gripped the horse with her thighs, swinging him around and setting off at a brisk rising trot around the school. Strike couldn’t take his eyes off her arse as it rose and fell, and swallowed audibly. Desire rose, and he quashed it firmly. Not the time or the place. They’d agreed to keep work separate.
Robin lowered herself into the saddle, and without making any movement that Strike could see, set the horse into a canter. They circled around to the far end of the school and came up the middle, popping over a jump that sat in the centre. The horse jumped neatly, and Strike wondered if Robin actually needed to put her bottom in the air like that.
“..only three foot, but we’ve had him over four foot three,” Saffron was saying. “I think he might manage four-six with a bit of schooling to tuck his hocks up.”
She might as well have been speaking Russian for all Strike understood. He nodded sagely and tried to look as though he knew what that meant.
“He’s shown signs of being quite strong going forward, so we’ve got him in a drop noseband,” Saffron went on. “But he’s very responsive to the leg.”
Strike tried to remember some of the questions Robin had told him to ask. “Er, what’s he like to catch and box?”
“No trouble at all. He’ll box first or second,” she replied.
Remembering his lesson, Strike knew that this referred to getting the horse into a horsebox, something Robin assured him could be quite an issue. He tried to think of some more questions, but his mind was blank.
Robin pulled the horse up next to them. It fidgeted, and Strike was glad there was a fence between them. Robin looked down at him, a wicked twinkle in her eye.
“He can be quite naughty, but he responds well to a firm hand,” she said, and the glint in her eye told him she was choosing her words for maximum effect. “If you’ve got a good seat and soft hands, he responds well and does as he’s told.”
Strike almost whimpered at the images she was conjuring up. Desire was fizzing through him now, and he could feel the warm buzz in his lower spine that presaged becoming aroused enough to truly embarrass himself, especially in his suit trousers.
“Would you like to see another?” Saffron asked.
“Er...” Strike couldn’t work out if he wanted this encounter to go on and on, or end now. All he could think about was getting Robin back to his flat. But he wanted to keep looking at her in this outfit. She ran her hand idly down the short whip she held, and Strike was mesmerised.
He realised both women were looking at him, Saffron hopefully and Robin with an amused quirk of the eyebrow.
“..yes, have you got anything...taller?” he asked, and saw Robin fondly roll her eyes just a little. That clearly wasn’t a horsey term, then. He was struggling to remember his lessons.
“Robin, could you tack up Jupiter and bring him out?”
Robin nodded. She leaned forward, swung her far leg over the horse’s rear and slid to the ground, gifting Strike a close-up view of her cream-clad arse. She had to be doing it deliberately. She turned the horse and led it back across to the barn, and just as they were about to disappear inside, her hand crept back to tug at the back of her jodhpurs, pulling her knickers out of her bottom. It was a cheeky little move that was a siren song directly to his core, and his cock began to swell suddenly, out of control.
To Strike’s huge relief, the jangling of an outside bell announced a telephone call across the yard. “Damn,” Saffron muttered. “Jolly bad timing. Do feel free to have a look around, Robin knows which animals are for sale.” And she bustled off towards the house.
Well. He’d practically been told to follow Robin. He didn’t need to be asked twice. Strike hastened towards the barn, trying to readjust himself not too obviously as he went.
He found Robin just closing the door on a stable containing the horse she’d been showing him. She must have heard his footsteps, but she didn’t look around, instead bending over to slide the bottom bolt, her arse facing directly towards him.
A swift glance around to check no one was nearby, and Strike stepped forward to run both hands across her backside. The material was stretched taut, and he made a sound between a whimper and a growl at the feel of her. He was fully hard now, with no hope of getting his body back under control.
Robin didn’t jump. She’d known he was there and the effect she’d been having on him. She straightened up slowly, a wicked grin on her face.
“Is there anything else I can show you, Mr Strike?” she asked over her shoulder, husky and cheeky.
“Fuck, Robin, you look so fucking sexy in that,” Strike growled, his hands still roving over her backside. She slid her feet apart and he cupped her and slid his middle fingers between her thighs, feeling the heat of her core against his hand. He groaned at the feel of her. His body ached for her, his cock hard and heavy.
Robin panted as he stroked her, and then drew away a little. “If you’d like to follow me, I can show you what else is on offer,” she said, and marched down the central corridor of the barn. Strike followed. Stables stood to their left and right, separated by partition walls topped with bars. Some contained horses, some stood empty.
“I think you’ll find something in here that will suit what you’re looking for,” Robin said huskily, turning right into a stable near the end. Strike glanced around in surprise. No horse here, this was some kind of feed store. An old, disconnected chest freezer stood open, full of sacks of feed. Bales of hay were stacked against the wall, and the nearest row was only two bales high. Hay nets hung from the wall on the right, some full.
Robin swung to face him, slapping the crop across her left palm. “So, is this some kind of stereotypical male fantasy?” she asked with a wink.
Strike, hesitated, unsure suddenly if he should be saying yes or no, even though the truth was staring her in the face, straining at the front of his suit trousers.
Her arm dropped and she cracked the whip sharply against the side of her boot with a slap that made him jump and moan a little. He could see the answering desire in her gaze. This display had turned her on as much as him.
“Saffron’s always ages on the phone,” she said. “And there’s no one else here.”
Strike stared at her in shock. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting...? He thought about what a terrible idea that was. He thought about them getting caught. He thought about how desperately he wanted to.
And then he couldn’t think at all, as Robin dropped the whip, stepped up to him and kissed him fiercely, her own desire pouring into him to fan the flames of his.
With a fierce growl he kissed her back, hard, his tongue thrusting forward and his hands finding her arse again and dragging her against him. He ground his erection into her tautly clad thighs, whimpering at the feel of her.
Robin was tugging at his shirt, wresting it from his trousers and sliding her hands up under it. She kissed and kissed him, her tongue in his mouth and her hands everywhere, and he was lost. As if he hadn’t been the moment he’d seen her in this outfit.
Strike pulled her jacket buttons undone and cupped her breasts through her shirt, his thumbs rasping over her nipples. Robin gasped and scratched her fingernails though his chest hair. Then her hands slid down and were undoing his trousers.
His hands slid to the fastening on her jodhpurs. He managed to get them undone and slid a hand down inside, but they were so tight. He groaned in frustration, trying to push his hand down into her knickers, seeking her core. He wanted to feel her, to know if she was as aroused as she smelled. Her busy hands had found his cock and were sliding and stroking, making him see stars.
“Fuck, Robin,” he muttered, desire pulsing hard through his groin. “How do I get these off you?”
Robin groaned. “No time,” she muttered back, squeezing and caressing him. “Have to take the boots off too. Takes ages.”
“What, then?” The idea of stopping was out of the question. Strike was aching now, desperate for her.
She stepped back, pulling free of his hand, and grabbed the waist of her jodhpurs. With a shove and a shimmy and a wriggle that made Strike groan again, she peeled them down to her knees. He stepped forward to touch her, sliding a hand to cup her, but she turned in his arms so that his hands were on her bottom again.
Suddenly he knew where this was going, and a moan of desire and delight escaped him. He pushed her forwards, towards the hay bales, and then with one hand he dragged her hips to his and with the other he pushed forwards on her shoulders, bending her over. With a shuddering sigh, Robin dropped her forearms onto the hay bales and raised her backside for him.
“Jesus Christ, Robin, you look incredible,” Strike moaned, palming her bottom, stroking, feeling, dipping his fingers into her silken heat, making her moan back at him.
“We haven’t got long,” she gasped.
“I don’t need long,” he growled, and withdrew his fingers and thrust into her.
Robin gasped again at the stretch of him filling her, and Strike had to bite back a shout at the feel of her. Unable to part her knees, all Robin could do was drop her shoulders lower and raise her backside higher to give him better access, pushed up onto her toes. She was so tight around him, and Strike withdrew and thrust again, shuddering with need.
“God, Robin, that’s so good,” he gasped, and she whimpered her agreement.
“More,” she begged, and he began to drive against her hard, setting a steady rhythm. Robin groaned at the feel of him. The angle was perfect, he was hitting just the right spot inside of her, and pleasure swelled fast within her, rising like a wave, carrying her along with it, unstoppable.
Groaning, Strike clutched at Robin’s hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, his eyes locked onto her glorious arse and the place below where his cock slid in and out of her and her muscles gripped him. His release was barrelling towards him fast, and he tried to hold it at bay but the pulse of her muscles around him was too much.
Robin suddenly arched beneath him, her head canting back and her muscles contracting around him. With a low cry, Strike let go and his orgasm broke hard, fierce spasms of pleasure gripping him as he pulsed into her.
He kept going as long as he could, rocking against her, gentle now, drawing out their aftershocks until at last he collapsed forward over her, shaking with pleasure.
Robin allowed him a moment, then grunted a little and pushed back at him. “Heavy,” she muttered.
“Sorry.” Grinning, Strike levered himself off her and managed to stand. Robin stood too, turning to face him and wrapping her arms around him. They hugged one another for a long moment, and then Robin began to shake and he realised she was giggling.
“What?” he asked fondly, smiling down at her.
She grinned that cheeky grin again. “That, er, went a bit further than I intended.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he growled.
“Yeah, but I only meant to spice things up for later at home.”
“Well, you considerably overestimated the amount of self-control I have around you,” Strike said ruefully.
She chuckled softly. “And me around you,” she said. She stepped out of his embrace and wriggled back into her knickers and jodhpurs. “This next ride will be sticky,” she said with a wink, and Strike laughed, doing up his suit trousers and tucking his shirt in.
“At least I won’t be embarrassing myself watching with a hard-on now, though,” he replied. “Are they...your clothes, by the way?”
Robin grinned again. “Yup,” she said. “On expenses for this client. Shall I, er, keep them in case we need them again?”
“Definitely,” he murmured. “You never know when you might have call to wear them again.”
Laughing, Robin went to tack up Jupiter.