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Strike tried to ignore the vague sense of trepidation he felt as he headed back to the BMW, having left Barclay in charge of the overnight surveillance on their latest mark.
He’d been feeling it around Robin more and more frequently in the preceding couple of months, ever since her 30th birthday when their relationship had, partly at least, turned a corner. Since then, there had been more frequent kisses at the end of text messages from both of them, the partners had stopped resisting Ilsa’s efforts to encourage them into nights out as a cosy foursome with her a Nick, and she’d even met Dave Polworth and Uncle Ted – with whom she’d been a resounding hit – at Strike’s fortieth birthday celebrations.
Still nothing had been technically happened between them though, despite Barclay’s somewhat dubious remarks when it was just him and Strike in the office, and the increasingly frequent knowing looks from Pat.
That wasn’t the reason for his unease on this occasion though. Robin had been in an unusually foul mood that morning, and Strike had a feeling it wasn’t connected to the Land Rover failing its MOT. He’d quickly volunteered to pick her up from the dance class she attended with April and Vanessa and drop her off at home when she’d bemoaned it being out of action but was now wishing he hadn’t.
It wasn’t that he’d done anything specific to piss Robin off – at least not as far as he knew - but his instinct, honed from so many years of second-guessing Charlotte’s mood swings, had him on alert, and the fact he was already running late did little to put his mind at ease as he pulled smoothly away from the kerb.
***
Robin, quite frankly, had had more than enough of people in general and men in particular a long time before she’d reached the hall that evening. Her usual mechanic was on holiday, visiting family overseas, so she’d had to book the car in elsewhere and the patronising tone of the guy in his early twenties who’d told her “don’t worry your little head, love,” when she’d dropped the Land Rover off the previous day had annoyed her almost as much as the bill she was now going to be saddled with just before Christmas.
Max was completely loved up to a nauseating extent with his new man, and apparently oblivious to Robin’s slight discomfort at the constant PDA’s in the shared areas of the flat. She was genuinely delighted for him deep down, but her frustration at Strike’s inability to get his act together and make a move, and an impending solo Christmas in London, was making it difficult to suppress her irritation. She knew her mood was really more about the fact she was feeling a bit down and lonely, and that made her feel weak, which annoyed her even more.
And then, that morning, whilst she was queuing for coffees in Starbucks on her way into the office, her mother had called. She’d debated not answering it, but the queue was huge and she had a busy day ahead. Better to get it out of the way, she’d thought.
“Mum, hi.”
“Hello love,” came Linda’s voice down the phone, tinged with concern, “I just thought I’d check in and see how you’re bearing up.”
“Bearing up? I’m fine Mum, why wouldn’t I be?”
There was a pause.
“Mum?”
“I just…I thought you’d have heard. Sarah’s had the baby.”
“Sarah’s…? Oh right, no, why would I have?”
“I don’t know, I just assumed…” Linda’s voice tailed off as she realised she has well and truly put her foot in it.
“Well, I hadn’t.”
There was another pause. Robin took a step closer to the counter, her eyes drawn automatically to the tray full of chocolate orange muffins that suddenly seemed even more tempting than usual. Taking pity on her mother, she sighed and asked, “I take it all’s well. What did they have?”
“A little boy, Samuel Dominic Geoffrey. She had him at that posh private place near Regent’s Street apparently.”
Of course she fucking did.
“Well, good that they’re safe and well, Mum, I need to go, I’m in Starbucks and my order’s ready,” Robin lied. “Catch up soon, okay?”
She rang off before Linda could reply, and moved another step closed to the counter.
***
Vauxhall Gardens Community Centre was a three-storey white painted building – a far cry from the squat pre-fab Strike had imagined. It appeared fairly quiet, and since he was over twenty minutes late, Strike decided to venture in to find Robin.
The corridors were well-lit and rooms clearly marked, but it was the sound of a thumping bassline that directed him to the main hall. Frowning, aware that the class should have long since finished, Strike peered through the small, square glass window in the upper half of one of the double doors, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping slightly at the sight in front of him.
By the time everyone in the dance class had meandered away and there had been no sign of Strike, Robin was a ball of furious energy that even the previous hour’s dress rehearsal for the community centre Christmas show had done little to dissipate.
So it was that when Strike looked through the window in the main hall, he saw her stalking the length of the room, hips swaying rhythmically to the music.
Her legs looked longer than usual, encased in black fishnet stockings with high black heels on her feet. The suspenders holding them up were clearly visible between the ruffle of glossy, jet black ostrich feathers that masqueraded as a skirt, whilst the emerald green silk brocade corset that she was tightly laced into enhanced every curve whilst showing off an impressive quantity of creamy decolletage and pale, slightly freckled shoulders.
Her strawberry blonde hair was piled up on her head in soft curls, her lips were stained deep pink and her cheeks flushed as she gyrated to the music, whilst singing at the top of her lungs:
I’m a motherfuckin’ woman, baby, that’s right,
I don’t need a man to be holding me too tight…
Strike wasn’t sure whether his overriding emotion was shock, amusement or arousal, but he did know that the longer he stood there, the more he felt like a voyeur, and the more the latter feeling was beginning to take over.
Grateful for the coverage of his heavy woollen coat, he pushed open the door.
Robin spun round to face him, the flush on her cheeks not entirely induced by her exertions, her expression just short of a glare.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump...did you not get my text?”
“You didn’t make me jump,” she panted “… but you’re not usually on time so I assumed you’d call from the car once you were outside.” She looked down ruefully at the costume, which now seemed slightly ludicrous in the chilly, empty hall.
“I had no idea it was burlesque you were doing...” Strike hesitated, but couldn’t help himself, “...do you usually wear the whole shebang?”
“No,” replied Robin, head emerging from an overlong, slouchy sweatshirt. “Dress rehearsal for the community centre Christmas show on Saturday...hence not wanting to get the bus or tube home. We’re not dancing to this, obviously,” she explained in response to Strike’s shocked expression as she switched off the music.
She finished buttoning up her long, camel coat and tucked her large scarf thoroughly into the neckline.
“Ready?”
“Yup, let’s go.”
The twenty-minute journey back to Robin’s shared flat was unusually quiet. Strike wanted desperately to ask her what was wrong but still feared it might be something he’d done…in addition to his late arrival that evening. They were working in the office together the following day and he didn’t want any enquiry he might make to cause even more of an atmosphere. It was only when they pulled up he finally thought ‘fuck it’ and asked, “You okay Robin?”
She looked at him for several seconds, lips pursed and then let out an enormous sigh.
“It’s just been a bugger of a couple of days...the car, Mum wittering on about the baby...”
She didn’t mention that the underlying cause of her frustration was Strike’s ongoing reluctance to show his hand with regard to their relationship.
“Is Saint Annabel still the centre of attention?” asked Strike, amused. He was well aware of Robin’s frustration that her mother’s main topic of conversation, over a year after her birth, was still her baby niece.
“Who? No...” Robin sighed again. “Look, do you want to come in for a drink?”
“Go on then,” grinned Strike, “You can get it all off your chest.”
“Hope you’ve not got plans for the rest of the evening,” retorted Robin, with a roll of her eyes.
***
Robin kicked off her heels and coat and led the way upstairs to the open plan living area and kitchen. Strike made himself comfortable on the sofa and watching as Robin grabbed two large glasses and deposited ice cubes in them before adding a generous measure of Jameson’s whiskey to each.
“That bad?” he enquired sympathetically as she handed him a glass.
“It’s just…” she paused momentarily, “…bloody men. The new mechanic is a patronising, letchy arsehole, and I’ve had a basinful of mum on the phone this morning…”
Strike looked at her quizzically.
“…giving me chapter and verse about Matt and Sarah’s new baby. It’s a boy, of course, so Geoffrey basically thinks he’s the grandfather of the new Messiah and has stopped just short of having the town cryer announce the bloody arrival in Masham Village Square….”
She paused for breath and knocked back her whiskey in one gulp, closing her eyes against the treacherous prickle of tears as emotion and alcohol burned the back of her throat. It wasn’t as if she even cared about Matthew or Sarah and she certainly wasn’t harbouring any longing for a baby, it was just…
“If men are your problem I’m probably not the best person to advise,” shrugged Strike, burying his head in his own glass.
“You’re not wrong there,” muttered Robin, as she headed back to the kitchen for the bottle. Strike’s head shot up.
“What do you mean by that?” He tried to keep the defensive undertone out of his voice with some difficulty.
Somewhere in the back on her mind, Robin realised that knocking back a large whiskey on top of the mulled wine she’d drank during the break in rehearsals, both on an empty stomach, may not have been entirely sensible. The thought, however, did not reach her mouth in time to prevent her next words escaping.
“I mean…I’d be much less wound up about all of this if I didn’t have you to contend with as well.”
Strike stared at her open-mouthed. What had he done that warranted this outburst? As far as he was concerned things were better between them than ever…they’d enjoyed one another’s company socially as well as at work, and he made a point of being a gentleman at all times, picking up her favourite wine for curry night, making sure she got home safely, messaging to thank her the following day if she’d driven or hosted. He’d sent her a handwritten card to thank her for her fortieth birthday present and made a point of noticing if she was wearing a new top or scarf.
“You and your bloody mixed signals,” she stated grumpily, perching back on one of high stools at the breakfast bar, oblivious to the fact that a good couple of inches of stocking top was now on display.
Between Robin’s last statement and the rush of blood to his groin, Strike was not so much oblivious as he was speechless.
“Things have changed between us over the last few months,” she continued, “I know I’m not imagining it, but if your bottom line is that you feel taking our relationship any further could be detrimental to the business and it’s not and never will be worth the risk, then for God’s sake pack it in with the subtle flirting and the thoughtful gestures and go back to being a mardy bugger, because this…limbo…we’re in at the moment is driving me bloody mad!”
She reached for the whiskey bottle for a second top-up, thought better of it and placed it back on the worktop with a thump.
“Robin…I’m sorry…I really didn’t realise that I was making you feel like…”
“Like you saw me as more than just a friend? Like you saw as a woman? Like you wanted me? Come on Strike, you’re not stupid.” Tears were welling in Robin’s eyes now. “I can't deal with not knowing where I stand with you any more. Cards on the table…I want you as more than a friend and a business partner, but the job means the world to me and if we’re not on the same page then just tell me and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work…professional boundaries, sign up for Tinder and start dating other people, whatever.”
Suddenly Strike was on feet and heading towards her.
“No!”
She looked up at him, flicking the tears from her cheeks with long pale fingers.
“No?”
His hands were on her cheeks now, warm and slightly rough against her heated skin.
“I want you too Robin…of course I bloody do. I just…I so badly don’t want to fuck things up this time. Yes, the business means everything to me, but…” he swallowed, “…so do you Ellacott.”
She sniffed and giggled at the same time.
“How about you stop fannying about and kiss me then?”
Robin’s lips beneath his tasted of salt and whiskey as they parted willingly to allow Strike to explore her mouth further. Her tongue welcomed his tentatively at first, flicking and sliding against his and over his lips. He let out a soft, hoarse groan of pleasure and felt her lips curl into a smile against his, before she laid a hand on his chest and gently pushed him away, breathless.
“Let me get out of this nonsense,” she said, gesticulating at her sweatshirt covered costume, “And then we can get a takeaway and…” she hesitated, “…talk about how this is going to work at the office?”
“Sounds good,” Strike smiled back as she slid off the stool and headed for the stairs.
Strike helped himself to a top up of whiskey and returned to the sofa, listening to Robin moving about in the bathroom and bedroom below, until a muffled cry of “oh bugger it!” came up the stairs.
“You okay?” he called.
Before he could get to his feet, Robin emerged in the doorway, still dressed in her burlesque outfit, now minus the sweatshirt. For a moment Strike was frozen, his brain unable to process the image before him. Robin’s delicate curves wrapped in shimmering green brocade, her luscious breasts not entirely contained by the tightly fitted corset.
“Bloody lace up back…Vanessa’s far too good at knots. Can you give me a hand? No don’t get up…” she shot him a mischievous grin, “…I’ll come to you.”
Strike wondered momentarily if she might be able to hear his heart racing as she padded across the room and perched herself on his good knee, her back to him so he could access the lace up fastening of her corset.
“Um…right, okay…”
The corset lacing needed to be untied from the bottom upwards, and Strike found himself fumbling clumsily with the knot at the base of Robin’s spine. She’d taken her hair down and a few wayward strands tickled against his nose which was filled with the scent of her…warm skin and Narciso.
The knot was indeed firmly secured, even for a once-experienced amateur sailor, although Strike suspected he would have had no issue were he trying to unfasten a knot in 'Jowanet’s' riggng, rather than the business partner he’d been trying not to fantasise about for years.
“Sorry, I can’t see very well, can I just…” he pulled her hair gently round to one side, his fingertips against her skin causing her to shudder slightly.
As he finally managed to work the knot loose, he realised that Robin’s breathing was noticeably more rapid. He hesitated momentarily, then pulled her back onto his lap, his hands warm as they spanned her waist, steadying her against him.
He leaned forward and whispered softly in her ear, “Is this okay.”
“Very,” she replied, wiggling slightly on the pretext of making herself more comfortable and confirming her suspicion that the situation was very much okay with Strike too. She turned her head, allowing him access to lips again for another searing kiss, his fingers on her torso creeping slightly upward, just barely brushing against the curve of the underside of her breasts.
He dropped his head and pressed a warm, soft kiss on her left shoulder.
“And this…”
“Mmm…”
His lips and tongue continued to trace patterns over Robin’s upper back as his fingers worked the laces free from the corset, until finally he reached the top, when to his surprise, Robin stood up, holding the garment in place. He watched her intently as she took a step back, turned to face him and, looking him directly in the eye, let go of the corset, allowing it to fall to the floor. The soft curves of her perfect breasts were highlighted by the low, warm glow of the fairy lights, her dark pink nipples hardening beneath Strike’s appreciative gaze.
“Come here,” he growled, impatient to feel her against him once more.
Robin was only too happy to oblige, straddling him on the sofa, her fingers fumbling through his dark curls as they kissed and kissed, whilst his hands travelled from her waist over the froth of ostrich feathers that just about covered her, and round to her backside, pulling her closer and completely eliminating any doubt about how aroused he was. Her fingers tugged at the hem of his jumper and he moved to help her slip it over his head, before watching as her small, deft fingers worked their way down his shirt buttons, pushing the fabric aside and off his shoulders. She leant forward to kiss him again, hot and demanding, much to his surprise, swallowing his groan of pleasure as her hardened nipples brushed his chest.
It took every ounce of his self-control to extricate himself from her embrace.
“Robin…we don’t have to do this now…I mean, not that I don’t want to but if you want to stop or you need more time…”
She laughed softly as her hands slide caressingly over his naked torso.
“Are you kidding me Strike? I’ve wanted this for months…”
“Months?” Despite his questioning tone, he was unable to keep the smile from his face.
“At least.”
“Me too…and I’ve not let myself want this for so much longer.”
“So…we’re agreed then? Enough waiting?”
Robin leaned forward and silenced his answer with long, slow kiss. Strike’s hands slide around her waist to her back, his fingers rummaging through the ostrich feather skirt.
“How the hell do I get this bloody thing off?”
Robin briefly stood up again, and shimmied out of the skirt, revealing a pair of high waisted, stretch satin shorts, along with the suspender belt that was holding up her fishnet stockings.
“Fuck!”
Somewhere in the back of his brain Strike registered that this was probably a wholly inappropriate response but was helpless to find anything more articulate.
“That’s the general idea…” Robin smirked, much to Strike’s surprise.
“Shouldn’t we go downstairs?” He suddenly recalled the Robin did, in fact, have a flatmate.
“Max isn’t going to be back tonight,” Robin murmured, returning to Strike’s lap, “We have the place to ourselves…”
“Ah. Well in that case…”
Strike’s eyes met Robin’s, arousal and the dim light in the sitting room turning them from pale grey-blue to indigo. She watched him watching her, marvelling at the fact that she didn’t feel remotely uncomfortable at the way his eyes raked over her naked body. Maybe April and Vanessa had a point about burlesque improving your self-confidence.
His hands slid slowly from her waist up to her shoulders, pushing her hair back before allowing his fingertips to travel tantalisingly slowly over her skin, tracing the curves of her breasts. Her eyes fell closed and she bit her lip as his touch moved closer to her nipples. He paused momentarily, then she felt his warm hands cupping her. His thumbs brushed lightly over Robin’s nipples, and she responded with a gasp of pleasure which turned rapidly into a soft moan as she felt his warm mouth close over one of them, sucking gently, his tongue swirling over the sensitive, velvet peak. She rocked against him, relishing the feel of his hard cock through her satin shorts, the warmth of his hands moving to her backside, pulling her tighter against him.
Strike’s mouth moved to her other nipple and his hand found its way to her thigh, tracing the soft, pale skin just above the tops of her stockings, and then he was stroking her through the thin fabric. He was tentative at first, but as she squirmed against him and her fingers tightened in his dark curls, he slowly explored further, slipping a finger beneath the black satin to discover that she was already hot and wet. Robin rocked into his hand, encouraging his touch with murmurs and whimpers of pleasure.
Strike grazed her nipples gently with his teeth, eliciting a hushed expletive from Robin, whose hands were now at his buckle, deftly working the leather free with a satisfying clink.
He paused in his ministrations, his hands on hers.
“You’re absolutely sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” she gave him a cheeky grin. “Now stop being such a gentleman and get your kit off.”
Strike didn’t need asking twice. Robin stood up to allow him to remove his trousers, boxers and prosthesis, trying not to sneak a glance at his cock too obviously before she wiggled out of the satin shorts, revealing a triangle of neatly trimmed auburn curls. Strike finished undressing and looked up at her just as she made to unfasten the first of her stockings from the suspender belt.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice deep and hoarse.
“Don’t?” Robin smiled at him, “Cormoran Strike…do you have a thing for stockings?”
What man doesn’t, he thought to himself.
“Only when the contents is you,” he replied, reaching for her hand and tugging her back onto his lap. “Is this okay?” he queried, “…and do we need…”
“Yes, and no…implant,” Robin replied succinctly. “Now where were we?”
“We can be wherever you want us to be Ellacott…” he replied huskily, “You’re in control.”
“Mmmm, that sounds good,” she replied, positioning herself carefully above him so he could feel the heat radiating from her core. She kissed him, lowering herself onto his lap as she did so, allowing his cock to slip between her silky folds, enjoying his muttered ‘fuck!’ of pleasure as she began to slide against him, her clit swollen and sensitive against his hard length, her breath hot in his ear.
“Robin…Christ…keep that up and I won’t last long enough to…fuuuuck!”
Just as he reached the end of his sentence, he felt Robin change her angle slightly, taking him inside her slowly, inch by inch. She felt like heaven, tight, hot and wet, enveloping him completely, her breasts against his chest, nipples pressing hard against his skin.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her lips curling into a smile against his shoulder.
“Perfect…” he murmured back, pressing kisses down the side of her neck “…you are absolutely perfect.”
“Mmmm…” she responded, lifting herself up and sliding back down again, “…you’re not so bad yourself…” she paused to catch her breath as he grasped her hips, thrusting gently up into her in time with her own movements, “Oh God…that feels so good.”
Strike slid both hands up her back, fingertips applying gentle pressure on her shoulders so that she leaned back, allowing his mouth access to her prefect breasts once again.
Somewhere at the back of a brain infused with pleasure, he realised that as much as he would like to stay where he was forever, stamina was not going to be his strong point this first time, not after so long a period of abstinence and definitely not with Robin riding him the way she was, slow and deep, whispering how good he felt, her breath hot in his ear.
He slid his hand lower, finding her clit with his thumb, circling with a featherlight touch that rapidly drive Robin to distraction. He felt her hand move over his, holding him in exactly the right spot to provide the perfect amount of stimulation. Her movements and breathing became faster and increasingly erratic as she began to lose control, and as she sank down on to his cock yet again, enveloping him completely, Strike sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that he wouldn’t beat her to it.
Robin paused for a moment, relishing the sensation of him inside her, then as she began to move, she felt him increase the pressure of his thumb on her clit, pressing almost imperceptible circles that made her pleasure detonate in a matter of seconds.
“Fuck! Oh God Strike….don’t…please…don’t stop…please…” She came with a high-pitched moan only slightly muffled as her teeth grazed his shoulder muscle and her small, sharp nails dug tiny crescent moons into his upper arms.
“Jesus… Robin….Fuck!” he gasped as he felt her muscles tighten around his cock, taking him hurtling over the edge with her.
***
In the long minutes afterwards, with Robin curled on his lap, sated and breathless, Strike pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and over them both as he reflected on the evening’s thoroughly unexpected turn of events.
“Robin?”
“Hmmm?” she murmured sleepily as he stroked her back.
“When you said you’d wanted this for months…”
“I’ve had…feelings…for longer,” she admitted, “But I only started really thinking about, well, this, that night in the office, after the meeting with Carl Oakden.”
“You started thinking about us sleeping together after I nearly broke your nose?” Strike’s voice and expression were incredulous.
“Well, I don’t think that in itself was the trigger,” she laughed, “But back at the office, talking, drinking whisky…let’s just say I was very aware that your bed was just a few stairs away.”
She buried her head in his shoulder, relieved that she could be honest at long last but feeling her cheeks flush scarlet nonetheless.
Strike dropped a kiss on her head, inhaling the scent of her warm skin and coconut shampoo.
“Me too…and I’m not sure I’d have acted on what I was feeling, but I could have throttled Barclay when he turned up.”
Robin laughed. “And then Morris. He might have got the brunt of a certain amount of frustration on top of my reaction to him creeping up behind me.”
She fell silent for a moment, recalling the abject terror that has shot through her when she’d felt his hands on her waist, and how very different she had felt about Strike’s hands there earlier in the evening.
Strike was silent too, although his thoughts were somewhat more prosaic.
“Great curry that night though,” he mused, “You did mention takeaway earlier, didn’t you?”
“You and your stomach,” Robin shook her head affectionately as she got to her feet, wrapping the throw around herself as she headed for the stairs. “…although I must admit I’ve worked up quite an appetite in the last couple of hours. Takeaway menus are in the drawer next to the fridge, I’m going to shower and change.”
Strike watched her go before pulling his clothes and prosthesis back on and meandering to the kitchen.
He placed their usual curry order and marvelled at how doing something so very familiar could suddenly feel so different. The change scared him a little, but he refused to worry about it now, not with the scent of Robin’s shower gel drifting up the stairs, along with her voice, singing along to the radio:
Let me show you what you never see
You know how to love only when you're holding me
When you say you've had enough
And you might just give it up
Oh, oh
I will never let you down
When you’re feeling low on love
I'll be what you dreaming of
Oh, oh
I will never let you down
As he rummaged in the cupboards for plates, cutlery, glasses and wine, Strike didn’t even realise that he was singing along under his breath.