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Robin sprawled back across Nick and Ilsa’s sofa. “I can’t,” she groaned.
“Go on...” Ilsa nudged a small bowl of Christmas pudding and the jug of cream towards her. “It’s been, like, half an hour. You must be able to fit a smidgin in your tummy.”
Robin shook her head. “Just can’t,” she said. “I’m so utterly, utterly stuffed. Thank you so much, both of you.”
Ilsa grinned at her as Nick topped up the wine glasses. “You’re very welcome,” she said. “We often have Corm over, and we weren’t going to have you spending Christmas alone.”
Robin smiled. “Well, I’m very grateful,” she said. “I did feel sad, earlier, that I wasn’t in Masham. But at least two of my brothers would be arguing by now, and mum and Jenny can get a bit passive-aggressive. I usually wish I wasn’t there at some point.”
“Families!” Nick set the bottle back down on the table. “Can’t live with ’em—”
Strike grinned. “Just can’t live with ’em,” he said, spooning more Christmas pudding and cream into his mouth.
Nick laughed. “I’ll grab some more beers. Or do you think we want to hit the whisky now?”
Strike nodded enthusiastically. “Whisky,” he said indistinctly around a mouthful of pudding. “I brought a bottle, it’s in the utility room.”
Nick nodded and wandered off. Ilsa collected up plates. “You sure, Robin?”
Robin nodded regretfully. “I’m sure.”
“Oi! Don’t take it away!” Strike exclaimed as Ilsa picked up Robin’s untouched bowl. She chuckled and put it back down again.
“The human hoover will see it gets eaten,” she said fondly, and headed for the kitchen with the other dishes.
Robin sat and watched Strike tuck into a second bowl. “How can you fit any more in?” she marvelled. “We’ve had goose, stuffing, two kinds of potatoes, veg, sauces, cheeseboard, the whole works!”
Strike grinned. “I know. The Herberts do a bloody good Christmas dinner. Well worth a bottle of whisky and the exorbitant taxi price to get here.” He winked.
Robin smiled and laid her head back again, her eyes drifting closed. She was feeling quite tipsy. She’d had lots to eat, but there had been gin and tonic, plenty of good, crisp white wine and a gorgeous glass of Cointreau that had warmed her down to her toes.
There had also been, she was sure of it, subtle flirting from her partner and boss. She’d seen his eyes widen at the sight of her cream jumper stretched softly across her chest. She knew it was a little too small these days, and had worn it anyway.
He looked gorgeous today, a dark blue shirt complementing his dark eyes and thickly-haired forearms. She could hardly keep her hands off him, and he’d caught her staring a couple of times. She could feel his eyes on her now even with her own closed.
She lifted lazy, heavy lids, and sure enough, he was watching her. He held out the spoon. “Sure you won’t have just a tiny bit?”
Robin groaned again. “I love Christmas pudding,” she grumbled. “But I’m so, so full. I just want to taste it, I don’t want to actually eat it.”
His eyes held hers as he lowered the spoon back to the bowl. “That can be arranged.” His voice was low, husky. Robin’s heart began to flutter in her chest. Suddenly she wasn’t sleepy at all.
“Yeah?” she managed. “How would that work?” This was dangerous territory, but he’d started it, and suddenly she was tired of this long, slow dance they were dancing. Months of little connections, subtle flirting, had to eventually lead to something.
Those dark eyes wouldn’t stop staring at her. Robin was mesmerised. She watched as he put the spoon in his own mouth, dark fruit, cream and white sugar disappearing between uneven lips that she had long fantasised about touching, kissing, feeling on her skin. She swallowed hard as he put the bowl and spoon down and moved closer to her on the sofa, his arm sliding along behind her head, watching her, almost predatory. His gaze held enough fierce intent to make her shiver, and enough of a gentle question to make her feel safe. He hesitated, waiting for her, and she smiled softly and slid a hand onto his knee.
A small grin curled that perfect, flawed upper lip, and he swallowed the last of the Christmas pudding and leaned right in. Robin’s eyes fluttered closed as she felt his breath on her skin, warm and spicy.
There was no preamble. His lips touched hers and his tongue slid straight into her mouth, sure and confident, and Robin gasped a little. She’d expected hesitancy. The taste of him filled her senses. Spice and sugar, cream and musk. Cautiously she touched her tongue to his, and he growled and moved his hand to her waist, drawing her closer. His tongue plundered her mouth and she sucked gently, drawing the taste from him, spicy and creamy-rich and smooth. Her hands were on his cheeks, fingers fluttering across stubble, exploring, sliding into his hair, marvelling at the soft, springy curls.
His tongue brushed across hers again, and her fingers tightened in his hair just a little, tugging. He jumped slightly and pressed closer with another growl from deep in his throat. Suddenly he was kissing her fiercely, and Robin met him with her own long-repressed passion, pulling him closer.
Long minutes drifted past as he explored her mouth, every touch of his tongue fanning the flames of desire until Robin was breathless beneath him. He was half across her on the sofa now, and eventually, reluctantly, drew back, dark eyes seeking her grey-blue ones. Panting, Robin gazed up at him, and he grinned down at her, so gorgeous it took her breath away.
“Okay?” he murmured. Speechless, Robin nodded vigorously.
“Right, are you two finally done?” Nick called cheerfully from the doorway, and marched in with the bottle of whisky and two glasses. Ilsa followed, a box of After Eights in one hand, wiping her eyes on the back of the other. “Ignore my soppy wife,” Nick added, and chuckled as Ilsa insisted on kissing Strike’s stubbled cheek and Robin’s scarlet one.
Strike sat back, grinning a goofy grin, and extended an arm along the back of the sofa again. Still blushing, Robin crept into his arms and laid her head on his chest. Nick passed Strike a glass of whisky with a fond wink that held no hint of teasing. He had a pretty good idea what this development would mean to his old friend.
Ilsa blew her nose, stuffed her tissue in her pocket and picked up her wine glass. “A toast!” she cried. “To old friends and new ones, old relationships and new ones.” She slid her hand into her husband’s. They all drank, and Strike’s arm around Robin squeezed her just a little closer.