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Strike let himself into Robin’s flat and switched on the lights. He’d known he would likely arrive before her; she was out last-minute Christmas shopping with Ilsa, and had texted him to say they had stopped for a cheeky glass of wine to celebrate a good day’s shopping. She wouldn’t be long, she’d added, and she couldn’t wait to see him.
He’d grinned, imagining her madly texting while Ilsa was in the ladies or something. They’d kept their relationship a secret so far, but had both separately accepted invitations to the Herberts’ for Christmas dinner in a few days. They planned to break it to their friends then, an extra Christmas present for Ilsa, who had wanted them together for so long.
He was really looking forward to seeing his partner. She’d arrived back late last night from a long weekend in Masham swapping presents with her family. He’d told himself that it was ridiculous how much he’d missed her, but he’d become to used to spending every night in bed with her, wrapped up in her, exploring...
His libido perked up hopefully just at the thought of her. It had been a while. And he had a plan he’d formulated over the weekend.
“You’d look good in a Santa hat,” she’d quipped last week, a passing comment. Well, he planned to surprise her with said Santa hat - and nothing else!
He dumped his bag containing a couple of bottles of Doom Bar on the kitchen side, and surveyed his soaked trousers with a scowl. He’d made it almost all the way here in the London drizzle before being drenched by a passing taxi, his rude gestures and inventive curses going cheerfully unnoticed. Luckily it was the side with the prosthetic leg that had got wet, so he couldn’t feel it, but he was dripping in Robin’s clean flat despite having lingered outside for a final cigarette in the hopes that the worst of the water would run off.
He dumped his cigarettes on the side by the kettle and went into the bathroom. Sitting to pee, he pulled his wet trousers and sock off and threw them over the towel rail. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t need them until the morning, and they’d be dry by then. Humming cheerfully to himself, he went back to the kitchen. He mopped up the drips, put the Doom Bar in the fridge, wolfed a Twix from the supply Robin kept in for him these days - hopefully he’d need the energy tonight - and strolled through to the bedroom. Delicious anticipation rolled through him. As ever, Robin’s bedroom was cosily warm. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, pulled the Santa hat on and lay down on the bed. It creaked loudly, as it was wont to do, and he grumbled at it a little. Like the office sofa, it managed to stay quiet for Robin on her own. He was a little tired of furniture ganging up on him to tell him he was overweight.
He lay and waited for Robin, delicious images of what he wanted to do to her and for her when she finally arrived running through his mind, his body responding to the idea at once. He grinned down at his erection, but kept his hands at his sides. He wanted to save the moment for Robin’s arrival.
...
“Nick’s joining us, he just texted,” Ilsa said. “Now, tell me more about this dress.”
Robin screwed up her nose. “It’s hard to describe. You’d have to see. I just worry it’s not smart enough for your New Year’s Eve do.”
“It’s hardly a cocktail party.”
“But is is New Year.” Robin glanced at her watch. She didn’t usually see Strike until seven or so, plenty of time. “Why don’t you come back for a cup of tea after this and give me an opinion?”
Ilsa nodded vigorously. “Good plan. Oh, here’s Nick. That was quick,” she exclaimed as her husband leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“Yeah, think the text didn’t send till after I came up out of the Tube, though I pressed send before I went in,” he replied. “So I was in fact literally round the corner.” He looked around at their assembled bags. “Good god, are there any products left in the shops?”
Ilsa giggled. “Why do you think I agreed to you gatecrashing girls’ afternoon? I need you to help carry!” She drained her glass and started to pass him bags.
Robin, whose collection was a little more sedate, laughed too. “I did a lot of mine early this year for the present swap,” she said, while Nick grumbled quietly as Ilsa passed him more bags.
“Come on,” Ilsa said cheerfully, bending to pick up the last of the bags herself. “We’re detouring to Robin’s for a cuppa so I can see a dress of hers. Fashion consultation. I can hear you rolling your eyes, husband.” She winked at him as she stood.
“I did not!” Nick protested. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you, Robin. I’ll need it by the time we get there.” He grinned at his wife. “What say we go for dinner after, save cooking? I’ve had a long shift, and you must be exhausted from all this shopping.”
Ilsa grinned. “Well said. That’s a good plan. You can decide where we’re going and get it booked while I check out Robin’s dress.” She turned to Robin. “Will you join us?”
“Oh, er, thank you, but no thanks,” Robin replied hurriedly. “I said I might see Vanessa later.”
The three left the wine bar and set off up the road, chatting. Robin was tingling with anticipation that wasn’t just caused by a cheeky early glass of wine. She was looking forward to seeing Strike. She’d missed him more than was strictly necessary. She hugged her secret to herself like a hot water bottle. In a few days they’d be telling everyone, but for now it was theirs alone.
...
Lounging on Robin’s bed, excitement thrumming through his veins at the thought that she must surely be on her way home soon, Strike found his attention snagged suddenly as he looked around by two little hangers on the handles of her chest of drawers. One held a gorgeous forest green shimmering bra, the other a matching pair of shorts-style knickers. They still had the tags on, so no wonder he’d not seen them before. The thought that Robin might have bought new underwear for tonight had his mind wandering along all sorts of delightful paths.
She was taking longer than he’d expected, and the room was warm. He briefly considered getting up and going for a smoke, but he’d have to get dressed again and might bump into her outside and spoil the surprise. And his trousers would still be wet. He glanced at his phone, but no messages.
The room really was quite warm. Overworked as always, and bored at this particular moment, he drifted into a doze, into which rose a delectable dream of Robin in that underwear.
He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when he woke with a jump from a rather delicious scene involving peeling the knickers slowly from her with one hand while the exploration he was conducting with the other was making her moan his name. As the fog cleared from his brain a little, he realised he could hear voices. Robin wasn’t alone. And he was naked in her room, his clothes and prosthesis over by the chair, trapped on a very creaky bed and with an erection that, encouraged by that really rather erotic dream, really had no intention of calming down.
He held his breath and listened. Robin’s voice, low and chatty, sent bolts of arousal though his still slightly dream-entangled brain and libido. Fuck, that was Nick and Ilsa he could hear. Well, they’d have no reason to come into Robin’s room. Hopefully they wouldn’t stay long. He closed his eyes and tried really hard to think of unsexy things, taking slow, deep breaths.
...
“Come on in, grab a seat,” Robin said, dumping her bags by her bedroom door and moving across to her kitchenette to flick the kettle on.
A packet of Benson & Hedges and a lighter sat by the kettle. Robin stared at them, frozen. Had Strike been here while she was out?
Nick was piling bags against the wall, but Ilsa was approaching her. “Where’s this dress?”
Robin hurriedly swept the cigarettes and lighter into the cutlery drawer and grabbed the kettle. “I’ll just put the kettle on, then I’ll show you,” she replied lightly.
“Shall I find it?” Ilsa asked, moving towards Robin’s bedroom.
“Mm-hm.” Not really listening, puzzled about the cigarettes and wondering if it was related to why her lights had been on when she thought she’d turned them off, Robin recalled only at the very last second that she’d deliberately left her bedroom door open this morning to stop the room getting as hot as it had last night. “Ilsa, wait!”
Ilsa paused, her hand reaching for the handle on Robin’s bedroom door. “What?”
“Um, don’t go in there. It’s, er, a huge mess.”
Ilsa scoffed. “We’ve lived with you, Robin, you’re not that messy.”
“No, but I mean... Well, I was wrapping loads of presents and I don’t know if yours is hidden or wrapped or what,” Robin improvised madly. “You sit down, I’ll get the dress.”
Ilsa shrugged. “Okay.” She moved back into the living room as Robin dumped the kettle on its cradle and hastened across to the bedroom herself.
“I’ll make the tea,” Nick said, and Robin threw him a grateful smile over her shoulder. “Thanks, Nick.”
Robin slipped into her room through as small a gap as possible, smiling apologetically back at her friends, and shut the door. She turned and gave a squeak at the sight of Strike sat back against her pillows, naked except for a Santa hat, clearly very, very eager to see her. His cheeks were almost as red as the hat.
It was about the sexiest thing she had ever seen.
“Fuck...” she muttered.
“Sorry—” he began, but she crossed to the bed in one stride and kissed him, hard.
Effectively silenced, Strike kissed her back, leaning in to her, his tongue meeting hers as she thrust into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair. The bed creaked.
“Robin—” Strike tried to say, muffled against her mouth.
Panting, Robin drew back. “I missed you,” she whispered. “What on earth are you doing here? And why are you naked?”
He grinned. “Surprising you. Sorry, I couldn’t wait.”
She laughed softly. “Clearly. Well, you’ll have to hang on until Ilsa’s seen this dress. I’ll get rid of them as quick as I can. Nice hat,” she added with a wink, as she slipped out of his clutches and crossed to the wardrobe.
Strike gave a huff of frustration. “Hurry up,” he whispered. “I want to show you how much I missed you too.”
Robin snatched the dress on its hanger down from the wardrobe, blew him a kiss and turned back to the door.
“Oh, Robin,” Strike hissed.
“What?”
“My trousers are hung on the radiator in the bathroom.”
Robin’s eyes grew wide. “What? Why—? Never mind. I’ll sort it.” She squeezed back out of the door.
In her little kitchenette, Nick had found mugs and tea bags and was hunting through drawers for a spoon. He opened the cutlery drawer, and his eyebrows shot up as he spotted the hastily hidden cigarettes and lighter. He cast their host a sideways glance as she held the dress up for Ilsa to coo over. He hadn’t had Robin pegged as a secret smoker. She didn’t seem the type. He vaguely tried to recall if he had ever smelled cigarette smoke on her.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Ilsa cried. “Why would you think it isn’t dressy enough?”
Robin shrugged. “I dunno. It just...doesn’t look as good on, I guess.” She wished Nick would hurry up with the teas. Much as she loved the Herberts, she just wanted to get rid of them and get into bed with her very eager partner. Her heart fluttered and her stomach tightened just thinking about it. She cast an anxious look towards the bathroom as Ilsa admired the dress. She needed to get in there before one of her guests did so she could hide Strike’s trousers.
Nick squeezed out tea bags and dropped them into the bin on top of the Twix wrapper.
“Hold it against you,” Ilsa instructed. “Is it because it’s grey?”
Robin shrugged. “Maybe. Think the colour makes me look washed-out? Matt liked me in grey, but I was never sure...”
Ilsa pursed her lips. “If it did, it wouldn’t be anything a bit of fake tan wouldn’t fix,” she mused.
Nick opened the fridge, saw the Doom Bar bottles next to the milk, and the penny dropped. Robin wasn’t secretly smoking. She was secretly dating a smoker. Who drank Doom Bar and ate Twixes.
A delighted grin spread across his face as he poured the milk, thinking. Beers and chocolate, Robin might keep in, but if his cigarettes and lighter were here, it was highly likely Strike was too. Which would explain Robin’s sudden refusal to allow Ilsa into her room.
Chuckling quietly to himself, Nick put the milk back in the fridge and carried the three mugs through to the living room.
“I think I need to see it on you,” Ilsa decided. “Go and put it on.”
“Really?” Robin hesitated a moment, but decided obeying would hopefully get rid of her guests faster. She pushed the dress towards Ilsa. “I’ll just pop to the loo first.”
“Why don’t you just—” But Robin was gone, leaving Ilsa holding the dress, bemused. Her friend was being slightly odd all of a sudden.
She looked at Nick. “What are you grinning at?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondering if you’re getting a new dress for the party, too.”
His wife shrugged. “Maybe. Hadn’t really thought.”
Why were men’s clothes so big, Robin thought despairingly as she tried to stuff Strike’s damp trousers into her bathroom cabinet. There really wasn’t anywhere else. It took her two goes to get them in with neither leg hanging out, and she knew they’d fall out as soon as the door was opened. She was just going to have to hope Nick and Ilsa didn’t look in there.
She scurried back to the living room just in time to see Nick edging towards her bedroom door, tea in hand.
“Um, Nick, I think I’ve got some biscuits somewhere,” she cried. “Do you want to have a look while I put the dress on?”
Nick cast her a sly sideways glance, but moved obediently back towards the kitchenette to hunt for biscuits.
“My turn for the loo.” Ilsa handed Robin her dress, and went into the bathroom. Heaving a sigh of relief that she had had the chance to hide the trousers, Robin slipped into her bedroom with the dress.
Strike was looking around wildly for something to protect his modestly. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw her.
“Thank fuck, I thought you were Nick or Ilsa,” he hissed. “Why are they still here?”
Robin was frantically dragging clothes off. “Ilsa wants to see the dress on,” she murmured. “Take a few more deep breaths.” She winked, fully aware of his predicament. She could hardly not be.
Strike groaned under his breath as she stripped off her top and wriggled out of her trousers. Happiness and a lot of dining out had filled out her figure more, and her gorgeous breasts spilled out of her bra a little. He had absolutely no hope of getting his body under control with Robin stripping in front of him.
She paused, wearing only her underwear, and looked at him, meeting the fierce heat of his gaze. She smiled softly and stepped across to the bed to kiss him again. Strike moaned a little into her mouth, his hands sliding up her thighs to her hips and circling her waist, stroking across smooth, smooth skin. “Hurry up,” he whispered raggedly as she drew back again, her blue-grey eyes cloudy pools of desire.
“I’m doing my best,” she whispered back, and grabbed the dress and started to pull it on. Strike drew a shuddering breath. Did she really have to wriggle like that to get into it? He shivered.
Robin grinned at him. “Not much longer,” she whispered, and slipped back out the door. Strike sighed with frustration and dropped his head back on the pillows.
“Where’s Ilsa?” Robin asked in surprise, looking around her living room.
Nick grinned at her and wondered if she knew her lipstick was smudged. “Still in the loo.”
Before he could decide whether to mention the lipstick, Ilsa was back.
“Robin, why is there a man’s sock on your towel rail?”
Momentarily frozen, Robin blinked. “Oh, um... I found it. I think it’s Martin’s, must have got mixed in with my laundry at Mum and Dad’s.”
Nick snorted into his tea. Robin cast him a suspicious sideways glance. “Did you find any biscuits?”
“Yup.” Nick waved at the packet sat on the coffee table. He grinned at her, the picture of innocence, and a frisson of alarm ran through her. Did he know? Could he have guessed?
Ilsa was fortunately oblivious, taken up with admiring the dress. “I don’t think you look washed out at all, Robin,” she insisted. “Some tan tights and smoky eye make-up, you’ll be scorching.”
Nick smiled at her. “You do look good, Robin,” he told her.
Robin went a little pink. “Thank you both.”
Nick winked. “Maybe you’ll meet someone at the party. Lucky guy if you do.”
Robin blushed more, but Ilsa scowled. “No, Nick. She has to go out with Corm. We just need to get him to see it, I think he must be being wilfully blind.”
“Yeah, must be it.” Nick sniggered into his tea again. Robin gave him a fierce sideways look, and he winked at her. Their eyes locked for a moment.
He knows.
Robin turned away and hurried to the kitchenette. She picked up her cup of tea to bury her face in. How did Nick know? And was there any chance they could keep Ilsa’s surprise for Christmas Day?
Mercifully, Nick changed the subject, quizzing Ilsa about what she wanted for dinner while they sat down and drank their tea and ate a couple of biscuits each.
“Right,” said Nick eventually. “I think we’d better get going. Restaurants are likely to be busy at this time of year.”
Ilsa stood and went to put her mug on the kitchenette side, and paused for a moment, thinking. “I think I might just pop to the loo again before we go,” she mused. “I’ve had a glass of wine and a big mug of tea, and it’s a bit of a walk back to the High Street.”
Relieved, Robin moved to the kitchen sink to wash up the mugs. Nick and Ilsa were on their way out now, and soon she would be able to go and climb into bed with her her partner. Ilsa went back into the bathroom and shut the door.
“Right,” said Nick again, determination in his voice. “I think you’ve got a secret. What are you hiding, Robin?” And he stepped across to her bedroom door and opened it.
“Nick—!” Robin squeaked, too late.
“Bloody hell!” Nick yanked the bedroom door shut again with a bang and swung to face Robin. His shocked and amused look took in her scarlet face as she hurried across to him.
A fiercely whispered conversation ensued.
“What the—?” Nick’s eyes were round.
“I thought you’d guessed!”
“I had, but I assumed he’d be clothed!”
Robin giggled. “Oh, God.”
“Don’t worry, he was wearing a strategically placed Santa hat!”
Robin squeaked again, her hand over her mouth.
“Nick, please don’t tell Ilsa. We were going to tell you both on Christmas Day, make it her Christmas surprise.”
“But—”
“Please, Nick.”
Ilsa emerged from the bathroom, and Robin stepped back. “What’s going on? What was that bang?”
Nick nodded infinitesimally at Robin, and she gave him a look of thanks and turned to her friend. “Your husband tripped over the coffee table.”
“Clumsy fool,” Ilsa said, lovingly. “What am I to do with you?”
“Yeah, ow,” Nick said unconvincingly, rubbing at his shin. Robin giggled. Ilsa began to gather up all her bags and boxes again.
“Come on, husband, I’m hungry.”
Nick shot Robin a sideways glance. Ilsa was by the door now, bustling with bags.
“I’m going to have to bloody kick something to get a bruise now,” he muttered. “This had better be worth it!”
Robin grinned at him. “It will be. Think of her face.”
Nick nodded, smiling, and then grimaced. “And, by the way, I am never wearing a Santa hat again!”
“Come on, Nick,” Ilsa called, and he moved obediently to the door.
“What are you grinning at, husband?” Ilsa asked again as Robin bundled them both out of the door with hasty goodbyes and closed and locked it behind them.
“Nothing, wife,” he replied, as Robin’s scampering footsteps faded behind them. He slung an arm over her shoulders and steered her towards the lifts. “Nothing at all.”