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“Don’t move!” Strike’s voice whispered against Robin’s ear, his hands on her hips anchoring her against him in the shallow doorway, just out of sight. Their suspicious quarry had doubled back unexpectedly, apparently aware they were being followed.
Strike’s olfactory senses were overwhelmed by the scent of warm skin and Narciso, the fragrance taking him back to the morning after Robin’s thirtieth birthday, when he’d awoken with her in his arms, wearing nothing but her new perfume.
As the sound of footsteps retreated, he realised ruefully he might as well have been speaking to his wayward cock as his partner.