Work Text:
5.30pm. The last client had gone. Robin locked the outer office door to make sure, and then reached behind herself and undid the clasp on her bra. It sprang free and she breathed a sigh of relief. Not long after lunch, she had realised the underwire had gone through the fabric and was digging into the side of her breast. A search in her bag of spare clothes yielded no replacement, and with a full afternoon of clients and a thin capped-sleeve blouse, she had had no choice but to soldier on, in increasing agony. She wrestled the offending garment off now, pulling the straps through her sleeves and sliding the bra free, dumping it with satisfaction into the bin.
She stretched, rubbing the sore place beneath her breast, relieved to be free of the wire that had tortured her all afternoon.
Footsteps on the stairs. She froze in horror. No, no, no, no... A knock on the door.
Panicked, Robin looked round frantically. The McCaffery file was on her desk. She snatched it up and held it to her chest and went to answer the door.
It was one of their clients, apologetic for turning up after hours and without an appointment, a divorcing woman in her early 40s with a crush on Strike and a ten-year-old son she had unaccountably brought with her. She settled him on the sofa with his iPad and headphones and hurried through to see Strike, apologising again for arriving unannounced, but she had further evidence of her husband’s affair that she had discovered that afternoon, she confided in Robin once her son was safely engrossed in his TV show. Robin promised to bring tea through, and their client bustled into Strike’s office.
Robin made two mugs of tea, and then realised she had a dilemma. She couldn’t carry them both with the file held in front of her. She lowered the file and looked down at herself. It was no good, the blouse was too sheer, clinging in all the wrong places.
She sighed. She was going to have to ask Strike for help. She went back to her desk, still hugging the McCaffery file, and texted him. “Help” was all she put.
A few moments later, he stuck his head round the door. “You okay?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Robin blushed. “Can you take the tea through?” she said, indicating the mugs sitting by the kettle.
He looked at her, puzzled. “Er, yes,” he said. “Why couldn’t you bring it?”
Robin glanced at the boy on the sofa, still engrossed in his iPad, and beckoned Strike forward. Intrigued, he came to stand by her desk, but had to lean right down to hear her whisper. It was odd to be so close to him in the office. They had been careful to keep their new relationship separate.
“My bra broke,” she whispered, nodding at it in the bin next to her. “Had to take it off.”
He frowned at her, still puzzled. “So?” he said. “I’m sure no one would notice.”
She lowered the McCaffery file to her lap. Strike looked at her chest, and she saw his eyes widen in shock at the way the sheer material clung around her nipples in a way it hadn’t to the bra. He stared and stared, then looked up at her, his eyes dark with sudden arousal.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he breathed, and Robin flushed even redder. His eyes dropped shamelessly back to her breasts. His hands flexed at his sides. She could see he wanted to touch her. Heat flooded through her at the thought of his hands on her through the thin material, and her breasts tightened, nipples hardening.
“You’re not helping matters,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. Strike took a shuddering breath, still staring down at her. Her nipples were standing out stiffly now, clearly outlined through the clinging fabric.
“Fuck... Fuck,” Strike muttered, and dragged his eyes from her, turning away hurriedly before his body totally betrayed him. Robin let out a shaky sigh and hugged the file again. Strike picked up the mugs of tea, took a couple of deep, slow breaths, still with his back to her, and went back to his office, closing the door firmly behind him.
Robin sat, uncertain what to do now. There wasn’t much she could do while she had to hold the file. She allowed her mind to drift, imagining his hands on her... That wasn’t helping either. She dragged her attention back to the computer monitor in front of her. She could at least plan tomorrow’s schedule.
Ten minutes later, their client emerged from the inner office, collected her son, apologised again, and was gone. Robin locked the door for the second time, thankful all over again.
“Miss Ellacott?” Strike called, and his voice was pure gravel. “Would you step into my office, please?”