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Strike sits perched on the windowsill of his tiny bedroom, naked, his partial leg propped up on the sill and his foot on the floor. The hand holding his cigarette stays outside the window; he’s careful to exhale out into the cool morning air when he takes each deep, welcome drag of nicotine and smoke.
He’s trying to be as quiet as he can so as not to wake Robin. He wasn’t intending to be a voyeur, exactly, just...there isn’t much he can do until he’s finished his cigarette.
He’d assumed, at first, that her restless movement in the bed and accompanying tiny whimpers were because he was gone. They’ve been spending more and more time together as their relationship progresses, practically living together now, tumbling into his bed or hers depending on where they’ve spent the evening, whether they’ve gone out or not. On the rare nights he sleeps alone, he often finds himself reaching for her in the night, half waking when she’s not there, turning over to go back to sleep.
But that’s not what this is. She’d stirred again; then she’d muttered his name, deep and throaty, and suddenly he knew exactly what she was dreaming about. He watches her now, fascinated, as she twists a little, her head turning on the pillow, restless, her cheeks flushed. He can see the swell of her breasts through the sheet, her nipples puckered hard, and suddenly his own body is responding to the arousal of hers, heat flooding to his groin. In the time it takes him to inhale the next pull on his cigarette, he’s fully aroused himself, his cock hard against his thigh.
He feels like he’s intruding, watching her, but his ego is delighted it’s him she’s dreaming about. He wonders what he’s doing in her imagination. Wonders if it’s something he’s done for her already, or something specific she wants but hasn’t asked him for. Yet.
She moans a little, a breathy sound through parted lips, and he knows that sound. Her thighs are pressed together, rubbing restlessly, and her back arches a little, her hands clutching at the sheets. He suddenly finds himself wondering if she’s going to come in her sleep, here in front of him. His cock pulses at the thought, and a low groan escapes him.
He really ought to stop watching, but he can’t help himself. It’s so incredibly sexy, watching her pleasure build, wondering what he’s doing in her fevered subconscious. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and she makes that little whimpering sound that he loves so much. He’s aching for her now, deeply aroused from watching her, and his hand drifts to his cock, circling it idly, seeking relief.
In the bed, Robin gives a little gasp and her eyes snap open. Before he can look away, they’re staring at one another. Her blue-grey gaze is fogged with lust, and he knows he must look the same way. Her vision clears a little, and her eyes drop to where he’s grasping his erection, his hand still but trembling a little.
Her voice, when she speaks, is husky.
“I was dreaming.”
“I know.” His sounds deeper, rougher, even than it normally does first thing in the morning.
“About you.”
He can’t stop the sultry, slightly smug grin that creeps across his face. “I know.”
Her chest rises and falls; her eyes are fixed on his rigid cock, making it twitch in his hand. “Come back to bed.”
“I will.” He indicates his cigarette, hung out of the window.
Robin pulls herself up a little on the pillows, the sheet slipping to her waist, her thighs falling open, and his eyes drop automatically to her breasts. He still can’t get over the fact that he’s allowed to see them whenever he wants now - well, almost whenever he wants; there are still times when it would be inappropriate - in all their creamy gorgeousness.
“I want you now,” she tells him, a lazy smile curling her pink lips.
“Two minutes.”
Her left hand creeps up to cup her breast. “I might start without you.”
His libido lurches powerfully at her words. Will she ever stop surprising him? He grins. “Go on, then.”
She strokes her breast, feeling the weight of it, her hand sliding across the soft skin he knows so well, and Strike can’t look away. He watches her fingers slide, dipping into the valley between her breasts, stroking back across to the outside, circling just beneath her nipple but not touching it.
She’s watching him, watching his reaction to her touching herself, and it’s like she knows what it’s doing to him, how it makes him ache with the need to touch her, with the longing for it to be his fingers stroking across her. But there’s something about this that he likes. He’s not in a hurry to get back to the bed.
His hand is moving a little now, his thumb idly stroking along the top of his hard cock. Because of the angle he’s sat at, with his right hand out of the window holding his cigarette, it’s his left that he’s using to gently pleasure himself, and it’s different enough to be titillating, unpractised enough to be frustrating.
Watching his hand move, Robin slides her other one down below the sheet, and Strike hisses in a sharp breath. He wasn’t sure how far she’d take this, wasn’t sure if he dared ask, and here she’s following the fantasy he’d never realised he had of her own accord.
But he can’t see anything. Her hand works slowly beneath the sheet, and her breathing stutters a little, but he has to imagine what she’s doing. Is she just stroking herself? Is she touching her clit? Is she wet? He longs to know, and his whole hand begins to slide a little, trying to relieve the desperate ache of his erection.
Heat in the fingers of his other hand tells him his half-forgotten cigarette is almost gone. He takes a last drag, finishing it, and flicks it towards the gutter below. He blows the dregs of his smoke out into the cold air and pulls the window closed. He wants to get back to the bed, but he also wants to keep playing this game.
He swings himself to face her, and she’s watching him, her eyes cloudy with desire but waiting to see what he wants to do. She’s still idly stroking the soft flesh of her breast, circling but not touching her nipple, and her other hand moves slowly beneath the sheet.
“I can’t see.” Strike is almost embarrassed at how hoarse his voice is, but then it’s not like his arousal is a secret. It’s staring her in the face, straining towards her.
Robin grins, and her hand emerges for long enough to push the sheet down and away, exposing all of her to his gaze. She parts her thighs wider, and he can see she’s so wet for him, her flesh swollen and pink, inviting. He groans again at the sight of her, as desperate for him as he is for her, and his right hand moves instinctively to take over from his left.
“Do you want to come back to bed?” she asks, her voice low, her eyes twinkling at him. She knows exactly what she’s doing to him, her fingers stroking up the inside of her thigh even as she asks the question, and he can’t tear his gaze away from the path they follow.
“In a minute,” he gasps.
She nods, smiling, and another fierce surge of desire hits him as he realises she wants to play this game too. His hand pumps his cock and a moan of pleasure escapes him. He forces himself to stop.
Robin grins, shivering a little as her fingers trail through her damp curls and across to her other thigh. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Don’t get carried away.”
Strike’s gaze is flickering between her hand cupping her breast, the other one teasing gentle fingertips across her thighs, her flushed cheeks. He knows how to pleasure her, knows she’s deliberately not touching herself in the ways that drive her arousal on the most, and he’s desperate to know if that’s to prolong the game, or if she’s in danger of getting carried away too.
“Touch yourself.” He sounds like he’s begging. He doesn’t care.
Her eyebrow quirks just a little. “I am.”
“Properly.”
She leans back against the wall, her eyes hooded, watching him. “You, too, then.”
Mute, he nods his agreement, and then her fingers trail across her nipple. She gasps and her back arches, and without him even making a conscious effort, his hand is sliding along his stiff length, pleasure pulsing though him. He’s desperately aroused now.
He can’t stop watching her fingers, the way her first two fingers and thumb work together at her nipple, dancing across it gently. He’d assumed, without really giving it a lot of thought, that she must pleasure herself sometimes, though he would never dream of asking a lady such a thing. Now here she is showing him. He focuses on what she’s doing, as much to try to distract himself from the pleasure building at the base of his spine as to try to memorise the movements for another time.
It’s not working. He loosens his grip, slowing his hand. He’s aching for release already, but he wants this game to go on for as long as he can make it last.
Robin grins at him. Strike knows he must be flushed, that his eyes will be a little wild. The unexpectedness of it all is going to be his undoing.
“Don’t come too soon,” she warns him, smiling softly, but there’s no hint of teasing. Underpinning her words is her own fierce arousal. She wants to draw the game out too.
“Or what?” His voice is trembling now, and he’s forced to slow his hand again, barely moving on his cock now.
“Or you forfeit,” she murmurs, and his cock pulses so hard his hips rock against his will, trying to thrust into his fist, desperately seeking friction. How does she know exactly what to say and do to drive him to the edge?
“What’s the forfeit?” he rasps, keeping his hand away from the sensitive, needy head of his erection. If he touches himself there, he’ll lose all control.
Her fingers trail from her thigh back across her soaked mound, and pause to toy with her clit, making them both groan.
“Loser has to go and get the coffees from Carluccio’s.” She names the Italian deli on the corner where they often pop to fetch coffee and sweet pastries on a Sunday morning.
Strike grins. Low stakes, then, but a competition nonetheless. “Deal.”
She nods just a little, and her eyes drop to his groin again. “Keep going, then.”
Strike slides his hand again, trying not to grip too firmly, his gaze fixed on where her fingers gently circle her clit now. If there’s anything he still needs to learn about how she likes to be touched there, he very much wants to know it.
Seeing him looking, she slides her hand down, and he watches with a groan as her finger slips into her entrance, sliding all the way in. She rocks a little, her head dropping back, and he knows her, knows her pleasure, knows how that slip and slide makes her spine melt and her hips buck when he does it to her. He realises he’s rocking his hips in time with hers, thrusting into the circle of his fist that he’s desperately trying to keep loose so that he might hang onto a little self-control.
Robin’s head drops forward a little again and her eyes find his, and arousal pulses through him again at the way she looks at him. She’s farther gone than he’d realised, eyes glazed, lips parting, as her finger works, sliding in and out. At her breast, she’s gently pinching her nipple now.
Strike supposes, with the dim, distant part of his mind that’s still capable of rational thought, that she’d already been well on the way before they even started this, thanks to her own subconscious. But he’s caught up with her embarrassingly fast, the visual aspect of the game speaking to some deep, primal instinct within him. He can’t stop his hand now as it slides, even though the pleasure is building fast. It’s all too much, the wrecked look on her face, the tug of her fingers at her nipple, the way her finger works in and out of her. Even as he watches, she adds a second finger, moaning softly at the stretch.
She starts to buck up against her own hand, and Strike is lost. His own fist pumps harder than he’d intended, his hips rocking too, and he pulls so far back against his hand that his oversensitive head thrusts up through the circle of his thumb and finger. A harsh moan of pleasure is dragged from his throat. He isn’t normally that vocal when he’s seeing to his own needs, but it doesn’t tend to feel this good. He isn’t usually desperately fighting against his own release while watching Robin chase hers.
It’s not about the bet any more; he doesn’t want to come first in case he misses her orgasm, wants to watch her fall apart in front of him, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can last. She’s making the whimpering noises now that have been his ruin on more than one occasion, so he knows she’s close, but he almost wishes she’d stop because it’s going to send him over the edge.
Robin’s thighs have started to tremble, and he knows this means she’s close, very close. Nearly there, as is he, his spine hot and liquid and his cock throbbing in his hand. He’s going to make it, is just about hanging on to the edge of control despite the pumping thrusts of his fist that he can’t stop now, when, her eyes on his, she bites down on her lower lip, her white teeth sinking into her own flesh.
Afterwards he has time to wonder what it is about that tiny movement that is too much, but in the moment all he feels is the sudden, unstoppable, relentless surge of pleasure that rises up through him and bursts. He fights to keep his eyes open and on her as the spasms rip through him, his cock pulsing in his hand and a fierce moan issuing from his throat. He’s dimly aware of the arch of her back, her soft cries as her muscles clench around her sliding fingers, her voice sliding finally into breathy gasps as her hand stills.
Strike slumps back against the edge of the wall where it meets the window, trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving, his pleasure fading and being replaced by the sweep of satiation. He knows his cheeks are as flushed as hers as they grin at one another, panting.
Peace slowly settles over them. He wants to go and get into bed with her, hold her, but he feels so wobbly, he’s afraid his one leg won’t hold him up. It’s only a step, though. He’ll make it. When he’s gathered himself back together a little.
Robin is flopped back against the pillows, grinning at him, looking gloriously post-coital with her pink cheeks and messy hair. She slowly draws her hand away from herself, her fingers sliding free, and that’s an image all of its own.
Strike rests his head against the wall and vaguely contemplates having another cigarette, seeing as he’s here. Would she mind, or would she rather he got back into bed and held her first?
Robin pulls herself upright, grinning down at herself and him.
“Well. That was...new.”
“It was.” His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. “New and unexpected.”
Robin grins, cheeky suddenly. “I don’t believe you’ve ever come on my foot before.” She twists her leg, wiping her instep on the bunched-up sheet.
Strike gives a shocked laugh. Truly, she will never stop surprising him. Sweet, girl-next-door Robin, who likes little games and just occasionally says outrageous things like that. “No, that’s definitely a first. And pretty impressive reach for a guy my age, I’ll have you know.”
She giggles, cheeks pink. “I’ll take your word for it.” She pauses. “So...who’s going for the coffees?”
“Er, I think it might be me,” he admits, and she wrinkles her nose at him.
“I’m not convinced. I think we’d better both go.”
He nods, grinning. “Sounds fair.”
Robin stretches lazily. “I might shower first.”
“Me too.”
She smiles, and waves a hand at his cigarettes on the windowsill next to him. He vaguely thinks what a miracle it is they didn’t end up on the floor. “Shall I shower first?”
She knows him so well. “Good plan.”
Strike slides a cigarette from the packet and watches as Robin clambers off the bed and strolls, naked and unselfconscious, to the bathroom. She was shy when they first got together; he’s given her that confidence, and he’s fiercely glad of it.
He lights his cigarette and takes a deep, satisfying drag, turning again to push the window back open, prop his truncated leg back up on the sill, blow the smoke out into the morning air. Behind him, the shower starts to run.
He sighs, deeply content.