The heavy, rhythmic thud of the arena's bass bled through the floor, but inside the glass box, the only sound was the ragged hitch of Zara's breath.
Her hand rested flat against the dark wool of his slacks, fingers trembling slightly against the straining, burning heat trapped beneath the zipper.
She had asked if it was hers. The question still hung in the pressurized air between them, fragile and loaded.
Ryan didn't answer with words. He leaned back into the leather cushions, spreading his knees a fraction wider, opening his posture completely. He kept his hands at his sides. He surrendered the physical control, leaving the execution entirely to her.
Zara swallowed. Her pulse hammered a frantic, visible rhythm against the hollow of her collarbone.
Her manicured fingers curled, hooking the metal tab of his zipper.
