By three in the afternoon, the grey clouds over Manhattan had broken open, unleashing a freezing, torrential downpour against the reinforced glass of the penthouse windows.
Inside, the living room was a cage of warmth.
Ryan sat on the massive, deep-set velvet couch, his legs stretched out over the cushions. A thick cashmere throw was draped over his lap.
The massive flat-screen mounted on the far wall was playing a dark, slow-burn thriller, the volume kept low enough to be background noise.
Zara lay sideways across the couch, her back resting against the armrest, her long, bare legs draped casually over his thighs.
She had changed into a pair of tiny silk shorts and a loose grey sweater that hung off one shoulder.
She was staring at the television, but Ryan wasn't watching the screen.
His hand rested lightly on her calf, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against her smooth skin.
