“So,” Melissa said, quietly, feeling her cheeks warm. “Am I your type, Harry?”

Harry smiled and got to his feet. He reached out his hand for her. “Stand up, woman, and let me show you.”

She stood and he gathered her in his arms. His strong hands cupped her rump, her breasts crushed against his chest, and their lips met in a mid-air tango. She smiled against his. Yes, she must be his type. He sure was her type.

Holding hands, he guided her to the tall window overlooking the park. Rain continued to pelt the window, but it was refreshing to lean against Harry’s frame and imagine the park before them.

He nibbled on her ear and laved at her neck. She craned her neck, basking in the feel of his tongue. She experienced a sudden pang of guilt for getting him to talk about Aunt Phoebe without sharing her own story. Maybe she should’ve simply blurted it out. His tongue scraped across the roof of her mouth. She no longer had a pressing need to talk about her aunt. “Mmm,” she moaned, “that’s lovely. I love rainy Monet mornings like this.”

“Me, too. Particularly when I can share them with you.” He snickered. “Though I would’ve expected you to prefer bright sunshiny days with pristine blue skies.”

“I like those, too. But don’t forget I’m an artist. I have many moods. I also enjoy the first snowfall, and certainly spring flowers.”

“I bet you like to jump in leaf piles, too.”

“How did you know?” she said, squeezing his butt.

“A lucky guess.”

His nose rubbed back and forth across her neck. His busy hands slipped inside her robe to cup a breast each. She took a long breath as he played with her nipples. “So cozy,” she murmured, lowering her eyelids.

Her eye popped open when she realized he was tugging at the sash of her robe. “Harry,” she scolded, “we’re standing in front of a floor to ceiling window. Someone may see us.”

“Nonsense,” he whispered into her ear. “Can you see anything through the raindrops?”

She shook her head and did nothing to stop his fingers already playing at her mound.

“Besides,” Harry continued, “you know New Yorkers. They never look up. They’re either too busy looking around to avoid being mugged or down to avoid stepping in dog crap.”

“You,” she said, jabbing an elbow in his stomach.

“And this is exciting, isn’t it, knowing that there might be even a one in a million chances of being discovered?”