Phei drove.
He'd plucked the keys from her hand outside the tower before she could even form the protest on her lips. She'd opened her mouth—probably to remind him whose car and parking lot it was—and he'd already rounded to the driver's side, sliding in like he belonged there. She closed her mouth again.
Smart.
The car was low, black, predatory—built to slice through Paradise at night like a switchblade through silk.
The engine didn't roar; it purred, deep and expensive, the kind of sound that vibrated up your spine and settled hot in your balls.
Every shift of the gears felt deliberate, intimate, like foreplay.
Gods, I like driving cars... it's insulting how I don't even own a car with billions sitting on a fucking black card I am holding.
Ashford Madam sat shotgun with her heels kicked off, bare feet tucked beneath her on the seat, body finally unwinding in a way he'd never seen at the office.
