Theron sat behind the steering wheel, his posture so rigid he looked like he had been carved from the same obsidian that lined his penthouse walls. His hands were gripped at ten and two, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed so intently on the road ahead that he might as well have been trying to burn a hole through the windshield. Every time his mind drifted, every time he felt Belica's silk robe against his leg or her lips on his tongue, a fresh wave of nausea and self-loathing washed over him.
Beside him, Sierra was a whirlwind of morning energy. She was dressed in a sharp, slate-grey blazer and a crisp white blouse, her tablet open on her lap as she swiped through data projections for the upcoming quarter.
