The older sister was dense and the younger sister was a slut.
There was nothing great about the Rousseaus except that their father would crawl and lick boots to keep their family's reputation and position.
Galen stood in front of the boutique mirror, adjusting his tie. The wedding was just around the corner and he had to at least look like he gave a shit about which suit he picked. The rest—the venue, the guest list, the flowers, the catering—was handled by their people.
Fucking both sisters had been the real amusement. Brielle, the little one, was young, mouthy, and insatiable. She had let him have her anywhere he wanted, on the terrace, up against the garden wall, bent over the kitchen counter, even out in public while his men watched. She was a slut and seemed to take pride in it, which only made it more fun for Galen. The thrill was in the risk, the knowledge that at any moment his wife could walk in, oblivious as always.
