Much as I wanted to bend Catherine and Dominique over that desk and fuck them into another three hours — hell, another three days — they were just as eager about the Ghost Mansion as everyone else.
After cleaning themselves and changing into fresh dresses which they'd apparently only worn the ruined ones to welcome me in the first place, like the thoughtful little offerings, we boarded the van and were off again.
Catherine's fresh dress was simpler—black, fitted, understated in a way that let her new haircut do the talking. Dominique chose deep burgundy, her gold choker still proudly at her throat, the only survivor from the previous outfit.
They both settled into the van with the quiet satisfaction. Their sisters received them without comment — a few knowing looks, a smirk from Madison who could smell fresh sex the way dogs smell fear, and Amanda's single raised eyebrow that communicated everything a full interrogation would have.
