Discoveries

The bedroom is a museum of their life together, and you are the thief. Your bare feet whisper across the floorboards as you move to the dresser, Cathy's hips swaying with a fluidity you're still learning. The top drawer slides open with a soft rasp, and you look down at a tidy arrangement of cotton and elastic that feels more intimate than any lace.

Plain briefs, mostly. Black and gray and one faded navy, rolled into neat cylinders. Sports bras in a jumble, some racerback, some with underwire that's lost its fight. A few pairs of socks, no-nonsense ankle cuts. It smells like laundry detergent when you lean in, a clean, floral ghost of a scent that triggers a cascade of Cathy's memories—Sunday mornings spent folding laundry on this very bed, Matt's hand on her knee as she sorted his socks from hers.

No g-strings. No lace. No matching sets bought for a special occasion. Just underwear chosen for comfort, for function, for the anonymity of a body that doesn't want to be noticed.

Your fingers trail to the back of the drawer anyway. Cathy's memories push you there, insistent, a secret she's kept from everyone but herself. Under the neat rows of cotton, hidden in a small silk pouch she'd almost forgotten, you find it.

The teddy.

You lift it out and let the pouch fall. It's a bodysuit of black lace, delicate and intricate, the kind of garment that looks like it costs more than your entire wardrobe. The cups are sheer, scalloped edges meant to frame bare breasts rather than cover them. A high-cut leg opening, a deep V of emptiness from sternum to navel, held together by a single slender strap. The back is open, just two thin bands that would cross between your shoulder blades. There's a small tag inside, a designer name Cathy normally could never afford, the price still in her memories, a number that makes you wince.

This is what she wore for Matt on their anniversary. The memory surfaces: flowers, champagne, his hands shaking as he unbuttoned his shirt. The teddy came later, after the candles, after the first round of slow, tender sex on this very bed. She'd slipped it on in the bathroom while he waited, nervous, her heart pounding. He'd gone silent when she emerged. Absolutely silent. And then he'd fallen to his knees in front of her.

Your pussy clenches around nothing. You're still so fucking horny.

Getting into it is not like the skinsuit. The skinsuit complies, a patient shell that adapts to you. Lingerie has opinions. The first leg goes in easily, the lace cool and scratchy against Cathy's skin. Your foot finds the opening, then your calf, your knee. The fabric climbs, the leg openings high on your hips, the lace tracing the crease between thigh and pelvis. It tickles. It demands attention.

The second leg joins the first, and you pull the bodysuit up over your thighs, over the swell of your ass, and the material bunches for a moment before you adjust it, tugging the straps over your shoulders. The lace settles against your breasts, and the sensation is immediate—a light, constant friction against nipples that have been hard since you walked through the door. The cups frame without containing, and the V of your sternum is bare, exposed.

You reach behind, fingers finding the clasp. It's a simple hook, but your hands are Cathy's hands, and they know this garment. They've done this before. The clasp snaps closed, and the bands cross neatly between your shoulder blades.

You look down. Your breasts are visible through the sheer cups, the dark circles of your areolas a shadow behind the floral pattern. The lace is black against pale skin, a sharp, gorgeous contrast. The V of the front cuts down to your navel, and below that, the lace thins to a small, scalloped triangle that covers your mound without hiding a single detail of the shape beneath.

You turn to the mirror.

Cathy stares back, and she is devastating. The bodysuit is a revelation—it doesn't add anything, doesn't pretend. It just frames. It highlights the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the weight of her breasts. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders, dark against the black lace. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted.

You've never felt more powerful.

You grab your phone from the floor, thumb swiping to the camera. Cathy's reflection appears on the screen. You tilt your head, one hand on your hip, the other holding the phone, and you take the shot. Then another—a closer one, the lace in sharp detail. You save them both to a hidden folder, alongside the picture of her you used for the suit. Your own private collection, growing by the hour.

You're still scrolling through the photos, still admiring the fearless version of Cathy in the mirror, when you hear it.

The front door.

The deadbolt clicks. The hinges creak.

You freeze. The phone lowers. Your heart—Cathy's heart—slams once against your ribs.

Matt.

He's not supposed to be home. Your mind races through his schedule, the overheard conversation, the pool night, the beers. But the footsteps are heavy, familiar, crossing the living room. A bag drops. Keys land on the coffee table.

"Cath?" His voice is warm, tired. "You here?"

Cathy's memories flood in, a lifetime of reflex and routine. You got home early from practice. You're in the bedroom, waiting. You wanted to surprise him. The script writes itself.

"In here," you call out, and her voice comes without effort. A little breathless. A little teasing.

The bedroom door swings open.

Matt stands in the doorway, still in his jacket, damp from an evening mist. He looks at you and stops. His keys dangle from his fingers. His grin flickers on, then fades to something deeper.

"Whoa," he says. It comes out soft, reverent.

You let the phone fall onto the bed and to your luck he doesn't notice it isn't Cathy's. You stand in the center of the room in the black lace, barefoot, hair wild, and you smile. Cathy's smile. The dimple, the tilt of the head.

"I got a little horny today," you say, and the words are easy, borrowed from a thousand moments she's shared with this man. "Thought I'd surprise you."

Matt crosses the room in three strides. His hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into the lace at your waist. He pulls you close, and you feel everything—the rough denim of his jeans, the solid plane of his chest, the hardness of his erection pressing through the fabric into your thigh. His lips find yours, and the kiss is slow, deliberate, a homecoming.

His mouth is warm and tastes faintly of beer. His stubble rasps against Cathy's chin. His hands slide up your sides, over your ribs, and one palm cups your breast through the lace, his thumb tracing the nipple.

You gasp into his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, his expression a mix of confusion and desire. "You haven't worn this since our anniversary," he whispers. His thumb continues its slow circle. "I thought I'd never see it again."

Your pussy is slick, the lace of the bodysuit damp against your folds. His erection presses into your hip, insistent and real, and the weight of it makes your knees weak. This is it. This is the moment. All you have to do is let it happen.

You stand there, wet and horny, in another woman's body, with another woman's boyfriend pressed against you, his hands on your skin, and you wonder if you should actually have sex for the first time in your life.