Chapter 8: Panties & Worship

A few nights later the discovery in David’s nightstand drawer still hummed under my skin like a live current I couldn’t switch off. Those neatly folded pairs of my own lace and cotton—snatched after I’d left, clearly worn and savored—should have made me confront him, demand answers, maybe even stop this entire spiral. Instead the knowledge had me soaked before I even pulled into the driveway, a secret thrill that made my nipples tighten against my bra and my pulse beat low between my legs. I walked inside already flushed, the faint ache from our last time mixing with fresh, filthy anticipation.

Katie was in full best-friend mode, apron tied around her waist, hair pulled up in a messy bun. “Cookie night!” she declared, dragging me into the kitchen where the counter was already dusted with flour and sugar. “Dad’s helping because he claims his recipe is better.” David stood at the island in a simple charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to show the strong lines of his forearms, mixing dough with a wooden spoon. When his eyes met mine over Katie’s shoulder the smile he gave her was easy and fatherly, but the one that flickered toward me carried a darker heat, a silent acknowledgment. He knew I’d found his little collection. The realization sent another rush of warmth straight to my core.

We baked together like always—laughing, flour smudged on cheeks, the sweet vanilla and chocolate scent filling the house. Katie chattered about her week, oblivious, while David’s hand brushed mine reaching for the measuring cup, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. Everything felt charged against the cozy normalcy: the warm lamplight, the soft hum of the oven, the domestic rhythm that now hid something so much more dangerous.

The movie started after the cookies came out golden and gooey. Katie curled up on the couch between us under the fleece throw, but she didn’t last long. Halfway through she was out cold, head tipped back, soft snores mixing with the dialogue. David carried her upstairs with that same effortless care, tucking her in while I waited in the guest room, door already closed but unlocked, skin prickling with nerves and need.