The morning sun poured through the kitchen window as Stiles tied her hair up into a messy ponytail, strands falling around her flushed face. She wore a thin white tank top, braless underneath, her nipples poking sharp through the fabric. Her shorts were even worse — tiny denim cut-offs, frayed at the edges, clinging to her ass until half her cheeks spilled out.

She leaned against the counter, biting her lip, listening for the sound of the doorbell. Her husband sat at the dining table, sketching notes for his designs, completely oblivious to the wet heat already soaking her panties.

When the knock finally came, her heart jumped.

“They’re here,” Jackson said cheerfully, adjusting his glasses. “Let them in, Stiles.”

She smoothed her shorts, though nothing could hide how slutty they were, and opened the door.

Derek, Peter, and Scott stood there — sleeves rolled up, tools slung casually in their hands. Their eyes dropped immediately, tracing the stiff points of her nipples under the thin white tank, then down to her thighs peeking out of the shorts.

“Morning, Stiles,” Derek drawled, smirking.

Her cheeks heated, but she smiled innocently. “Morning. Come in.”

They stepped inside, their presence filling the small house. Jackson wheeled himself to the back room, gesturing. “This is the space. Thinking of knocking that wall down to open it up. More light, more air. What do you think?”

The men nodded, listening politely — but their eyes never left Stiles.

She stood near the corner, pretending to dust the shelves, bending low enough that her ass cheeks peeked from her shorts. The fabric stretched dangerously tight, the curve of her pussy lips outlined when she leaned.

Peter’s jaw flexed, grip tightening on the hammer in his hand. Scott smirked openly, his gaze sliding down her legs. Derek leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the way her tits swayed with every movement.

“Looks doable,” Peter said finally, voice deep. “But it’ll take some time.”

“Take all the time you need,” Jackson said, grateful. “Stiles will keep you comfortable.”

Stiles froze. Oh, I will, she thought, her pussy clenching hard. She straightened slowly, letting her tits bounce, turning to smile. “Of course. Drinks? Snacks?” Her voice was too sweet, her smile too perfect.

Scott’s lips curled. “We’ll need plenty of… attention.”

Her thighs squeezed together.

As they got to work, hammering and measuring, Stiles hovered nearby. She fetched them water, bending low as she set the glasses down, her tits nearly spilling from her tank. When she wiped sweat from her neck, her shirt rode up, flashing smooth skin and the faintest glimpse of her underboobs.

Every time she passed, three pairs of eyes followed.

At one point, she leaned over Peter’s shoulder to “see the plans,” her tits pressing into his arm. He didn’t move away — just smirked knowingly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he felt her soft flesh against his skin.

“You’re very… helpful,” he murmured low enough only she could hear.

Her pussy gushed. She bit her lip, pretending to focus on the paper. “Just doing my part,” she whispered back, her voice trembling.

In the corner, Scott crouched low to measure the floor. When Stiles walked past, her shorts rode up, the hem cutting into her ass cheeks. Scott tilted his head, eyes locked shamelessly on the round curve of her pussy barely hidden by the denim.

“Careful, Stiles,” he said lazily, still crouched. “You’re gonna distract us.”

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t pull the shorts down. She just kept walking, heart hammering, the wet spot in her panties spreading.

Derek, hammering at the wall, chuckled. “She likes it,” he muttered under his breath, smirk tugging his lips.

By afternoon, the men had stripped their shirts off from the heat. Muscles glistened with sweat, their chests rising heavy as they worked. Stiles nearly fainted just carrying them water, her eyes dragging over every vein, every line of muscle.

She bent too low when handing Derek his glass, her tits nearly falling out. His gaze lingered, slow and heavy, before he finally took it. Their fingers brushed, and her knees almost buckled.

Across the room, Jackson smiled faintly, completely unaware. “You’re all working so hard. I’m lucky to have neighbours like you.”

The men smirked, their eyes sliding back to Stiles, her tank clinging wet to her nipples.

Lucky isn’t the word, Scott thought, lips curling.

And Stiles, standing in her own living room with three men watching her like prey, felt wetter than she’d ever been in her life.