The next morning, Stiles’ phone buzzed.

Lydia.

Her stomach flipped as she picked it up.

“Hey, baby,” Lydia’s voice purred through the line.

Stiles swallowed. “…Morning.”

Lydia giggled softly, the sound smug, dripping satisfaction. “My thighs are still sore. Can barely walk.”

Stiles froze, clutching the phone tighter.

“Lydia—”

“Oh, don’t act shy,” Lydia cut in, voice thick with pride. “Derek had me on my knees until my throat burned. Scott fucked my ass so hard I’m still leaking. And Peter… god, Stiles, he made me cum four times just from his cock alone. Four.”

Stiles’ cheeks flamed. She bit her lip, jealous heat burning her insides.

Lydia kept going, cruelly playful. “They called me their perfect slut. Said I was tighter than they expected. They want me back tonight.”

Stiles’ voice cracked. “Lydia, stop—”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Lydia teased. “You’ve had them all already. Why not let me play too? Or… are you afraid they’ll like me more?”

Stiles hung up, heart pounding, hand shaking. She hated how wet she was just from hearing it.

Later that day, the door opened. The men walked in like usual, work boots heavy on the floor.

Stiles kept her head down, lips pressed tight, trying to ignore them as she pretended to fold laundry in her tiny shorts.

Derek leaned against the wall, smirking. “What’s wrong, pretty wife? Didn’t sleep?”

Scott exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing on her. “Or maybe Lydia’s moans kept you awake. Loud slut, wasn’t she?”

Stiles stiffened, fists clenching in the fabric.

Peter stepped closer, towering over her. His voice was a low growl. “She begged for it, Stiles. Begged us to fuck her harder. Said she wanted you to know how much better she was.”

Stiles’ chest tightened, jealousy twisting sharp.

Derek chuckled, adding fuel. “She swallowed every drop, too. Greedy mouth. Didn’t waste a thing.”

Scott smirked, blowing smoke toward her. “Told us she wanted to show you how a real slut takes cock.”

Her thighs pressed together, anger and arousal battling as her pussy throbbed.

Peter leaned down, whispering at her ear. “Does it bother you? Knowing we had her spread on our couch, dripping all over, screaming louder than you ever did?”

Stiles trembled, biting her lip, refusing to answer.

Derek’s laugh was low, wicked. “Our little wife’s jealous.”

Scott’s eyes glinted. “Jealous, and wet.”

Peter’s hand slid down, brushing her hip. “Maybe we’ll invite her over again. This time, you can sit and watch while we wreck her.”

Stiles gasped, her body betraying her with a hot rush between her thighs.

They all smirked knowingly.

Because even though jealousy burned in her chest, the ache between her legs told them everything—they had her exactly where they wanted.