He lay stiff as a corpse beside Lydia, his wife's steady breathing grating against his nerves. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of Stiles's cunt gripping him flooded back in his mind: the way her ass jiggled when he spanked her, the obscene squelch of his cum leaking out of her, the fucking noise she made when she came—like a whore in a back alley, not a forty-year-old housewife.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaked. Derek's cock twitched against his thigh. He gritted his teeth, turning his face into the pillow. Christ. He'd fucked his mother-in-law raw in the kitchen like some pent-up teenager, and now his body was betraying him all over again. The sheets smelled like lavender laundry detergent, but all he could taste was Stiles's sticky fingers pressed to his lips.

Lydia shifted in her sleep, her knee brushing his. Derek recoiled like he'd been burned. Guilt coiled hot in his gut, but beneath it—thicker, darker—was the memory of Stiles's tits bouncing as he railed her from behind. He hadn't even recognized her at first, too lost in the haze of sleep and her fat ass grinding back against him. That should've been the fucking wake-up call, but no—he'd just kept going, groaning about how tight she was while his cum dripped down her thighs.

A muffled moan slipped through the wall—Stiles's room. Derek's hands fisted in the sheets. Was she—? No. Fuck no.But the sound came again, breathy and deliberate, followed by the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings. His cock strained against his boxers, leaking pre-cum like some fucking virgin. He should've been disgusted. He was disgusted. So why the hell was his hand already sliding down, palming himself through the fabric?

Lydia murmured something unintelligible, rolling onto her stomach. Derek froze, his pulse hammering. The bedsprings next door went quiet. Then—a single, taunting knock against the shared wall.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. His thumb brushed the head of his cock, smearing wetness.

Another knock. Louder.

Lydia stirred. "Wha—?"

Derek yanked his hand away like he'd been electrocuted.

Silence.

Then—from Stiles's room—a breathless, laughing sigh.

Derek didn't sleep a wink.

By dawn, the sheets were twisted around his waist, his cock still half-hard against his thigh. He'd spent the night staring at the ceiling, listening to every muffled sound from Stiles's room—the wet slide of fingers, her breathy little moans, the way she'd whimper "Derek" like she was picturing him buried inside her all over again. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to jerk off right there while Lydia snored beside him.

But Stiles had no such restraint.

Her fingers were buried knuckle-deep in her cunt, working Derek's cum deeper with every twist of her wrist. The headboard tapped rhythmically against the wall—tap, tap, tap—a metronome to her filthy whispers. "Fuck, you fill me up so good," she murmured to the dark, arching her hips off the mattress. Her free hand pinched a nipple, rolling it between her fingers. "Bet you're thinking about me right now, aren't you, Derek? Bet your pretty little cock is aching."

Beside her, Scott slept like the dead, his snores drowning out the slick sounds between her thighs. Stiles rolled her eyes, scissoring her fingers inside herself. "Useless," she muttered, pressing her thumb to her clit. The pleasure coiled tight, her toes curling into the silk sheets. "At least one man in this house knows how to fuck me properly."

She came with a shudder, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Cum—his cum—dribbled out of her, soaking the sheets. Stiles smirked, wiping her fingers on Scott's discarded pajama shirt before rolling onto her side. The wall between her room and Derek's was thin. She pressed her palm flat against it, imagining him lying there, tortured and hard.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, tracing the outline of his silhouette in her mind. "You'll beg for it tomorrow."