Stiles’s robe barely covered her thighs when she slid into the dining chair, her pussy still throbbing from Derek’s tongue. The tablecloth draped low—enough to hide the predator crouched beneath it, his breath hot against her inner knee. Scott uncorked wine, oblivious as Derek’s fingers crept up her bare thigh.

“You’re quiet,” Scott mused, filling her glass. Stiles’s knuckles whitened around her fork when Derek’s tongue flicked her clit—once—teasing. “J-just hungry,” she stammered, spreading her legs wider under the table. Derek’s chuckle vibrated against her sensitive flesh before he dug in, lapping at her swollen folds with slow, filthy strokes.