Monday morning hit Stiles like a freight train. The weekend had been a blur of tension and illicit thrills—Saturday’s anonymous texts turning her into a dripping mess, the custom video she’d sent to her blackmailer that night leaving her blushing and aching. Who the fuck was this “Mr. Stranger”? A rival executive? Some tech-savvy stalker? She’d racked her brain all Sunday, pacing her penthouse while Noah was out golfing with business associates. Her pink fat pussy throbbed every time she replayed the messages, the dick pic burned into her mind—thick, veiny, promising ruin and ecstasy. But she never once suspected the fresh-faced rookie, Derek Hale. He was just another underling, a pretty boy she loved to torment. No way a 23-year-old newbie had the balls or brains for this.