Later that evening, Stiles stood ankle-deep in the retreating tide as the sun bled crimson across the horizon. She wore nothing but a sheer, turquoise mesh sarong knotted loosely at her hip—ghostly fabric fluttering against her bare skin. Below, bright green fabric barely covered her nipples and cunt. Derek materialized behind her, fingers snaking around her waist. "Beach night," he murmured into her ear, teeth grazing her pulse point. Stiles shuddered. Derek’s palm slid possessively over her mesh-covered ass, squeezing hard. "Sand’s warm," he growled. "Perfect... for wrecking you."

Peter appeared silently beside them, scooping Stiles up effortlessly. Her gasp dissolved into the roar of the surf. He carried her deeper into the water, waist-high waves crashing against his thighs. Scott trailed them, eyes dark. "Rules tonight?" Scott teased, fingertips brushing Stiles’s wet nipple through the sheer fabric.