The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of the Stilinski family home like warm honey, catching on Stiles’s porcelain skin and turning it luminous. She stood in front of her full-length mirror in her bedroom, twisting left and right, checking the fit of the outfit she’d chosen for her evening art class.

The tiny white crop top barely contained her. Her breasts—full, heavy, impossibly soft—strained against the thin cotton, the deep V-neck dipping low enough that the faintest shadow of her rosy areolas teased the edge of visibility if she breathed too deeply. Below, a pleated black micro-skirt hugged the generous swell of her hips and stopped scandalously high on her thick thighs, the hem flirting with the bottom curve of her round, peachy ass every time she moved. No stockings. Just smooth, milky legs that seemed to go on forever, ending in strappy black heels that made her calves flex just so.

She bit her lower lip—plump, naturally pink, always looking kissed—and tugged the skirt down a fraction. It didn’t help. The fabric rode right back up, clinging to the juicy cheeks like it was painted on. Between her thighs, hidden beneath a scrap of white lace thong, her pussy was plump and pink, the kind of soft, puffy mound that made her blush even when she was alone. She could feel the delicate lips brushing together as she shifted her weight, already a little slick from the nervous heat pooling low in her belly.

Stiles sighed, cheeks flushing a delicate rose.

“I look like a slut,” she whispered to her reflection, but there was no real shame in it—only that shy, fluttering excitement she could never quite name.

Downstairs, the front door opened and her mother’s voice floated up, bright and loving.

“Stiles! Dinner in twenty, sweetheart! Don’t be late!”

“Coming, Mom!” Stiles called back, voice soft and sweet.

She was their only child, their miracle baby after years of trying. Noah and Claudia doted on her shamelessly. Her father called her “princess” even now at twenty-two. Her mother braided her long black hair on lazy Sundays and bought her every pretty thing she glanced at in stores. They never questioned the increasingly daring clothes she wore—crop tops in winter, skirts that barely covered anything, sheer camisoles that showed the outline of her nipples when the AC was on. To them, Stiles was perfect. Untouchable. Their beautiful, innocent girl who painted dreamy watercolors and blushed at compliments.

They didn’t know about the secret folder on her phone filled with Scott’s Instagram posts.

Scott McCall—her senior at the university’s fine arts department. Tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes behind those round glasses and a voice that rumbled low when he critiqued her work during studio hours. He was everything she wasn’t: confident, eloquent, effortlessly cool. Every time he leaned over her easel to point out a brushstroke, his sleeve brushing her bare arm, her heart slammed so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.

She’d never told a soul. Not her best friend. Not her parents. Certainly not him.

Especially not him.

Because the thought of Scott seeing her like this—half-naked in her slutty little outfits, nipples hard from the cool air, thighs rubbing together—made her dizzy with want and terror in equal measure.

She grabbed her tote bag, slung it over her shoulder (the strap pressing her breasts together in a way that made her bite back a whimper), and headed downstairs.

Noah was in the living room, loosening his tie after a long day at the office. He looked up and beamed the second he saw her.

“There’s my girl,” he said, voice warm. “You look beautiful, Stiles. New top?”

Stiles ducked her head, cheeks burning. “Just… something I found in my closet, Dad.”

Claudia appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’re glowing today, baby. Eat well before class, okay? You’re too skinny.”

Stiles wasn’t skinny. Not even close. Her body was lush, curved in all the places that made men stare and women envy. But to her parents she would always be their delicate little girl.

She smiled shyly and sat at the table, crossing her legs carefully so the skirt didn’t ride up too far.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Noah’s face lit up. “That’ll be Derek. He said he might drop by after his meeting.”

Stiles’s stomach dropped.

Derek Hale.

Her father’s best friend since university. The man who’d been coming to their house for barbecues, holidays, and casual evenings since she was small. The man who’d once carried her on his shoulders when she was six and afraid of fireworks.

The man who hadn’t looked at her like a little girl since she turned eighteen.

Derek stepped inside like he owned the place—because in a way, he did. Six-foot-three, shoulders that filled doorways, black button-down rolled to his elbows showing corded forearms, dark slacks tailored to hug powerful thighs. His hair was swept back, a few strands falling rebelliously over his forehead. Expensive watch. Expensive cologne. Expensive everything.

He greeted Noah with a firm handshake that turned into a half-hug, clapped Claudia on the shoulder with easy affection, then turned his gaze to Stiles.

And there it was.

The look.

Dark. Hungry. Unapologetic.

His eyes dragged down her body in one slow, deliberate sweep—from the swell of her tits threatening to spill out of the crop top, to the tiny waist, to the flare of her hips, to the way the skirt barely covered the bottom of her ass. He lingered there, shameless, before dragging his gaze back up to meet her eyes.

Stiles’s breath caught. She looked away first, cheeks flaming, fingers twisting in her lap.

“Hey, princess,” Derek said, voice low and velvet-smooth. The nickname her father used sounded filthy coming from him. “Looking good tonight.”

“T-thank you, Uncle Derek,” she mumbled, barely audible.

Claudia laughed, oblivious. “She’s always beautiful, isn’t she? Our Stiles is going to break so many hearts at that art school.”

Noah chuckled. “She better not. My little girl stays innocent forever.”

Derek’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. “I’m sure she’s very… well-behaved.”

Stiles wanted to disappear.

Dinner passed in a blur. Derek sat across from her. Every time she reached for something, his eyes followed—the way her breasts jiggled softly, the way her skirt rode up when she shifted. Once, when Noah and Claudia were distracted arguing about some old college story, Derek leaned forward just enough that only Stiles could hear.

“You’re not wearing a bra, are you, princess?” he murmured, voice like dark honey. “I can see your pretty nipples through that shirt. Hard little things, begging for attention.”

Stiles froze. Her fork clattered against the plate.

She looked up at him with wide, panicked eyes.

He just smirked, took a slow sip of his wine, and leaned back like nothing had happened.

After dinner, while her parents cleared the table, Derek followed her into the hallway under the pretense of “checking on her art supplies” since she was heading to class soon.

They were alone.

He stepped too close—close enough that she could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his muscled chest.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he said softly, almost gently. But his eyes were burning. “Why’s that, Stiles?”

She swallowed. “I… I haven’t.”

“Liar.” He reached out, brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her cheek, lingering. “You blush so pretty when I look at you. Makes me wonder what other parts of you turn that color.”

Stiles’s heart hammered. She took a step back, bumping into the wall.

“Please don’t,” she whispered.

“Don’t what?” His voice dropped lower. “Don’t notice how fucking gorgeous you are? Don’t notice the way your ass jiggles in these tiny skirts? Don’t notice how wet you get when a man stares at you too long?”

Her thighs clenched involuntarily. Shame and heat twisted together in her belly.

“I don’t like it when you look at me like that,” she said, voice trembling.

Derek tilted his head, studying her. “You sure about that, princess?”

Before she could answer, Claudia’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Stiles! Your bag!”

Stiles ducked under his arm and fled.

Derek watched her go, eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the flash of thigh, the way her skirt flipped up just enough to show the bottom curve of her ass.

He adjusted himself in his slacks—already half-hard—and smiled to himself.

Four years.

Four years since she turned eighteen and he realized the sweet little girl he’d known was gone—replaced by this walking wet dream who still blushed like an innocent.

Four years of watching her bloom.

Four years of waiting.

He wasn’t waiting anymore.

Not really.

Upstairs, Stiles locked her bedroom door, pressed her back to it, and slid down until she was sitting on the floor. Her skirt rode up completely, exposing the soaked white lace between her thighs.

She pressed her palm there, just once, feeling how swollen and slick she was.

Not for him.

Never for him.

It was Scott’s face she pictured when her fingers slipped under the fabric later that night—his deep voice, his careful hands, the way he’d praise her paintings.

But even as she came with a muffled whimper into her pillow, the memory of Derek’s dark stare lingered like smoke.

And she hated how much it made her pulse race all over again.