The first rays of morning sun filtered through the mansion’s heavy curtains, but sleep had been a fleeting visitor for Stiles and Derek. After sneaking back to their respective beds just before dawn, Stiles had tossed and turned for barely two hours, her body still humming from the night’s marathon of passion—sore, satisfied, and utterly addicted. Her fat pink pussy throbbed with a delicious ache, a constant reminder of Derek’s thick cock stretching her, filling her, claiming her. She slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Noah, who snored obliviously beside her, and padded downstairs in a simple silk robe that hugged her curves, her massive tits bouncing softly with each step.

In the kitchen, Stiles hummed a cheerful tune as she prepared breakfast—fresh fruits, pancakes, coffee brewing. She felt alive, glowing from the inside out, blushing every time a filthy memory flashed: Derek’s tongue in her ass, his cum painting her tits, his whispers of ownership. “God, what have I done?” she murmured to herself, but a smile tugged at her full pink lips. She was happy—truly, stupidly happy—for the first time in years.