The days blurred into a haze of tension and teasing in that goddamn office, with Stiles strutting around like she owned every hard cock in the building. Her outfits? Pure sin—tiny skirts that flipped up with the slightest bend, blouses so sheer you could see her hard nipples begging for a twist. And Derek? He was losing his fucking mind. Every time they were alone—in his office for a “briefing,” or the elevator after hours—he’d snap. Like that one afternoon, door shut, her handing him files. He’d grab her ass hard, slapping it with a crack that echoed. “Fuck, sir!” she’d yelp, but her pussy would flood, soaking her thighs. “You like that, don’t you, whore? Walking around with this fat ass jiggling, tempting me.” He’d squeeze, fingers digging in, pulling her against his rock-hard bulge. “Yes, Mr. Hale… slap it harder,” she’d moan, grinding back like a bitch in heat.