The grand McCall mansion sprawled across acres of manicured gardens in the hills outside the city, a gleaming monument to wealth, power, and quiet indulgence. Floor-to-ceiling windows caught the late-afternoon sun, turning the marble floors into pools of molten gold. Inside, the air always smelled faintly of Stiles’s signature jasmine-and-vanilla perfume—sweet, heady, impossible to ignore.

Stiles glided through the living room like she owned every inch of it, because she did.

At forty, she looked twenty-three on her worst day. Her skin was porcelain-pale, almost luminous, the kind that seemed to drink light rather than reflect it. Full pink lips stayed perpetually glossy, parted just enough to hint at the soft heat inside her mouth. Her body was obscene in the most delicious way: heavy, round breasts that strained against whatever flimsy top she chose, nipples often visible through sheer fabric because bras were “just so uncomfortable, baby.” Her waist dipped dramatically before flaring into wide hips and a thick, heart-shaped ass that jiggled with every step. Between her thighs sat the prettiest, fattest pink pussy—plump outer lips always slightly swollen, glistening if she’d been thinking filthy thoughts (which was most of the time). She kept it completely bare, waxed smooth, so every tight little dress or micro-skirt rode up just enough to flash the bare curve where thigh met cunt.

Today’s outfit was classic Stiles: a white silk camisole so thin it was basically lingerie, the deep V plunging between her tits until the inner curves were fully on display. No bra, of course—her dark pink nipples poked shamelessly against the fabric. Below that, a black leather micro-skirt that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs; bend over even slightly and the whole world would see she wasn’t wearing panties. Strappy stilettos made her legs look endless and her ass pop like it was begging to be grabbed. A thin gold chain rested between her cleavage, drawing every eye straight to the valley of soft, creamy flesh.

She was humming softly, barefoot now (heels kicked off by the sofa), carrying a tray of iced matcha lattes she’d made for everyone. Her long black hair cascaded in loose waves down her back, brushing the tops of her ass cheeks with every sway of her hips.

In the sun-drenched family room, Scott sat in his favorite leather armchair, sleeves rolled up on his crisp white shirt, revealing thick, corded forearms. At forty-five he was still devastating—tall, broad-shouldered, muscles earned from years of disciplined gym time rather than vanity. Dark hair swept back, sharp jawline softened only by the way his eyes crinkled when he looked at his wife. He was scrolling through emails on his tablet, but the second Stiles entered the room his entire posture changed. Shoulders relaxed. Mouth curved into that private, hungry smile he saved only for her.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

Stiles set the tray down and immediately crawled onto his lap, straddling him without a second thought. Her skirt rode up instantly, bare pussy pressing against the front of his tailored trousers. She didn’t care. Neither did he. His big hands slid up her thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease where leg met hip.

“Hi, handsome,” she purred, leaning in to kiss him slow and deep. Tongues sliding, soft moans vibrating between them. One of his hands cupped her ass possessively while the other tangled in her hair, tilting her head exactly how he liked.

From the doorway, Lydia laughed. “You two are literally disgusting. In a cute way.”

Lydia was breathtaking—twenty-one and already carrying the best of both parents. Stiles’s delicate features mixed with Scott’s height and sharp bone structure. Long legs, tiny waist, full breasts that she usually kept more modestly covered than her mother. Today she wore soft pink lounge shorts and a cropped hoodie, hair in a messy bun. She padded over and pressed a kiss to Stiles’s cheek, then Scott’s.

“Where’s my husband?” Lydia asked, glancing around.

“Probably still in the gym,” Stiles said with a smirk. “That boy never stops moving.”

As if summoned, Derek Hale appeared in the arched doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, black tank clinging to every ridge of his abs. Sweat glistened on his golden skin. At twenty-eight he was pure lethal beauty—tall as Scott but leaner, more cut, every muscle carved like he was built for sin. Dark hair damp and falling into his eyes, full lips curved in that cocky half-smile that made women (and Stiles, though she’d never admit it aloud) weak.

“Hey, wifey,” he said to Lydia, voice rough from exertion. He crossed the room in three strides, scooped her up like she weighed nothing, and kissed her hard enough to make her squeak.

Stiles watched from Scott’s lap, biting her lip. There was something about the way Derek handled Lydia—so possessive, so easy—that always sent a little forbidden spark through her core.

The four of them spent the rest of the afternoon like that: laughter, teasing, easy affection. Stiles curled against Scott’s chest while he stroked her hair. Lydia and Derek sprawled on the rug, her head in his lap while he played with her fingers. The mansion felt alive with warmth, the kind of perfect family tableau that belonged in magazines—except Stiles’s skirt was still hiked up around her waist, and every so often Scott’s hand would slip between her thighs just to feel how wet she stayed for him.

It was idyllic. Untouchable.

Until it wasn’t.

The call came at 7:42 p.m.

Scott’s phone buzzed on the marble kitchen island. He frowned at the unknown number, then answered.

Stiles froze mid-sip of wine when she saw his face drain of color.

“Yes—this is Scott McCall… What? When?… Which hospital?… We’re on our way.”

He hung up. Looked at Stiles.

“Car accident. Lydia and Derek. They’re at Central Hospital. We need to go. Now.”

Stiles’s glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. She didn’t even flinch. Her knees buckled; Scott caught her before she hit the ground.

The drive was a blur of red lights and Stiles’s broken sobs. Scott gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles bleached white, jaw clenched, not saying a word because if he spoke he might shatter too.

They burst into the ER like a storm. Nurses recognized Scott immediately—the McCall name carried weight—and ushered them past the waiting area.

A doctor met them in the hallway, face grave but calm.

“Mr. and Mrs. McCall. I’m Dr. Anderson. Your daughter and son-in-law were brought in about forty minutes ago. Multiple vehicle collision. Derek has a concussion, several deep lacerations on his arms and torso, and a fractured rib. He’s stable, stitched up, and should wake soon. He was very lucky.”

Stiles’s hand flew to her mouth. Scott exhaled shakily.

“And Lydia?” he asked, voice cracking on her name.

Dr. Anderson’s expression darkened. “Lydia… sustained severe internal injuries. Fractured pelvis, significant abdominal trauma, spinal contusion. She’s in surgery now. The next twenty-four hours are critical, but she’s young and strong. We’re doing everything we can. She’ll likely be here for weeks—possibly months—of recovery and rehab.”

Stiles crumpled against Scott’s chest, tears soaking his shirt. “But… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” the doctor said gently. “Both of them are alive.”

Scott nodded, throat working. “Thank you, Doctor. Can we… see Derek?”

“Soon. He’s in recovery. We’ll let you know the moment he’s awake.”

They waited in a private family room, Stiles curled in Scott’s lap like a child, his arms locked around her so tight it hurt. Neither spoke. Just breathed. Prayed in silence.

Two hours later, a nurse appeared.

“He’s awake.”

Derek’s room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of monitors. He lay propped up slightly, bandages wrapping his torso and forearms, an IV dripping into his vein. His face was pale, a nasty gash stitched across his left cheekbone, but his eyes—those dark, intense eyes—were open.

Confused. Searching.

Stiles and Scott stepped inside, Dr. Anderson trailing behind.

Stiles couldn’t stop the fresh wave of tears. “Derek…”

Derek’s gaze landed on her.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then his lips curved—slow, soft, achingly tender.

He lifted one bandaged hand, reaching.

Stiles moved without thinking, crossing the room in three steps. She leaned over the bed rail, tears dripping onto his hospital gown.

He cupped her face with surprising strength, thumb brushing away a tear.

And then he pulled her down.

Their mouths crashed together.

It wasn’t gentle. It was filthy. Desperate. His tongue plunged past her lips like he’d been starving for her taste. Stiles gasped into his mouth, shocked, but her body betrayed her instantly—heat flooding her core, nipples hardening painfully against her silk top, pussy clenching on nothing. She moaned—loud, slutty, shameless—kissing him back just as hard. Tongues sliding, wet and obscene. Her hands fisted in his hospital gown. His fingers dug into her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

The room went deathly silent.

Scott stiffened. Dr. Anderson’s clipboard clattered to the floor.

Stiles finally wrenched back, gasping, lips swollen and glistening. Her cheeks flamed crimson. She looked at Scott—wide-eyed, horrified, guilty, and so visibly soaked that her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Derek just smiled up at her, lazy and adoring, like he hadn’t just tongue-fucked his mother-in-law in front of her husband and a doctor.

“Hi, wifey,” he rasped, voice wrecked but warm. “Missed you.”

The word landed like a bomb.

Stiles’s breath hitched.

Scott’s face went blank with shock.

Derek’s eyes fluttered, still hazy, still locked on Stiles like she was the only thing in the universe.