Dinner had been a tense affair, the three of them sitting around the massive oak table in the dining room. Stiles’s homemade pasta had been devoured, but the air crackled with unspoken heat. Derek’s eyes had been on her the whole time, devouring her more than the food, his foot occasionally brushing her leg under the table. Scott noticed, of course, his grip on his fork tightening, but he played the role of the supportive “brother,” cracking jokes to ease the awkwardness. Stiles squirmed in her seat, her tiny black slip dress doing nothing to hide how her nipples poked through or how her thighs rubbed together, still slick from the earlier dry-humping session.

As the plates emptied, Derek leaned back, wiping his mouth with a napkin, that cocky grin spreading across his handsome face. “Damn, wifey, that was amazing. You’re a goddess in the kitchen… among other places.” He winked at Stiles, who blushed furiously, glancing at Scott.