Stiles woke up slowly, sunlight slicing through the penthouse blinds and landing right across Peter’s broad, sleeping back. He was snoring softly, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm thrown over her waist like he owned her even in sleep. The sheets were tangled around their legs, and the faint smell of last night’s cologne and sex still clung to everything.

Guilt hit her first—sharp, twisting in her stomach like a knife. She was engaged. To a man who spoiled her rotten, fucked her senseless, and put a massive rock on her finger. And yesterday? She’d let a stripper—his estranged son, though she still didn’t know that part—fuck her raw in a club, fill her up, make her squirt in the shower, leave her dripping thinking of him all the way home.