A week had passed since that wild morning fuck in Derek’s kitchen, and Stiles hadn’t heard a peep from him. No texts, no calls, nothing. She’d checked her phone way too many times, hoping for that little buzz, maybe a dick pic or a “miss your pussy” message. But zilch. Probably because she was taken, right? She figured he was backing off, respecting the ring or whatever. And honestly, she hadn’t messaged him either. What was she supposed to say? “Hey, stripper boy, come fuck me again while my fiancé’s at work?” Nah, that was too risky. Peter wasn’t dumb—he’d notice if she started sneaking out more, or if she came home smelling like another man’s cologne and cum. Better to let it die, she told herself, even as her pussy throbbed at night remembering how he’d wrecked her on that counter.

But damn, the guilt was mixing with the horniness in a weird way. She’d finger herself quick in the shower every morning, whispering “Derek’s cock… so thick…” while Peter shaved oblivious in the mirror. It was messed up, but she couldn’t stop.