The silence at the dinner table was deafening, like a bomb waiting to tick. Forks clinked against plates, wine glasses occasionally sipped, but no one dared break the ice after that blow-up. Peter stewed at the head, jaw tight, stabbing his steak like it owed him money. Derek across from Stiles, eyes down but burning with a mix of rage and something darker—lust, maybe, or just pure spite. And Stiles? She was a mess inside: heart pounding, pussy soaking her thighs under that tiny red dress, no panties to catch the slick. Every time her eyes flicked to Derek, she remembered his thick cock stretching her, his cum filling her up. And now? He was her fiancé’s son. The taboo of it all made her clit throb harder.

She shifted in her seat, trying to focus on her food, when suddenly—something brushed her inner thigh. Soft at first, like a feather, but warm. She froze, fork midway to her mouth. It trailed higher, grazing the edge of her fat pussy lips—bare, swollen, already dripping from the tension.