These days, the affair burned hotter than ever—Derek and Stiles fucking almost every day, sneaking moments whenever Peter turned his back. With the wedding preps swallowing him whole—venue tweaks, guest lists, endless calls to caterers and florists—Peter was too buried to notice her slipping out for “shopping” or “spa days.” She’d meet Derek in seedy motels, his apartment, even once in the penthouse garage while Peter napped upstairs. Always rough, always intense: him pinning her down, degrading her with words like “step-mommy whore” while slamming into her, her begging for more, cumming hard around his thick cock. But underneath the filth, something shifted—they’d linger after, cuddling quiet, sharing laughs, stolen kisses that felt too real. Neither said it out loud, but the closeness grew, a dangerous warmth that made the wrongness sting sharper.