The bass at Club Eclipse throbbed like a second heartbeat, purple and red lights slicing through the haze of smoke and sweat. Derek slipped in through the side entrance, black hoodie up, cap low, blending into the shadows like he belonged there. He’d spent the day prepping: burner phone charged, chloroform-soaked rag sealed in a ziplock in his pocket, black gloves, a duffel with zip ties just in case. A million dollars on the line. One girl to grab. Easy.

He scanned the VIP section from the edge of the dance floor. Bodies grinding, bottles popping, laughter sharp over the music. Then he saw her.

Stiles.

She was a fucking supernova in a dress that should’ve been illegal—black, sequined, so tiny it was basically lingerie with ambition. The neckline plunged straight to her navel, her massive tits barely contained, jiggling with every sway of her hips. The hem rode high on her thick thighs, flashing the curve of her ass every time she spun. No bra, no visible panty lines. Just skin, sweat, and sin. She danced like she was fucking the air—head thrown back, pink lips parted in a moan of pure pleasure, long black hair whipping around her like a halo of darkness. Men circled her like sharks, but she ignored them, lost in her own rhythm, body rolling in ways that made Derek’s mouth go dry and his cock thicken painfully against his zipper.

Jesus Christ. He swallowed hard, pulse hammering in his throat. She was even more devastating in motion than in that photo. Those fat tits bouncing, ass shaking, thighs flexing—every inch of her screaming take me, ruin me. He forced himself to breathe. Focus. Grab the girl. Get paid.

She laughed at something her blonde friend said, then excused herself, weaving toward the back hallway where the bathrooms were. Derek moved like a shadow, slipping through the crowd, heart slamming.

The hallway was dim, music muffled. Stiles pushed open the women’s room door. He waited ten seconds, then followed.

She was at the sink, reapplying gloss to those plump pink lips, ass arched out as she leaned forward. The dress had ridden up again, flashing the bare, smooth cleft of her pussy—no panties, just glistening pink fat lips peeking out, already slick from dancing or arousal or both.

Derek’s breath hitched. Cock jumped hard, straining. Fuck. Focus.

He stepped up behind her silent as death, rag in hand. One arm snaked around her waist, the other clamping the cloth over her mouth and nose. She gasped, eyes wide in the mirror for one shocked second—hazel meeting his dark ones—then her body went limp, lashes fluttering shut. Soft. Warm. Heavy tits pressing into his forearm.

He caught her easily, scooping her bridal-style, her head lolling against his shoulder. Her scent hit him—vanilla, sweat, and something sweeter, muskier. Pussy. Fuck, he could smell how wet she was.

Back door. Alley. His beat-up black SUV waited, engine already running. He opened the rear door, laid her across the backseat on her side. The dress hiked all the way up now, bunched around her waist. No panties. Just that perfect, fat, pink pussy on full display—plump outer lips swollen, inner ones peeking out glistening, clit peeking like a little pearl. Shaved smooth, begging to be spread and licked.

Derek froze, staring. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt, pre-cum soaking his boxers. He reached out—couldn’t help it—fingers grazing the soft, warm lips. So fucking plush. She moaned in her sleep, hips twitching, a fresh bead of slick sliding down her slit.

“Shit,” he hissed, yanking his hand back like he’d been burned. Her tits had spilled out too—huge, perfect, nipples dark pink and hard from the cool air. He cursed again, tucking them back into the dress with shaking hands. Couldn’t resist one squeeze—fuck, so heavy, so soft, spilling over his palms. He groaned low, palming himself through his jeans for a second, desperate for relief.

Get it together, asshole.

He slammed the door, got behind the wheel, and peeled out. Two hours of dark highway, then winding mountain roads. No signal out here. Perfect. The cabin was old, isolated—his buddy’s hunting spot, no neighbors for miles. He pulled up just past midnight, gravel crunching under tires.

He carried her inside, her body limp and trusting against his chest. Laid her gently on the big bed in the only bedroom, pulled the sheet over her curves. Hesitated. Then—better safe—he looped a soft rope around her left wrist, tied it loosely to the headboard. Not tight. Just enough.

He crashed on the living room couch in nothing but gray sweatpants, too wired to sleep properly. Cock still half-hard, mind replaying that glimpse of pink pussy, those tits in his hands.

Morning light filtered through cracked blinds. A soft voice drifted from the bedroom.

“Hello…? Is someone there?”

Derek jolted awake, heart kicking. He stood, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, showing the deep V of muscle, the trail of dark hair leading down. Tattoos everywhere—wolf snarling on his ribs, sleeves of thorns and roses climbing his arms, “Hale” over his heart.

He pushed the bedroom door open.

Stiles was sitting up, sheet pooled around her waist, dress still on but twisted, one tit half out again. Hair mussed, lips swollen from sleep. She looked at him—really looked—and her hazel eyes lit up like Christmas.

Instead of screaming, crying, begging… she smiled. Slow. Slutty. Dangerous.

“Hey, handsome,” she purred, voice husky from whatever dreams she’d had. “Mind untying me? This knot’s cute, but I’d rather use my hands.”

Derek blinked. Stared. This wasn’t the script.

He stepped closer, untied the rope with careful fingers. Her skin was warm, soft. She flexed her wrist, then stretched—back arching, tits thrusting forward, nipples poking through the thin fabric.

“You’re not scared,” he said, voice rough.

Stiles laughed, low and filthy. “Scared? Baby, I’ve been bored out of my mind for months. This?” She gestured at him, at the cabin, at the rope still dangling. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I learned how to deepthroat.”

He flushed—actually fucking blushed—ears burning. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe.” She swung her legs off the bed, stood. The dress was wrecked—hem crooked, tits threatening to spill again. She didn’t fix it. Just sauntered closer, hips rolling. “But I’m not running. Look around—looks like no phone signal in this area, woods for miles. Where would I even go?” She tilted her head, smirking. “Besides… I think I’ll like your company, bad boy.”

He groaned at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Too late.” She grinned, eyes dropping shamelessly to the bulge in his sweatpants. “Big boy like you… bet you’ve got a monster under there.”

“Jesus.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Aren’t you afraid? At all?”

Stiles stepped right into his space, tits brushing his bare chest. “What’s to be afraid of? You carried me like I was made of glass. You tucked my tits back in last night instead of motorboating them. You’re a gentleman kidnapper.” She poked his abs. “Adorable.”

He flushed harder. “I’m not—fuck. Just… sit down. We need to talk.”

She perched on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs so the dress rode up again, flashing pussy. No shame. “Talk then, handsome. What’s your name?”

He hesitated. “Derek.”

“Hot name for a hot guy.” She licked her lips.

Another groan. His cock twitched visibly. “And you are?”

“Stiles.” She said it like a tease, watching his face.

He stiffened. “What?”

“Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. That’s me.”

He yanked his phone out, opened the photo Scott sent. Zoomed in. Pointed at the blonde. “So this is Lydia?”

Stiles peered, then burst out laughing. “Yup. That’s my bestie Lydia. The one on the left. I’m the brunette with the fat tits and no panties.”

Derek cursed under his breath—long string of swears. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

Stiles giggled. “Oops. Wrong girl, kidnapper boy.”

He paced, muscles flexing, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how hard he still was. “I gotta take you back. Right now. Drop you somewhere safe. This was a mistake.”

Stiles’s smile turned wicked. “No.”

He stopped. “What?”

“I said no.” She stood again, closing the distance. “I don’t wanna go back. Not yet. My life? Fiancé who fucks like a robot, parents who treat me like a merger asset, penthouse that feels like a prison. This?” She gestured between them. “Hot, tattooed stranger who smells like danger and pine? In the middle of nowhere? I wanna stay. Few days. Maybe more.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, tits bouncing. “But if you try to drag me out of here, I’ll scream bloody murder the second we hit civilization. Straight to the police. Kidnapping charges. You’ll never see whatever money you were offered —or daylight—again.”

He glared, jaw ticking. Towering over her. She didn’t flinch. Just smiled, slow and filthy.

“So what’s it gonna be, Derek?” She reached out, trailing a nail down his chest, over the wolf tattoo. “You gonna be a good boy and let me stay? Or you gonna make me beg for it?”

His cock jumped again, pre-cum darkening the gray fabric. He grabbed her wrist—gentle, but firm. Voice low, gravel-rough.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Stiles leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Oh, I think I do. And I want every filthy inch of it.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—hazel burning with pure, shameless hunger.

“Question is… are you brave enough to give it to me?”

And just like that—the wrong girl became the only one he wanted.