These days, Derek was a man possessed—a walking storm of need, his blood running hot with the kind of hunger that clawed at his gut every waking hour. Stiles was his addiction, his obsession, the only thing that quieted the roar in his veins. He’d show up unannounced—at her office after hours, slipping into the executive bathroom to bend her over the sink; in the back of his SUV during her “lunch breaks,” her tits pressed to the fogged window as he railed her from behind; even at the penthouse when Jackson was “working late,” fucking her slow and deep on the kitchen island, her moans muffled into his palm. No boundaries. No restraint. Just raw, filthy want.

And Stiles? God, she bloomed under it. Satisfied in ways she’d never dreamed—body humming with afterglow, pussy perpetually slick from the memory of his cock stretching her, his mouth owning her. She walked taller, smiled brighter, her skin flushed with the secret thrill of being so thoroughly filled. Jackson’s half-hearted pecks and dutiful missionary nights? Laughable. She didn’t need them. She had Derek—his possessiveness, his filth, the way he made her feel like a goddess built for sin.