The days blurred into a feverish haze of insatiable hunger.

Stiles and Derek fucked like the world was ending—every stolen second, every unlocked door, every empty room turned into their personal playground. Mornings in his shitty apartment, her riding him reverse on the couch while coffee burned on the stove. Afternoons in her office parking garage, bent over the hood of his SUV, skirt hiked, his hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams. Evenings in random love motels, slow and filthy on stained sheets, his mouth never leaving her tits while he pounded her into the mattress. Nights—when Jacskon was “working late”—they’d meet on rooftops, in back alleys, once even in the stairwell of her building, her back against cold concrete, legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked her standing, cum dripping down her thighs before she even reached her floor.