The next day the college cafeteria buzzed like always—crystal chandeliers, marble tables, waitstaff in crisp uniforms delivering overpriced lattes and sushi. Rich kids everywhere, laughing too loud, flashing Rolexes and designer bags.

Stiles sat straddled across Scott’s lap at their usual corner table, her micro skirt riding up so high the white thong peeked out every time she shifted. Her heavy tits pressed against his chest through the thin crop top, nipples hard from the AC and the way his hand rested possessively on her inner thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to her pussy. His friends—six other guys from the team—sprawled around them, still high off yesterday’s win.

“Man, did you see Derek’s face when we scored that last touchdown?” one of them—John—laughed, slapping the table. “Looked like he was gonna cry. Or cum. Hard to tell with that prick.”

Scott chuckled low, kissing Stiles’s neck while his fingers slipped under her skirt to trace the edge of her thong. “He’s always salty when he loses. Especially when my girl’s shaking that fat ass on the sidelines.”

Stiles giggled, grinding down once on his hardening cock just to tease. “Stoppp, Scottie. Everyone’s watching.”

“Let ‘em watch,” he growled, nipping her earlobe. “They all know who you belong to.”

Across the cafeteria, Derek sat with his own crew—black hoodie up, tattoos peeking out, jaw tight as steel. He could hear every word. Every laugh. Every filthy comment about Stiles’s body. His grip on his water bottle turned his knuckles white.

Finally he stood, sauntered over like he owned the place, and dropped into the empty chair right across from Scott. The table went quiet.

“Still gloating, McCall?” Derek drawled, eyes locked on Stiles. She squirmed under the stare, thighs pressing together.

Scott smirked, not moving his hand from between her legs. “Just stating facts. Your team choked. Again. Because you can’t keep your eyes off my girlfriend’s pussy.”

Derek’s lip curled. “Next match. I’m winning.”

The table erupted in laughter.

“Yeah? You and what defense?” Liam snorted.

Derek leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring straight at Stiles. “Wanna bet?”

Scott raised a brow. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Derek’s smirk was slow, dangerous. “If my team wins the next match… Stiles wears my jersey to the game after that. Number one. And—” his eyes dropped to her lap, voice dropping to a filthy whisper everyone could still hear—“she flashes her pussy. Bare. Close. To my whole fucking team.”

Stiles gasped, cheeks flaming pink. She laughed nervously, trying to play it off. “Oh my god, Derek, that’s— that’s insane. You’re joking, right?”

Scott’s hand tightened on her thigh. Then he laughed—low, cocky. “Sure. Bet’s on. Because you’re not winning shit, Hale. And if you lose?”

Derek shrugged, still staring at Stiles like he was already picturing her spread open. “I shave my head. Bald. Right in the middle of the quad.”

More laughter. Scott stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

They shook. Hard. Stiles’s heart hammered so loud she was sure everyone could hear it.

Derek leaned in one last time, voice velvet and venom. “Better start practicing spreading those pretty legs, sweetheart. I want a good view.”

He walked away. Stiles buried her face in Scott’s neck, mortified. Scott just kissed her temple. “Relax, baby. He’s not winning.”

But she could already feel the slick heat pooling between her thighs.

Game day came fast.

In the locker room, Derek’s team huddled around him, gear half-on, cocks already half-hard just from anticipation.

“Listen up,” Derek said, voice low and lethal. “We focus. No looking at her tits bouncing, no staring at that fat ass when she twirls. We win this match, and every single one of you gets to see Stiles’s bare pussy up close. Lips spread. Wet. Dripping. You’ll be so close you can smell how turned on that little slut gets.”

The room exploded—groans, fist pumps, someone muttering “fuck yes.”

“She’s Scott’s, but today she’s our prize,” Derek continued, smirking. “So lock in. Or I’ll personally make sure none of you ever get laid again.”

They hit the field like animals.

Stiles danced on the sidelines in her usual tiny uniform—navy and gold top stretched obscenely over her tits, skirt flipping with every move, thong already damp from nerves and the thrill she hated admitting. She kept glancing at the scoreboard, praying.

But Derek’s team was different today. Focused. Brutal. Scott’s passes got intercepted. Tackles landed harder. By the fourth quarter, the black-and-silver side was up by ten.

Final whistle.

Derek’s team won.

The stadium erupted—half in shock, half in cheers.

Stiles froze mid-pompom shake. Her stomach dropped.

Scott stormed off the field, helmet ripped off, face thunder-dark. Derek jogged straight over, sweat dripping down his inked neck, jersey clinging to every ridge of muscle.

He stopped in front of Stiles, grinning like the devil. “Ready to pay up, slut?”

She flushed crimson, eyes wide. “Derek…”

Scott stepped between them, chest heaving. “Enough showboating. Get it over with.”

Stiles’s hands shook. She looked around—hundreds of eyes already on her. Then she hooked her thumbs under the sides of her thong, slid it down her thighs slow, the fabric peeling away from her soaked pussy with a wet sound.

She lifted the front of her skirt.

Her fat, pink pussy lips were on full display—swollen, glistening, clit peeking out, a thin string of arousal connecting her folds to her inner thighs. So pretty. So obscene. So fucking wet.

Derek’s team gathered close—circle tight, breathing hard. Cocks visibly straining in their pants.

“Fuuuuck,” one groaned. “Look at that fat little cunt. She’s dripping.”

“Goddamn, those lips are begging to be spread,” another muttered. “Bet she clenches like a vice.”

“Pinkest pussy I’ve ever seen,” Said one of Derek’s guys—licked his lips. “Scott’s been hoarding this? Criminal.”

Derek stepped closest, eyes black. “Tell me, Stiles. You get this wet dancing for us, or just from knowing I was gonna make you show it?”

Her pussy clenched hard—visible to all of them. A fresh bead of slick rolled down her thigh.

“Such a filthy little creation,” Derek murmured. “God made you to be ruined.”

Scott’s voice cracked like a whip. “Enough. Pull your shit together, Stiles.”

She yanked the thong back up—fabric sticking to her wet folds—dropped the skirt, and practically ran into Scott’s arms. He held her tight, glaring murder at Derek.

Derek just winked. “See you soon, baby.”

An hour later.

Stiles slipped out of the girls’ locker room, still flushed, hair damp from the shower. She’d tried to wash away the humiliation, the arousal, but her pussy still throbbed.

Derek was waiting.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, holding his game-worn jersey—black and silver, #1 on the front and back. Still damp with his sweat. His scent poured off it—musk, cedar, raw masculinity.

He pushed off the wall, stepped close. Too close.

“Here,” he said, voice rough. “Wear this to the next match. Nothing underneath except that slutty little thong. Unless you want the whole university seeing what I just saw.”

Stiles stared at the jersey, then up at him. “You’re so cruel.”

He laughed—low, dark, hysterical. “Cruel? You with that body, shaking your tits and ass every game, making my team lose focus, making me hard as fuck while your boyfriend gropes you in front of everyone… and you call me cruel?”

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You’re the cruel one, Stiles. You and that bastard boyfriend. Teasing. Tempting. Acting like you don’t love the attention.”

She shivered. Her nipples peaked under her towel. Between her legs, heat bloomed again.

Derek pressed the jersey into her hands. She clutched it—his sweat, his smell soaking into her palms.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Then he kissed her cheek—slow, deliberate, lips lingering a second too long.

Stiles stiffened. Breath caught. The sheer nerve of him—kissing her, marking her with that casual claim.

He pulled back, smirking at her stunned face.

“See you in my jersey next match day, slut.”

He walked away whistling.

Stiles stood frozen, clutching his jersey to her chest, thighs slick again, heart racing.

She hated him.

She hated how wet he made her.

And she hated—most of all—that she was already imagining how his sweat would feel against her bare tits under that jersey.