The night after Derek handed her the jersey, Stiles went straight home, locked her bedroom door, and peeled off everything except her soaked thong. She slipped his black-and-silver #1 over her head like a secret. It swallowed her—sleeves hanging past her fingertips, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, the fabric still warm and heavy with his sweat. Cedar, musk, clean male exertion. She buried her face in the collar and inhaled so deep her head spun.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room.

She crawled onto her bed, knees spread, and pressed the jersey to her nose again. One hand slid between her legs, pushing the thong aside. Her pussy was already puffy, slick, aching from the hallway memory of his cock grinding against her. She circled her clit slow at first—then faster—imagining it was his rough fingers instead. She moaned his name once, horrified at how easily it slipped out, then muffled it against the damp fabric.

She came hard—back arching, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing while she sniffed his sweat like a drug. Afterward she lay there panting, guilty, wet, and already craving more.

She washed the jersey the next morning. Carefully. Obsessively. So it would be fresh for match day—but his scent still lingered just enough to make her dizzy when she put it on.

Match day arrived.

Stiles stepped onto campus in Derek’s oversized jersey and nothing else on top except a tiny white thong that disappeared between her fat ass cheeks. The #1 sat huge on her frame—shoulders slipping off one side to show the swell of her tit, hem barely covering her ass when she walked. Every step made it ride up, flashing the curve where thigh met cheek. Her nipples poked through the thin material, hard from nerves and the cool air and the memory of fingering herself in it.

Scott saw her first.

His face darkened instantly. “What the actual fuck, Stiles?”

She hurried over, hands on his chest, voice soft and pleading. “Scottie, it’s just for today. Just a few hours. I lost the bet fair. Please don’t be mad.”

He grabbed her wrist, eyes blazing. “You look like his. Walking around with his number on your back like you belong to him.”

“I don’t,” she whispered, pressing closer so her tits squished against his jersey. “I’m yours. Always yours.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, jaw ticking, but he let her kiss his cheek. “Fine. But after today, that thing burns.”

Across the field, Derek spotted her.

His heart actually stuttered—then his cock thickened painfully against his cup. The jersey looked obscene on her: too big, too possessive, her thick thighs peeking out underneath, tits bouncing free under the fabric with no bra. She looked like she’d been fucked in it already.

He waited until Scott turned to talk to a coach.

Then he closed the distance.

Stiles froze when she felt him behind her—heat radiating off his body.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Damn, baby… you look edible in my jersey.”

His hand grazed her bottom lip—thumb dragging slow, parting them just enough to feel her shaky exhale.

“Don’t forget to cheer for me today,” he murmured, voice velvet filth. “Shake that fat ass for the guy who’s gonna win again.”

She flushed crimson, pussy instantly slick. “Derek—”

He smirked, gave her lip one last slow swipe, and jogged back to his team.

The game started.

Stiles danced on the black-and-silver sideline—his sideline—for the first time. Every jump sent the jersey flying up, flashing her thong, the jiggle of her ass, the underside of her heavy tits. She rolled her hips, dropped low, popped back up—tits bouncing wildly under his number. The crowd roared. Phones flashed. But Derek’s eyes never left her.

He played like a demon possessed. Every tackle brutal, every pass perfect, every sprint fueled by the sight of her in his clothes. His cock stayed rock-hard the whole game—painful, leaking, but he channeled it into fury on the field.

Scott was off. Distracted. Furious. Missing throws, getting sacked, glaring at Stiles every time the jersey rode up.

Final score: Derek’s team by fourteen.

The stadium exploded.

Scott ripped his helmet off, face red, veins bulging. Stiles ran to him, trying to soothe. “Scottie, baby, it’s okay—”

He spun on her. “Shut up. You’re out here dressed like his little trophy, dancing for him, and you think it’s okay?”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I had to—”

“You’re my slut,” he snapped, voice low and mean. “Not his. Act like it.”

Derek, celebrating nearby, caught every word. He sauntered over, still sweaty, jersey clinging to his abs.

“Wow,” he drawled. “Not nice to talk to your girl like that, McCall. She’s crying.”

Scott rounded on him. “She’s my slut. I’ll treat her however the fuck I want.”

He grabbed Stiles’s wrist—hard—and dragged her away toward the locker rooms.

Derek watched them go, jaw tight, fists clenched.

Later.

Stiles stood outside Scott’s locker room door, arms wrapped around herself, eyes still glassy. The jersey still smelled faintly of Derek. She hated how comforting it felt.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

She squeaked—then Derek was dragging her backward, down the hall, into his team’s empty locker room. Door slammed. Locked.

He spun her, pinned her against the cold metal lockers with his body.

“Derek!” she hissed, pouting, tears still wet on her lashes. “This is your fault. Scott’s so mad at me because of you!”

He smirked, dark and dangerous. “Poor baby. Let me make it better.”

Before she could protest he fisted the hem of his jersey and yanked it up—bunching it around her neck like a collar. Her fat, heavy tits spilled free—perfect, round, pink nipples already tight and begging.

Derek groaned low in his throat. “Fuck… look at these.”

They were even bigger up close—ripe, soft, swaying with her panicked breaths. He palmed one roughly, thumb flicking the nipple until she whimpered.

“Here’s my thanks,” he rasped, “for dancing for my team today. For wearing my number while your boyfriend lost his fucking mind.”

He ducked his head and sucked one fat nipple into his mouth—hard.

Stiles gasped, hands flying to his shoulders. “Derek—wait—no—”

He didn’t wait. He sucked like a starving man—tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to sting, pulling the whole areola deep. Wet, obscene noises filled the locker room. He switched to the other tit, biting the soft underside, then soothing it with slow licks.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled against her skin. “These tits were made to be marked. To be sucked raw.”

She moaned—broken, helpless—trying to push him away but arching into his mouth instead. Her thong was drenched, pussy throbbing with every hard pull on her nipple.

“Stop—ah—Scott will kill us—”

“Let him try,” Derek snarled, popping off one nipple with a wet smack only to attack the other. “He doesn’t deserve these. Look how hard you are for me, slut. Your nipples are fucking diamonds.”

He sucked bruises into the tops of her tits—dark purple hickeys blooming like flowers across the creamy skin. One right above the areola. Another on the curve underneath where only he’d see when he stripped her later.

Stiles’s head thumped back against the locker. “You’re—ngh—such an asshole…”

“Yeah?” He bit down gently, tugging the nipple with his teeth until she cried out. “Then why’s your pussy dripping down your thighs? I can smell how wet you are.”

He ground his hips forward—his cock still half-hard from the game, now throbbing against her belly through his sweats.

“You love this,” he whispered, licking a stripe up the valley between her tits. “You love me marking what’s supposed to be his. Say it.”

“No—” she whimpered, but her hips rolled forward instinctively.

“Say it, Stiles.” He sucked another brutal hickey onto the side of one breast. “Tell me you’re soaking for the guy who’s gonna steal you.”

She sobbed once—half pleasure, half shame. “I—I’m wet… for you…”

“Good girl.”

He gave each nipple one last long, filthy suck—tongue lashing—then pulled back. 

Derek licked his lips, eyes black.

“I’m gonna make sure you end up mine,” he said quietly, dangerously. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. You’ll be wearing my jersey every day… and nothing else.”

He stepped back.

Stiles slid down the lockers until her ass hit the bench—legs shaking, chest heaving, pussy clenching around nothing. Tears and arousal streaked her face.

Derek adjusted his obvious erection, gave her one last filthy smirk, and walked out.

Leaving her alone in his locker room—marked, aching, soaked, and terrified of how badly she wanted him to come back.