They’d polished off the tiramisu—sharing bites, laughing over the way the cream stuck to her lip and he leaned in to wipe it with his thumb, eyes lingering a second too long. The restaurant buzzed around them, couples murmuring, clinking glasses, but Stiles felt that familiar heat building between her thighs. The wine had her tipsy, the flirting had her wet, and Derek—god, the way he looked at her now, less shy, more hungry—pushed her over the edge. A naughty idea sparked.

She gave him a teasing smile, all innocent on top but wicked underneath. Under the table, her hand slipped to her thigh, hiking the dress just enough. She hooked her thumbs in the thin string of her thong—wet from the night’s teasing—and wiggled it down slow, past her knees, off her ankles. She balled it up in her fist, then reached for his hand under the tablecloth—pressing the damp fabric into his palm.