Stiles woke to wet heat on her tit.

For a second she thought she was still dreaming the same filthy dream she always had — the one where she was bad and he wasn’t married and his mouth was allowed. Then the heat pulled. A slow, sleeping suck. His lips sealed around her nipple like he had found it in the dark and decided to keep it.

She gasped.

Color slammed into her face so hard her ears rang. She was on her back. He was half on her, heavy, face buried in the soft give of her breast, mouth working without thought. The nipple was already tight and shiny. He sucked harder. A low sound left him, the kind a man makes when he is not awake enough to be ashamed yet.

Stiles moaned.

She couldn’t help it. The sound slipped out high and wrecked. Her back arched a little and pushed more of her tit into his mouth. He took it. Tongue dragging. Teeth a ghost of pressure. His cock had woken with him. Thick now, fully hard, the fat tip butting her clit every time he shifted, rubbing that swollen little pearl through the mess she had leaked all night. She was soaked. The sheets under her ass were damp. Every grind made a wet sound she wanted to die from.

“Ah— Derek—”

He sucked her like he was starving. Like her tit was the first warm thing he had put in his mouth in two weeks. Her pussy clenched around nothing, greedy and unused, fluttering against the underside of his shaft. She was moaning loud now, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other hovering over his hair because she didn’t know if she was allowed to hold him there.

He stirred.

The rhythm of his mouth broke. His lashes fluttered against her skin. Then his eyes opened.

He saw his own mouth around her nipple.

He went stiff.

For a second nobody moved. Her nipple was still between his lips, wet and dark. His breath hit it when he froze. Then he pulled off with a soft obscene sound and the cold air stung the spit-shiny peak.

He moved.

That was worse.

His hips shifted as he tried to get off her and his cock dragged the full length of her slit, fat head catching on her clit, sliding through the slick valley of her pussy lips. Both of them made a sound. His was punched-out and shocked. Hers was a moan she bit too late.

They were naked. Morning light. Her tits marked pink from his mouth. His cock glistening with her.

Color came into his face for the first time in two weeks. Real color. Shame and heat and the raw animal fact of what he was feeling against her.

Stiles was scarlet down to her chest.

His expression changed. Fear under the flush. The look of a man trying to remember if he had done something unforgivable in the night.

“Stiles.” His voice was low. Afraid. “Did I… did I do something last night? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head so fast her hair stuck to her cheek.

“No. No, you didn’t. I bathed you last night and you went to sleep naked and my clothes were wet so I stripped to change and you— you pulled me into bed. Nothing happened. I swear. Nothing.”

The words tumbled. Too many. Too honest. She could still feel the shape of his cock printed along her cunt.

Something in his face eased. Not happy. Just less terrified. Peaceful in a tired, broken way, like he had been bracing for a crime and found only sleep.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She was so flushed she could barely look at him. “It’s okay. You were sleeping. You said hold me.”

He tried to get up.

The movement dragged his cock against her again — a slow, filthy grind through her folds, the head kissing her clit, her wetness painting him. They both moaned. They both went redder.

Stiles scrambled.

She got up too fast. The sheet fell. Morning air on her bare tits, her ass, the shiny mess between her legs. She walked quick to the wardrobe because standing there naked with his eyes on her would have ended her. Her fat ass jiggled with every step. She heard his breath catch behind her. When she glanced back without meaning to, his cock had kicked against his stomach.

She yanked one of his shirts off a hanger and pulled it on. It drowned her and still wasn’t enough. The hem hit mid-thigh. One shoulder slid off immediately. The fabric tented over her tits and still showed the heavy swing of them when she breathed. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“I’ll cook breakfast,” she said, shy, eyes on the floor.

A small smile touched his mouth. The first one that looked like it belonged to a living man.

He sat there a second longer, then slowly got up, found pants, dragged them over his still-hard cock with a wince, and followed her.

It was the first time he had left that room since the funeral.

Stiles was at the stove when he reached the kitchen doorway. His shirt on her body looked like a crime. Too big in the shoulders, too tight across the chest because her tits filled it anyway. The hem kept riding when she moved. Her fat ass jiggled under the cotton every time she shifted her weight. The shirt had slipped down one arm. The upper swell of her breast showed, pale and marked faintly from his mouth.

He stood there and watched her like a man watching a fire he was not supposed to touch.

He told himself he was crazy. She was Noah’s girl. Twenty-two. Kind. She had only been taking care of him. He had no right to remember the taste of her nipple or the way her bare wet pussy had kissed the underside of his cock. He remembered it anyway. His mouth still knew the shape. His dick was already thickening again in his pants.

Stiles felt him.

She turned. Saw how he was looking at her — not empty anymore, not far away. Looking. At her mouth. At the open collar of his own shirt. At her legs.

She flushed so hard she almost dropped the spatula. Then she smiled a little, shaky and glad, because he was in the kitchen. He had come out.

“Hi,” she whispered.

She needed something from the upper cabinet. Soy sauce, oil, she didn’t even know. She went up on her toes.

The shirt rode up.

The whole bare undercurve of her ass came out, soft and round, the shadowed split of her cheeks, a slick gleam still on her inner thighs from the morning. No panties. Nothing.

Derek’s breath hitched.

His cock went hard so fast it hurt.

He moved before he thought.

One step. Two. His hand found her waist like it belonged there, big palm spanning the dip above her hip, the shirt bunching under his fingers. His other hand went up easy and took the bottle she couldn’t reach. Set it on the counter with a quiet click.

He didn’t step back.

The second hand joined the first on her waist. His face dropped to the back of her neck. He just inhaled her. Soap from last night. Sleep. The warm girl-smell under his shirt.

Stiles went stiff.

Flushed. Trembling so hard the shirt shivered on her tits. She could feel all of him behind her — the wall of his chest, the heat of his mouth at her nape, and the hard thick line of his cock pressed right into the soft give of her ass, nesting into the split like it had been there before.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t move.

The kitchen ticked. Something simmered on the stove. His hands stayed on her waist. His nose stayed in her hair. His dick stayed shameless against her bare ass under his shirt.

Stiles’s pussy clenched so hard she had to part her lips to breathe.

He was out of the room.

He was hard against her.

And neither of them said a word.