“Jesus Stiles,” Derek growls, in the back of his throat and he runs his nails up Stiles’s back, scratching as Stiles drives his hips down and whines into Derek’s neck.
“Derek, come on…I just…please,” the kid whines, sounding desperate and so far gone that Derek manages to flip them over, grind his hips down into Stiles’s and that’s enough to have the kid coming, shuddering hard, teeth scraping over Derek’s collar bone.
“Fuck,” Derek grinds out and comes himself, their combinded scents mingling when he moves lazily above Stiles. Stiles whimpers and Derek runs his thumb across Stiles’s bottom lip, watches as Stiles’s tongue darts out across the pad of Derek’s thumb.
This kid may be the death of him one day.