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"Shhh, sweet thing," Peter hushes as he rocks—maddeningly slow—in and out of Stiles’s body. "We wouldn't want the sheriff coming in to investigate now, would we?"
Stiles claws at Peter’s back, his fingers sliding over the sweat-slicked skin as he tries to urge the wolf closer. "I can’t—"
"Just bite your lip."
Stiles growls at Peter’s casual suggestion. The fucker barely even sounds affected while Stiles is lying here writhing and mewling like a deranged kitten.
It's unfair.
"Or just stop grinding against my prostate like an asshole."
"Not my fault you're so responsive."
Stiles huffs. "You're such a—" A truly pornographic moan cuts Stiles's jibe short as Peter snaps his hips, hitting deep. Stiles is pretty sure his vision blacks out for a second. "Fuck, don't stop."
Peter smirks like a fiend. "What was that, darling?"
"Fuck you," he hisses, but his back arches off the bed and a breathy whine vibrates across his tongue as Peter dips his head and latches onto the sensitive skin at his throat.
Stiles's cock leaks onto his belly, and his hole clenches at the delicious sting. The indents from Peter's teeth will no doubt bloom into a violent bruise, but right now, Stiles doesn’t have the capacity to give a shit. Everything feels too fucking good, and when Peter soothes the ache with a broad stroke of his tongue and gives another filthy roll of his hips, Stiles rules silence an impossible feat.
Peter sighs—as if the bastard isn't relishing in watching Stiles squirm. "Am I going to have to make you be quiet?"
Stiles keens, nodding mindlessly, and before he can add a plea to his case, Peter slides his cock out and flips him onto his belly. He's manhandled until his ass juts into the air and his knees are spread wide, then fingers curl around the back of his neck, forcing his face into the pillow. The pressure slightly restricts Stiles's breathing, but it's effective for muting his loudest wails as Peter drives back into him—showing no mercy.
Stiles's arms fly to the headboard, fisting the wooden slats until his knuckles turn white. Peter’s hammering into him without restraint, and JesusfuckingChrist, Stiles has just discovered at least two new kinks in the span of eight seconds; he’s gonna need some time to re-evaluate his whole life.
Tomorrow.
"Bite the pillow," Peter demands, tone unrelenting, a predatory snarl rumbling in his chest when Stiles doesn’t comply quick enough. "Bite it."
Three four new kinks?
Stiles curses and obeys, clamping down until his teeth creak. He's rewarded with Peter’s free hand wrapping around his throbbing cock, squeezing and twisting exactly how he likes it—rough and almost painful.
Peter chuckles darkly at Stiles's faint guttural cries before he leans in close, his lips tracing the shell of Stiles's ear, voice pitched low in challenge. "Let's see how long it takes before your muffled screams get us caught, huh?"
Stiles groans—counting seems futile at this point.