shealwaysreads

youknowtheyaremates:

His shirt goes first. Derek pulls it off, slowly, then lets it drop onto the bed behind him. His jeans are next; he slips the button and then skims them down over his thighs, letting them puddle on the floor around his calves.

Last, his boxers. He hooks his thumbs in the elastic and peels them down. They join his jeans on the floor, and Derek steps out of them both and sits down on the mattress. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look over at the slightly open door to his room, even when there’s a sudden intake of breath from that direction, followed by a thump and a string of whispered cursing.

Derek lies back, fighting the smile that threatens to break out on his face. He knows that breathing, that voice. He knows that scent, familiar and strong.

He knows who’s there.

No one else is in the house, he’s sure. So Derek lifts his hands and runs them down over the planes of his chest, circling his nipples with the pads of his fingers. He can hear the breathing catch, and he can’t stop the smile this time. He pinches his nipples, letting out a little gasp of his own, and then moves his hands down.

The breathing’s louder, now.

He spreads his thighs, angling his hips slightly so the view from the door is better, and then slowly wraps his hand around his burgeoning erection. Closing his eyes, he strokes himself once, breathing in deep. Scenting him. His cock goes rigid under his palm, pulsing and hot.

“Oh god,” he hears, faintly.

That voice. Derek growls softly to himself and jerks his cock again, squeezing the shaft, rubbing his thumb over the head, picturing another hand touching him.

His hand.

Panting now, Derek lifts his other hand and slips his fingers into his mouth, sucking on them. Another gasp from the doorway, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. He pops his fingers free and slides them down over his hip before trailing them even lower. Touching himself there, where he knows Stiles can see.

Stiles.

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