Stiles doesn’t want a girl to cradle him in her arms and promise to be gentle; he wants this, he wants to be pushed, he wants his clothes to shred, he wants powerful thighs to trap his legs between them and draw him up like a vacuum. It’s Erica who gives him what he wants, every time, all vamp and vixen with bright cherry lips and strength she shouldn’t possess. Against a wall, on a table, nowhere she should take him and nowhere he should willingly go, but he’s always pulling in a thin breath, mouthing “yeah” and “that’s good” before she crushes her mouth under his. She pulls his cock out with impatient hands, doesn’t stroke him so much as tugs him up into unbearable hardness, until he’s straining and grunting, saying “Come on, Erica, just fucking do it.”
And when she fucking does it, he’s lucky to have breath to survive it, much less speak.