I need your help.
with WHAT? you're in a dressing room!
The clasp on this bra is complicated, Stiles. Stop asking questions. Third room on the left.
"I don't know why you didn't just — "
Whatever protest he was about to deliver dies the second he sees her. Partially because his brain short circuits at the sight of her in a lacy lingerie set that leaves very little to the imagination, and partially because he's suddenly all too happy to help his girlfriend with that complicated clasp.
She fixes him with an annoyed look, though her expression lacks its usual malice. Maybe because she wants this. Maybe because she planned it. Lydia sweeps her hair over one shoulder and turns, revealing the clasp hanging open in the back. "Well? Are you going to help me or not?"
He scrambles towards her, eyes wide with awe. She looks beautiful (and hot, and sexy, and undeniably incredible). Not for the first time, he thanks whatever god is listening that this amazing girl is his – in the most feministic sense of the word, of course.
He fumbles with the clasp, feeling entirely too overwhelmed with all things Lydia to focus on the delicate fastening. To his credit, he tries – and even succeeds with a shaky breath through his nose. "Lydia, you look —"
The very corners of her lips quirk at the realization he can't even pinpoint the right word, manicured fingertips trailing along the sheer fabric just glancing against her stomach. "Mmm?" Truthfully, Lydia knows she looks good. The color compliments her skintone perfectly, and the top manages to make her boobs look even better than usual.
Which is precisely why she invited him into the room in the first place.
She looks up at him through the mirror, her smirk growing just a touch at the way he can't keep his eyes off her body. His hands, either, apparently, because he chooses that moment to reach out for her, fingers curling around her hips and tugging her back against his chest.
"Please tell me you're buying this." His head ducks forward to ghost his lips along her bare shoulder, and when their eyes meet in the mirror, she feels something deep and wanting stir to life in the pit of her stomach. She tilts her head to the side to grant him better access as he trails kisses along the column of her neck, eyes never leaving his as a brow arches in response. "Maybe." A pause as she twists so she can look up at him through her eyelashes. "Should I?"
Stiles nods his head vigorously, eyes wide and imploring as he slips his fingertips under the fabric. "You should. Definitely. Yeah. Buy it. Please, for the love of god, buy it." His fingers crawl higher and higher along her torso, until they're brushing against the underside of her boobs and he's breathing another shaky sigh. She's surprised to find she's having trouble breathing altogether.
"Hmm…" Lydia hums softly, gaze holding his in the mirror. He's looking at her like she's the eighth wonder of the world, and she's pretty sure she's never felt so absolutely beautiful. Her breath hitches again and she reaches back to anchor her fingers in his hair. "Convince me."
He takes the suggestion and runs with it, a soft groan parting full lips. Stiles maneuvers his hands under her bra so he can cup her breasts, fingertips closing around both nipples and pulling gently. "Gladly."
The soft sound of approval she makes spurs him on; leaves him pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck and touching her in the slow, teasing way she likes (because, yeah, they've done this enough for him to carefully memorize all the moves that leave her wanting more).
She doesn't whine, because Lydia Martin does not whine. The sound she makes is close enough to a whine to draw a soft groan from his lips, though, and he works a hand out from under her bra to slide it lower on her torso. "How am I doing so far? Like, on a scale of 1-10, how persuaded are you to buy it?"
She rolls her eyes, but he doesn't miss the way she presses back against his chest. A long history of cataloguing her every move tells him she likes this; likes the way the very tips of his fingers toy with the band on her underwear. "Mm, a four. Maybe. You're going to have to try harder than this."
And he does.
He slides his hand lower, letting those very same fingertips slip under the soft fabric and brush against her clit. There's something altogether erotic about holding his gaze in the mirror as his hands explore her skin; something overwhelming about the way he's rolling a nipple between the fingers of one hand while the other begins to rub slow, languid circles against her clit.
"What about now?"
His voice is low and hot against the shell of her ear and it leaves her reeling. She tugs on his hair harder, knees buckling as he reaches down to slip a lone finger inside. It takes her a minute to respond, her hips starting a slow, subtle rocking into his touch. His fingers are moving so slowly, so steadily, so perfectly — god, he knows her body so well.
"Six."
He breathes a puff of air from his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a protest, as he pulls her closer against his chest. Suddenly there are two fingers pumping inside her walls and his thumb is moving harder over her clit. She nearly cries out, the hand in his hair all that's holding her up as she gives in to his touch.
He works her like that for too long, little sounds of pleasure and desire and need parting her pretty pink lips. She fights desperately for her own control, knowing a single loud noise would draw the attention of an associate, but watching him finger her in the mirror and feeling his very real arousal growing against the center of her back makes it damn near impossible to stay quiet.
Finally, just when she's on the cusp of coming, she shoves his hands away. His head snaps up, expression wrought with bewilderment, but it disappears when she spins around in his grasp. Both hands anchor in his hair and tug him towards her, mouths meeting in a desperate clash of lips and tongue.
"If you don't get inside me right now…" She mumbles, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and tugging roughly. He doesn't even give her the chance to finish her warning, his hands on her hips already guiding her back towards the mirror.
He nods hastily as he reaches down and takes the delicate panties in his grasp, all but shoving them down her thighs and along her calves. She steps out of them quickly, her own hands moving to undo his pants and push them off his hips. His boxer briefs soon join them, and she reaches down to take him in hand. Stiles groans at the way she begins to pump him slowly, torturously, hands dropping to wrap around her thighs.
Their eyes meet briefly as he picks her up and presses her against the mirror – his way of seeking confirmation that this is what she wants. The look she gives him all but dares him to stop, and he nods again as she positions him at her entrance. Normally he'd draw it out and tease them both, but he needs her. Needs her so badly he immediately pushes into her with a moan only muffled by lips suddenly buried in the crook of her neck.
Sometimes Stiles and Lydia choose to make slow, sweet love. Sometimes they need reminders that they're alive and okay and surviving whatever supernatural disaster has hit Beacon Hills, and they find those reminders in the other soft, gentle touch. Sometimes they rock together like that for hours, and sometimes he worships her body like she's the only god he'll ever serve.
But sometimes they make it quick and hard. Sometimes she rides him at a bruising pace, and sometimes he pulls out every kinky fantasy he's tucked away from his researching days. And sometimes they fuck in the middle of a Victoria's Secret dressing room, where anyone and everyone could walk in and hear them at any minute.
"Harder, Stiles. Faster." Her voice, rough and commanding in his ear, only spurs him on. He's quick to give her just what she wants, hands tightening around her hips as they snap together. The column of her neck muffles the groans and whimpers of her name, and her own barely-controlled murmurs of pleasure press against the shell of his ear.
It doesn't take long for either of them — not with Stiles watching their movements through the dressing room mirror and Lydia slithering a hand between them to work her clit. It's rough and dirty and bruising, but it's good. It's so fucking good.
"Lydia, I'm gonna –" His voice breaks and she nods, automatically moving her fingers faster against her clit. Her walls start to flutter around him and she groans, nails of her free hand digging into his back hard enough to draw blood. "Me too."
It's Lydia who breaks first, the flames licking at her stomach erupting in an inferno of unquenchable desire. He follows in an instant, something hot and needy snapping in the pit of his stomach. They come together, low voices mingling in a desperate display of want, until they're left clutching at one another's sweaty bodies and panting against soft skin.
Minutes pass before either of them can calm down, his hands finally (begrudgingly) guiding her back onto solid ground. They peer at one another for a beat, his eyes heavy-lidded and bewildered at what just happened; her own hazy with a warmth only he can give her.
"So." He reaches down to finger the fabric, gaze sweeping across her chest before returning to her eyes. "Where are we now?"
She rolls her eyes and he grins, bringing his hand up to brush a lock of strawberry blonde hair from her forehead. "C'mon, Lydia. Seven? Eight?"
Lydia shoves him gently towards the door, the corners of her own lips twisting upwards in the very hint of a smile. He reaches down to deal with his tangled mess of clothes, and she reaches back to undo the complicated clasp she'd so desperately needed his help to fasten.
"Eight. The other two points are based entirely on the fact it's pretty."
His smile grows and so does hers, which leaves her pushing him out the door the moment he's presentable. "Go, Stilinski, before I change my mind."
His wide, happy smile is the last thing she sees before the door closes behind him.
And, yeah, this is definitely coming home with her.