The soft fingers rubbing against Derek's skull made him moan again, and he shifted against the tile. He grabbed the boy's wrists, thumb rubbing against his pulse. "...smell so good," he murmured. "Stiles."
And that was what it came down to. Derek wanted Stiles. There was some primal part of him, his wolf, who wanted to claim and mark the boy's pale skin. Why it was Stiles he didn't know.