Really, anywhere that Derek kisses Stiles would make him moan, but there's something about his neck that makes him want. He's not sure what to do with his hands, braces one on Derek's chest, because they're not moving, exactly, but they're not sitting still either, grinding their hips a little, as much as their jeans allow.
It's kind of ridiculous how good just this feels, and how utterly overwhelming it is from a sensory perspective.
"Derek," Stiles pleads, and lets out another of those not-whimpers. "Fuck."