"No." That would be worse. No more soap. "Just -- hold still." As if he has to tell Stiles that.
Then it hits him, what's off about Stiles's scent. Stiles smells like a lot of different things but he doesn't smell like Derek, and that's what's bothering him. That's easily fixed enough, at least.
He rubs his cheek against Stiles's chest as he tries to work the fly of his jeans, realizing a second or two too late that his claws are out without his permission, and Stiles might not be able to wear these jeans in public anymore without a lot of questions. He mumbles an apology and, more carefully this time, tugs Stiles's jeans down and off so he can push his nose against the inside of Stiles's thigh and inhale there.