don’t need a helping hand just need a hand teen wolf, lydia martin x derek hale, nc17 | for viseriion
Click-clack went six-inch, neon pink Steve Madden heels—he didn’t want think about why he knew what brand of heels she preferred—and Lydia Martin walked into the room like she owned it. That interesting mixture of honeysuckle and champagne filled his nostrils and he splayed his hands over the table, shoulders hunching.
The scent of her had lingered for days after that party the idiot teenagers had thrown, her fear and terror mixed in from the oni attack. It had driven him up the wall.
“Do you need something?” he tossed at her when she didn’t speak, just click-clacked his loft.