Page 165 of Sins of the Hidden

Fingers moved to my jeans, unfastening the button. At the zipper, he stopped. "Tell me no." A command, not a request. When I stayed silent, his voice lowered. "Say I can't touch you."

He guided them down my legs slowly, his palms dragging over the soft flesh of my thighs, leaving fire in their wake. I stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but plain cotton underwear, more exposed than I'd ever allowed myself to be.

"Touch me," I pleaded.

In the splintered mirror, my reflection was transformed—not the flawed image I'd crucified myself with for decades but something almost artistic. The cracks in the glass bisected my body, creating a mosaic of angles and curves I'd always despised,yet now appeared different through his eyes. My wider hips, my fuller thighs, my softer stomach—pieces of me I'd spent a lifetime trying to shrink—suddenly existed without judgment, without shame.

"When I found you," he whispered, hands sliding reverently over my skin like he was memorizing sacred text. His fingers traced the curve where my waist flared into my hip, thumb pressing into the supple flesh with deliberate appreciation, following each dip and rise like mapping territory he'd longed to explore. "You made yourself smaller. Always hiding."

Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks as the truth cut deep—yes, I had been hiding, folding inward, trying to disappear the parts of me the world had taught me to hate. And he had seen it all. Had watched me punish myself for existing in this body. Had watched me trying to vanish. His hands continued their reverent exploration, cupping the fullness of my hips with a grip that bordered on devotional—not just accepting my curves but celebrating them, fingers pressing me.

V's fingers curled deliberately beneath the waistband of my underwear, knuckles brushing against heated flesh as he slowly peeled the fabric away. His touch lingered over every inch as though memorizing territory he considered precious, rough fingertips creating trails of fire across my sensitive skin. When the fabric pooled at my feet and I stood completely bare before him, his breathing deepened, thunderous in the quiet.

His eyes devoured me, traveling from my flushed face down to my full breasts, lingering on the soft curve of my belly, the generous width of my hips, the thickness of my thighs. Where I saw flaws, his gaze found worship. His hands followed the path his eyes had blazed, palms cupping the underside of my breasts with measured weight, thumbs brushing across hardened nipples, drawing a gasp from my lips.

"Beautiful," he murmured, voice nearly breaking on the word, one hand spanning my waist while the other traced patterns up my inner thigh, fingertips dancing along the sensitive skin where my thighs met. "Every inch. Every curve." His palm pressed flat against my stomach, fingers splayed wide across flesh I'd spent years sucking in, hiding under loose clothes. Unlike others who avoided touching this part of me, he seemed drawn to it, caressing my softness like it was something to be treasured rather than hidden.

We were shattered, splintered into pieces like the mirror itself—fragments sharp enough to wound. Yet those shards captured something raw, unguarded. Perhaps our beauty existed precisely in our jagged imperfection.

His body radiated threat more than warmth against my back as I watched in the glass how his hands trailed up my thighs. Fingertips scorched paths across my skin—deliberate and possessive. Every nerve ending ignited despite my mind's conflict. Breath caught as his hardness pressed against me, the scent of fresh bandages and metal mingling into something dangerously intoxicating. When he finally pushed between my folds, my knees nearly buckled as he worked me, thick fingers stroking my entrance before sliding deeper, stretching me while his thumb circled my clit.

My thighs quivered as he manipulated my body, knowing exactly how to touch me. My pulse raced while his remained steady, the contrast a reminder of what he was. My hands reached back desperately, nails digging into his thighs for support as pleasure built inside me, coiling tighter with each thrust of his fingers.

Without warning, he withdrew his hand, leaving me aching and empty. His palm moved to my neck, fingers wrapping with controlled pressure. He bent me forward at the waist, forcing my gaze toward our fragmented image.

"Don't look away." The command was devoid of emotion as he kicked my legs further apart.

The thick head of his cock pressed against my soaked entrance, my body already dripping for him. He entered with one savage thrust, burying to the hilt, filling me completely, walls stretching painfully around his girth. My gasp echoed through the room, the brutal invasion stealing my breath. His grip remained firm on my neck, ensuring I couldn't turn from the reflection.

"See what I see," he ordered, beginning to move with punishing force, each stroke bottoming out against my cervix. One hand gripped my hip, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drove deeper, harder. "Watch yourself take my cock."

The mirror showed everything— y thighs spread wide, the obscene rhythm reflected back. V's imposing form dominated behind me, his masked face revealing nothing but those empty eyes watching me watch us.

"V—" His name escaped my throat as my hips instinctively pushed back against him, seeking more of this devastating fullness despite the edge of pain.

"That's it," he instructed, pace quickening to a punishing rhythm as he slammed harder, wet sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room. The slap of skin against skin grew louder, more frantic. His hand slid from my hip, fingers finding my swollen clit. He rubbed ruthlessly, pressure exactly right to make vision blur. "You're going to come for me. Now."

My release crashed through me with violent force, muscles clenching around his thick shaft as waves of pleasure surged outward. My body convulsed, but his grip on my neck ensured I kept watching my own undoing, forced to witness my surrender. Walls spasmed uncontrollably as wetness gushed around his cock. V's arm locked around my waist, keeping me upright asmy knees gave out, his rhythm never faltering as he continued claiming me through my orgasm.

Before I could recover, he lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed. His touch was careful, mindful of his injuries as he laid me down against the sheets. I instinctively tried to cover myself, arms crossing over my chest, legs pressing together to hide the fullness of my thighs.

"Don't." His voice was gentle but firm as he caught my wrists. "I want to see you. All of you."

The vulnerability of being spread out before him, every roll and dimple exposed under the harsh bedroom light, made my chest ache with old shame. "Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for. Permission to hide? The mercy of darkness?

"The doctors," I said suddenly, words spilling out before I could stop them, "they always say I'm too big. That I need to lose weight to be healthy. To be normal." The confession burned my throat. "You're the first one who ever looked without flinching, and I don't know how to believe that yet."

V went utterly still, something deadly flashing behind his eyes. His hands moved to my thighs, gently but inexorably parting them, exposing all of me to his gaze. I couldn't breathe as his palms slid up the softness of my legs.

"Fuck them," he said, the curse sounding like a sacred vow from his lips. "Fuck all of them." His hands curved around my hips, gripping the fullness there with unmistakable reverence. "This is mine now. Every inch. Every curve." His voice thickened. "Every piece they made you hate."

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes, tracking hot paths into my hair. He leaned down, one hand coming up to brush them away with devastating tenderness.

"May I?" he asked, the question so foreign from his lips that it made my heart stutter. The enforcer who took whatever he wanted was asking permission. Waiting for my consent.

I nodded, unable to find words as he positioned himself between my thighs. He knelt there, his powerful thighs spreading mine wider, his hands gripping my hips and lifting them slightly off the mattress. The position left me completely open to him, vulnerable in a way that should have terrified me but, instead, made heat pool low in my belly. He held himself above me with one arm braced beside my head, his other hand guiding himself to my entrance as he pressed forward, entering me with a slowness that bordered on torture. The stretch of accommodating him was exquisite—familiar yet always overwhelming.

"I'll stop anytime," he promised, his voice raw with sincerity. "I won’t ever take your choice again, Oakley."

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