Page 166 of Sins of the Hidden

I believed him. My fingers grazed the edge of his mask, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath.

He began to move inside me. Each thrust deliberate, measured, controlled. His hands traveled my body as though mapping sacred ground. His fingertips awakened nerve endings I'd forgotten existed, each brush leaving trails of electricity in their wake.

"Look," he commanded softly, turning my gaze toward the shattered mirror across the room. In its broken surface, I saw us, his powerful form kneeling between my spread thighs, his imposing frame hovering over my softer one, his strength emphasizing my curves rather than diminishing them. "See how perfectly you take me. How beautiful we are together."

His rhythm built slowly, each thrust deeper than the last. He shifted my hips higher, angling my body to meet his, one hand gripping my thigh to maintain the position while the other braced beside my head. His broad chest pressed against mysoftness when he leaned down, his heartbeat thundered against mine. I curled my fingers into the sheets, legs wrapped around his waist, desperate for an anchor as pleasure built in waves that threatened to drown me. His breathing changed when he found that perfect angle—becoming deeper, raspier, betraying how close he was to losing control.

"I love these," he murmured, his fingers trailing reverently over the stretch marks on my hips, silvery lines I'd spent years despising. He traced each one deliberately, lips pressing through his mask against my skin as he followed their delicate paths across my flesh.

He shifted down my body, his masked face hovering over my stomach. His eyes met mine, cold and assessing, as he deliberately lowered his face to my belly. I felt the firm pressure of his mask, then the heat of his breath through the fabric as he pressed his mouth along each silvery streak. His large hands splayed across my hips, fingers digging possessively into the flesh as he moved lower, his masked mouth dragging across the stretch marks that decorated my thighs. Each touch against these marks I'd hidden for so long made me shiver with contradictory emotions—shame and arousal tangling together in my core.

"Mine," he whispered against my inner thigh, his breath hot against the sensitive skin there. "Every mark. Every line." He moved, claiming each stretch mark as if cataloging territory, his hands gripping the softness of my legs, thumbs pressing along the silver streaks with unmistakable possession.

His palm curved around the fullness of my breast when he moved back up my body, weighing its heaviness with appreciation, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak until it hardened beneath his touch. His other hand followed the generous curve of my waist to my hip, gripping the soft fleshthere with worship disguised as grip. "Every inch of you tells a story I want to memorize."

He lowered himself again, breath warm against my stomach as he pressed his masked face to the softest part of me, the part I'd spent a lifetime trying to hide. His hands curved around to cup my backside, fingers kneading the flesh there with unmistakable hunger as he held me against him. His touch wasn't tentative or apologetic—it was deliberate, a man claiming territory he found beautiful precisely because others had deemed it flawed.

My eyes stung with tears. Not from pain or shame, but from the unbearable tenderness of being truly seen—perhaps for the first time. He wasn't just accepting my body. He was celebrating it. Worshipping it. Finding beauty in the very things I'd been taught to hate. His hands moved with purpose, not avoiding the fullness of my thighs or the softness of my belly, but seeking them out, fingers pressing into flesh as if trying to reach something deeper than skin.

I arched against him, my body instinctively seeking more. His palm splayed across my stomach, steadying me as he thrusted back into me. The weight of him against me—solid, warm, inescapable—kept me grounded in this moment of transcendent vulnerability.

His words broke something open inside me—a dam of shame built over decades, reinforced by every sideways glance, every doctor's comment, every outfit that wouldn't fit. Tears streamed down my face as pleasure crested higher, each thrust countering the lies I'd been told about my value.

"Your body is a miracle," he stated, something fierce flashing in his eyes. "Anyone who made you think differently deserves to die."

Fingers found the nerves that ruled me. His movements synchronized perfectly with each thrust, building sensation thatleft me gasping. I couldn't look away from our reflection—my fuller figure glowing with pleasure, his powerful frame treating me like something precious, worthy, beautiful.

"Do you see?" he asked, voice roughening. "How perfect you are? How you deserve this devotion?" His grip tightened on my hip, thumb tracing a stretch mark with solemn attention. "Your body deserves adoration, not shame." He bent down and pressed his masked lips to the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered wildly. "I'm the only one who sees you clearly," he murmured. "The only one who knows how to love every inch of you."

The word 'love' from his lips—even twisted through his definition—fractured something fundamental in my chest. I had spent my life believing bodies like mine weren't deserving of passion, of desire, of reverent touch. Yet here was this dangerous man, treating my flesh like sacred text, finding glory in the curves and valleys I'd been taught to despise.

"I-I've spent my whole life hating this body," I confessed, voice breaking.

Something like fury flashed behind his eyes, but his touch remained exquisitely gentle. "Never again," he vowed, each word punctuated by a deep thrust that seemed to reach the very core of me. "Never small. Never invisible. Never ashamed." His hands splayed wide across my stomach, my hips, my thighs, touching everywhere, refusing to let me hide. "You're not something to fix. You're something I've killed for."

His rhythm gradually slowed until he pulled out completely, leaving me empty and aching. He stood from the bed, his movements fluid and controlled despite his earlier injuries.

"Get up," he ordered, voice flat once more.

I rose on shaky legs, body still thrumming with need. He sat on the edge of the bed, mask perfectly in place, his cock rigid against his abdomen.

"Come here," he commanded.

My body moved toward him, drawn by something darker than desire. When I reached him, his hands gripped my hips, turning me so my back faced him. He positioned me to straddle his lap facing away—toward the webbed glass.

"Sit," he instructed coldly.

I lowered myself onto him, guiding his thickness to my entrance. His powerful thighs spread beneath mine, forcing my legs wider as he positioned me. The angle opened me completely, allowing him to penetrate deeper than before. A gasp tore from my lips as I sank down, taking him inch by inch until he filled me completely, stretching painfully around his girth.

"Look," he commanded, palm at my throat—not squeezing, but forcing my face toward the mirror. "See how you’re spread for me."

The glass captured everything—thighs locked open by his, his cock disappearing inside my swollen folds only to reappear slick with each movement, the contrast of his powerful hands against my softer skin. Every detail of our joining reflected back, impossible to ignore. His other hand moved to my breast, pinching the nipple with calculated pressure that sent jolts straight to my core.

"Move," he ordered, voice emotionless even as he throbbed inside me.

I began to rise and fall on his shaft, watching my body accept him again and again. My rhythm proved too tentative for his liking. His grip shifted beneath my thighs, lifting and spreading me wider than I thought possible. The position left me completely exposed, unable to control pace or depth as he thrust upward with increasing intensity.

His grip was iron beneath my thighs, holding me open as he drove into me relentlessly. The pressure built at the base of myspine with each forceful movement, his thickness hitting places deep inside that made my vision blur. I couldn't move, couldn't escape the onslaught of sensation as he claimed me with ruthless determination.

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