Page 53 of Sins of the Hidden

Against his hand, my hips bucked wildly, inner walls gripping at nothing as I ground against him. Hot, slick arousal flooded between my thighs, coating his fingers.

I shattered under his control, chasing every final wave of pleasure.

His body jerked beneath me, turning rigid. His arms locked around me like a cage, and I didn't try to escape. Through the mask, his scorching breath bathed my neck in damp heat. From deep in his chest came a sound—half-groan, half-growl—primitive and unfiltered, vibrating through me. Raw animal satisfaction reverberated from his body into mine, his heartbeat hammering against my ribs like it wanted to tear through bone and claim that too.

The moment held—too long, too full—like the world had stepped out of the room and shut the door. Our bodies gradually stilled but remained locked together. The frantic rhythm of our breathing was the only movement, the rise and fall of our chests in chaotic counterpoint. Seconds stretched to minutes as weremained frozen in that tableau of shared pleasure, neither of us ready to break the spell by moving away.

I collapsed against his solid form, forehead resting on his shoulder. Turning my head, I sought cooler air for burning lungs, every inch of skin hypersensitive and glistening with sweat. Our bodies stuck together with moisture, the salt-musk scent of sex hanging heavy around us despite clothing still in place. The scent of him clung to my thighs. V combed my hair with unexpected gentleness, fingers working through tangled strands.

Time suspended as we remained interlocked, neither of us willing to break the fragile peace that settled between predator and prey. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest gradually slowed under mine. The same hand that pinned me down now mapped my spine with tenderness I didn't know how to refuse. That contradiction pulsed beneath my ribs, short-circuiting my senses.

His scarred knuckles trembled slightly as they traced the curve of my collarbone. He'd adjusted me in his lap, turning me slightly sideways so my back rested against his arm, my legs still draped across his thighs. I remained in the cradle of his body, but now positioned so he could study my face. When his palm encompassed my throat, fingers easily encircling it, my breath snagged in my chest, not from fear but from the exhilaration of recognizing he could obliterate me in seconds yet chose worship instead.

I'd need a new strategy tomorrow. This was supposed to be about teaching V, not losing myself in whatever this was between us. But as his eyes held mine, I wasn't sure whose lesson this was anymore.

Fingers capable of snapping bones traced feather-light circles along my spine, the contradiction sending electric jolts straight to my core. As his thumb traced my jawline, Iconfronted the terrifying truth that part of me already craved his darkness like an addiction taking hold.

His eyes, still fathomless and unreadable, held mine captive as his mask-covered lips pressed against my forehead in a gesture so gentle it brought unexpected tears to my eyes. He'd maimed men without blinking. Now he held me like I might break, something precious worth protecting rather than destroying.

And God help me, I let him.

Sunlight sliced through the gap in my curtains, painting golden stripes across the bedsheets and illuminating dust motes that danced in the morning air. The leather lay heavy across my body, warming my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.

My fingertips traced V's cut, lingering over each faded patch and rough stitch. The material was scored with minute abrasions and knife marks—a violent history etched into its surface. I caught on a darker patch near the collar, tacky and stiff. Blood. Not fresh, but not cleaned either. The leather's texture contrasted sharply with the smooth cotton sheets beneath me, its weight creating indentations in my thighs that matched the pattern of the worn seams.

My mind drifted to last night on the couch. I remembered slumping against his chest, his calloused fingers methodically combing through my hair with unexpected patience. The pressure of his lips through the mask against my forehead, an unexpected gesture that made my breath catch. His weight settled between my thighs, the bruising grip as he held me inplace. After that—nothing. He must have carried me to bed and left his cut over me.

Each time I woke up wrapped in his scent, I found myself less disturbed by it. My heart raced as I wondered what it meant that I was hoping that I would wake with it on me.

Moving brought winces as tender spots along my hips protested. Pulling back the covers revealed shadows of fingerprints marking my flesh—five distinct bruises on each hip, a perfect match to his hands. The morning light cast an amber glow across the marks, transforming them from purple-blue to a golden-tinged violet.

A burning smell invaded my senses, jolting me fully awake. The bedside clock read barely eight AM when I looked up. The bedroom door swung open with a creak, releasing a wave of thick, pungent smoke that rolled across the ceiling like storm clouds. V emerged through the gray haze, tray in hand, his broad silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the billowing smoke behind him. Charred pancakes and bright strawberries with stems still attached sat atop the tray while behind him, dense smoke continued to pour from the kitchen.

Smoke. Fire. Here?

He lifted up a plate, completely ignoring the disaster behind him. "Breakfast."

I coughed, leaping from bed as his cut fell to the floor with a soft thud. "Did you catch my kitchen on fire?"

He looked at the tray in his hands, then back at me, dark eyes unreadable above his mask—not guilty or apologetic, just observing my reaction. He shrugged, massive shoulders lifting beneath his long-sleeved black T-shirt straining across his chest. "I put it out."

Pushing past him, my shoulder barely reached his chest as I squeezed through the doorway. The scent of leather and smoke clung to his skin as I passed by. Approaching the kitchen, thesmoke grew denser, stinging my eyes and coating my tongue with an ashy film.

My kitchen—my sanctuary—stood destroyed.

Black residue coated every surface. The once-white walls were now streaked with soot. Basic cabinet knobs had cracked in the heat, pieces fallen away. The laminate countertop felt gritty beneath my fingers.

Opening the oven door released a cloud of toxic smoke that engulfed me. I doubled over, coughing violently, vision blurring. V's hand landed between my shoulder blades, shoving me aside with casual strength. The force sent me stumbling sideways. He slammed the oven door shut with enough force to rattle the hinges.

Something inside me collapsed—each blackened surface represented my carefully built freedom, now reduced to smoldering ruins. Today was my baking day with orders I couldn't afford to lose: Mrs. Henderson's wedding anniversary cake, the Millers' custom birthday cookies, and the monthly pastry order for Diamond Java. Equipment wasn't just lost; my independence was crumbling to ash beneath my fingertips.

Wetness blurred my vision, tracking silently through fine soot. The room tilted slightly as I fought to breathe through the panic, nails digging into the charred wood counter edge.

"How am I supposed to get anything done?" The words emerged higher than intended, tight and strained. "I have orders due."

A cabinet revealed only melted measuring cups twisted into grotesque shapes. I'd refused my father's money a dozen times over the years, determined to build something wholly mine. Independence had been my shield, proof that I could stand on my own.

And now, in one morning, it was gone.

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