Page 56 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

“There she is,” he murmurs, satisfaction threading every word as he finally begins to fight back.

We move across the mat in a brutal ballet, neither of us holding back now.

Z's size and strength are matched by my speed and desperation.

Sweat clings to my skin, my breathing growing ragged as we circle and strike.

For these precious moments, there is only the fight—no Collector, no impossible deadline, no tortured loved ones.

Just the clean, clarifying violence of bodies in motion.

Z catches my wrist as I aim for his throat, using my momentum to spin me against his chest. His arm locks around my waist, pinning me against him.

“Better, but still not your best.”

I drive my heel into his instep, simultaneously throwing my head back. The crack of my skull connecting with his jaw is satisfying, as is his grunt of pain when he releases me. I whirl to face him, dropping into a fighting stance.

Z wipes blood from his split lip, a menacing smile spreading across his face. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

We clash again, the tempo increasing with each exchange. Z lands a blow to my ribs that steals my breath, but I counter with a sweep that nearly takes his legs from under him. The physical pain is almost welcome, a sharp, clean contrast to the emotional agony that's been consuming me.

When he catches me in another hold, I don't fight it immediately. Instead, I let my body go slack for just a second, feeling his grip loosen in response before I explode into motion, bursting free and landing a solid hit to his solar plexus.

Z doubles over. “Nice shot,” he wheezes, a glint of pride on his face.

I don't give him time to recover. I lunge forward, using my momentum to drive him backward.

We tumble together, his back hitting the mat with a satisfying thud as I follow him down.

My thighs clamp around his waist, pinning his hips while I capture his wrists, pressing them to the mat above his head.

“Yield,” I demand, my chest heaving with exertion.

Z stares up at me, something shifting in his expression. The playful challenge transforms into something more primal.

Before I can process what's happening, he surges upward, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that's nothing like the careful, measured touches he's been giving me since we found out Alex was alive.

I freeze for a heartbeat, shock slicing through me. Then something breaks open in my chest, and I’m kissing him back just as fierce, just as desperate. My grip on his wrists loosens, fingers sliding into his hair, yanking him closer.

His hands seize my hips, rough and unyielding, dragging me against him with bruising intent.

The kiss is blood and salt, his split lip, my bitten tongue, sweat beading on overheated skin. It’s messy, violent, and exactly what I need. For the first time since that hellish meeting with my grandfather, I feel something other than fear—desire, raw and consuming, burning everything else to ash.

Z rolls us, reversing our positions in one smooth motion. He settles between my thighs, his mouth trailing from my lips to my jaw, down the column of my throat, leaving a smoldering ache in his wake.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my pulse, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “If this isn’t what you want, say it.”

I answer by dragging his mouth back to mine, my legs wrapping around his waist to erase the space between us. There’s no gentleness here, no room for guilt or grief, just the desperate hunger to feel alive again.

His fingers slide beneath my shirt, palms hot as they skim up my ribs. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, I arch into him, a sound tearing from my throat, part moan, part sob, all need.

“I need this,” I gasp against his mouth. “I need to feel something that isn’t?—”

Z snaps, his restraint fracturing. He grabs my shirt by the collar and yanks, ripping it straight down the middle in one vicious tear.

Before I can react, his fingers hook beneath the band of my bra and wrench it apart, the clasp giving way under the force.

Cool air rushes over my bare skin, nipples tightening instantly as he tosses it aside.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his gaze hungry. “Look at you.”

His hands find my breasts, rough and greedy, kneading with a firm rhythm, thumbs circling my nipples until I’m writhing beneath him.

Then his mouth replaces his touch, latching onto one hardened peak.

I cry out, back arching off the mat as his teeth graze sensitive flesh, the sting of it sharpening everything, grounding me with need.

“Mark me,” I plead, yanking him closer. “Make me feel it.”

He utters a low curse against my skin, then bites down just hard enough to steal my breath before soothing the sting with a slow flick of his tongue. One hand moves to my other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers, pressure delicious and deliberate, claiming .

“Like this?” he asks, his voice a graveled rasp as he sucks a bruise onto the swell of my breast.

“Yes,” I gasp, arching into the sweet pain of his mouth. “Don't stop.”

Z trails bites and kisses down my stomach as his hands work at my jeans. He tears open the button with impatient fingers, yanking the denim down my legs with such force I hear a seam rip. I kick off my shoes to help him, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

When I'm left in only my underwear, Z pauses, rising to his knees to stare down at me. His chest heaves with each breath, his split lip bleeding again from our kisses.

“Your turn,” I demand, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

He pulls it off in one smooth motion, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso. The familiar sight of his tattoos sparks a rush of heat low in my belly. My fingers trace the lines of ink, following them down to the waistband of his sweatpants where his arousal strains against the fabric.

Z hisses when I palm him through the thin material. “Careful, moya koroleva,” he warns, voice strained. “I'm barely holding on as it is.”

“Then don't hold on,” I challenge, hooking my fingers into his waistband and dragging them down along with his boxer briefs. His cock springs free, hard and flushed against his stomach, the sight making my mouth water with want.

Z kicks the clothing away impatiently, now gloriously naked above me.

His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding the damp cotton of my underwear.

He pushes the fabric aside and strokes through my folds.

The calluses on his fingertips create a delicious friction that has me arching off the mat. “I need to taste you.”

Before I can respond, he's tearing my underwear off with a sharp rip of fabric. His broad shoulders push my thighs wider as he settles between them, his hot breath hitting my core in a way that makes me shiver with anticipation.

“Please,” I gasp, beyond pride or patience.

Z's eyes flash as he looks up at me from between my legs. “Since you asked so nicely.”

The first stroke of his tongue nearly unravels me. He groans against me, the vibration rippling through my core as he devours me with relentless focus. His grip on my thighs is unforgiving, holding me steady as I writhe beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Z, fuck.” My words dissolve into incoherent sounds as he slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.

His tongue circles my clit with merciless precision, alternating between broad strokes and targeted flicks that have me climbing rapidly toward release.

“You’re close, moyo koroleva, aren’t you?”

I nod, unable to form words as pleasure builds inside me like a gathering storm. His fingers curl deeper, finding that spot while his mouth works relentlessly against my most sensitive flesh. The pressure builds and builds until I'm balancing on the knife's edge of release.

Suddenly, he pulls away, withdrawing his fingers and mouth just as I teeter on the precipice. My body jerks in protest, a desperate whimper tearing from my throat.

“What are you—” I gasp, trying to pull him back.

Z hovers above me, keeping just enough distance that I can't find the friction I desperately need. "Not yet. I want you to be desperate first.”

His fingers return, circling my entrance with maddening lightness, never quite giving me what I need. “Z, please,” I beg, writhing beneath him, trying to force his touch where I need it most.

“Patience,” he admonishes, lowering his head to capture my nipple between his teeth. The sharp sensation makes me cry out, my back arching off the mat.

He builds me up again with devastating skill, fingers and tongue working in tandem until I'm once more teetering on the edge. My thighs begin to tremble, my breath coming in short, desperate pants, and then he stops again, leaving me empty and aching.

“Goddamn it!” I slam my fist against the mat in frustration. “Stop teasing me!”

Z looms over me, his expression shifting with primal satisfaction. “You wanted to feel something else,” he reminds me, his fingers trailing up my inner thigh with feather-light pressure. “This is what you’re feeling instead. Need. Want. Desire. Desperation.”

I hook my leg around his waist, using the leverage to flip us as I straddle him, pinning him to the mat as I position myself above his straining cock.

“My turn,” I growl, sinking down onto him in one fluid motion.

The sensation of him filling me is exquisite, a breathtaking blend of pleasure and pain that wipes every other thought from my mind.

For this moment, there’s no Collector, no impossible mission, no countdown ticking away the hours.

There is only this. Z’s powerful body beneath mine, the delicious stretch of him inside me, the way his fingers grip my hips with bruising force, grounding me in something raw and real.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his head thrown back as I begin to move. “Vesper?—”