Page 57 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)
I set a brutal rhythm, using him with single-minded purpose, chasing the high coiling in my gut. He slides his palms up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from my lips. When he pinches, I cry out, my pace stuttering.
Z takes the opening, surging up to claim my mouth in a bruising kiss before flipping us with ease. He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, the shift in angle making every thrust hit harder, each one a jolt of pleasure that ripples through my core and fans the ache blooming in my limbs.
“On your knees,” he rasps.
I obey without hesitation, rolling onto my stomach and pushing up onto all fours. He positions himself behind me, one hand steady on my hip, the other tangling in my hair at the nape of my neck, tugging just enough to arch my spine and bare everything to him.
“This is what you need, isn’t it?” His breath is hot against my ear as he lines himself up. “To lose control. To let someone else take over.”
“Yes,” I gasp, pressing back against him, needy and breathless. “Please.”
He thrusts into me in one hard, claiming stroke that punches the air from my lungs. His grip tightens, holding my head back as he finds a brutal rhythm. Each snap of his hips drives me forward, the mat burning beneath my palms as I scramble for purchase.
Then suddenly, his fist tightens in my hair and yanks me upright against his chest. My back arches sharply, the shift making every stroke feel sharper, fuller. His other arm snakes around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make my pulse hammer against his skin.
“Fuck, I can feel you quivering around my cock. You like this, don’t you?”
I can't answer, can barely breathe as his fingers tighten just enough to restrict my airflow without cutting it off completely.
The edges of my vision begin to blur, spots dancing at the periphery as oxygen becomes precious.
The sensation is terrifying and exhilarating all at once, complete surrender, complete trust.
“Good girl. I want to feel your body arching for air, trembling under my control…knowing every second that you’re mine.” He thrusts, matching the rhythm of my beating heart. Thud. Thrust. Thud. Thrust. Over and over again.
“You feel that?” he growls, his mouth at my ear, hips relentless. “That helpless little flutter in your chest? That’s mine now. Just like the rest of you.”
My breath stalls—sharp, desperate—his hand a vice of dominance around my throat, and he feels it, groans against my skin like he owns every quiver, every gasp.
Each thrust feels more intense, more consuming, as if Z is claiming not just my body but something more essential.
The pressure in my core builds to an almost unbearable level, my muscles clenching around him as I teeter on the edge.
“Let fucking go, baby.” His voice is rough and filthy in my ear, each word scraping down my spine like a live wire. “Let go of everything, Vesper. The pain, the fear, all that control you cling to…I want it gone. I want you wrecked. Ruined. Mine .”
His hand tightens in my hair, his other gripping my throat, owning every breath, every whimper.
“Don’t hold back. Not tonight,” he snarls, hips snapping into mine. “Scream for me. Shatter for me. Give me every dirty, desperate piece of you.”
His hand releases my throat just enough for me to gasp a desperate breath, and something inside me fractures. The careful control I've maintained since walking into my father's study—since learning my grandfather's identity, since seeing Alex alive—splinters into a thousand sharp-edged pieces.
I scream. The sound tears from my throat, primal and raw, unleashing everything I've been holding back. Z pounds into me mercilessly, giving me exactly what I need—oblivion, release, a moment where I don't have to be strong or calculated or brave.
“That's it. Give me everything. All of it.”
My orgasm rips through me with violent intensity, my body convulsing around him as pleasure blurs everything else.
I’m dimly aware of sobbing his name, of my nails sinking into his forearm hard enough to draw blood.
Z follows with a guttural roar, his hips slamming into mine one last time as he spills inside me.
We collapse together onto the mat, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and ragged breathing. Z's arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest as aftershocks ripple through me.
For several moments, we lie in silence, my breathing gradually slowing to match the steady rise and fall of Z's chest beneath my cheek. The world outside this room seems distant, temporarily held at bay by the sanctuary of his arms.
“Thank you.” My body aches in a dozen different places, each twinge a reminder that I'm still here, still fighting, still alive. “For knowing what I needed even when I didn't.”
He presses his lips to my temple, the gesture unexpectedly tender after everything we’d just done. “I always know what you need, moya koroleva. It's my job.”
“Your job, huh?”
“One of many services I provide,” he replies, a hint of his usual arrogance returning to his voice. His hand moves to my hip, thumb brushing over what will surely become a bruise by morning. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head against his chest. “Not in any way I didn't want.”
His arms tighten around me, something protective in the gesture. "Good."
We should move. Should clean up, return upstairs where Oz is undoubtedly making progress on Alex's files. But I can't bring myself to leave this moment, this brief respite.
Movement overhead interrupts the moment. footsteps crossing the floor above us, then the creak of the basement door opening. Z tenses beneath me, his body instantly alert as the footsteps descend the stairs.
“Z? Vesper?” Talon's voice echoes down the hallway, drawing closer. “You guys good? I heard noises.”
Z shifts me off him with surprising gentleness before calling back. “We're fine. Just working through some tension.” His voice carries that familiar edge of humor.
Talon appears in the doorway, taking in our disheveled state with a raised eyebrow. Torn clothing around us, Z's split lip, the bruises already forming on both our bodies.
“Is that what they are calling it these days?” he smiles. Talon leans against the doorframe, but I catch the subtle way he stares me for signs of genuine distress. “Though you might want to borrow Z's shirt, Vesper. Yours seems to have met with an unfortunate accident.”
I glance down at the tattered remains of my clothing scattered around us and feel the flush rise to my cheeks. Not embarrassment exactly, we're long past that, but awareness of how completely I'd surrendered to the moment.
“Oz sent me to find you.”
The reminder of why we're here, of what's at stake, crashes back like a bucket of ice water. I sit up, wincing slightly as my muscles protest the sudden movement. Z immediately reaches for his discarded shirt, handing it to me with gentle efficiency.
“What did he find?” I ask, pulling the shirt over my head, covering enough to preserve what little modesty I have left.
“We have the blackmail. We have what we need.”