Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 713

Chapter 713: Ms. Chen’s Soup of Worry

As if they hadn’t just fucked!

Peter tightened his hold, his hand sliding lower without thinking, palm cupping the swell of her ass through the thin shorts, fingers pressing into the impossibly soft, giving flesh—warm, plush, the body of the woman who had carried him, raised him, now trembling in his arms with raw, aching need.

The taboo heat of it surged through him—the wrongness of how perfectly she fit against him, how her breath hitched when his fingers flexed, how her nipples hardened against his chest.

"Don’t," she breathed when he started to apologize, pulling back just enough to look up at him—lips parted and wet, eyes dark with something far beyond simple relief.

"Don’t apologize. Just—" Her voice cracked, her hand sliding up his chest to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip with a touch that lingered too long, too intimate. "Just let me hold you. Let me feel you."

So, he did.

He stood there in the morning sun, holding his mother while her body melted against his, soft curves molding to hard muscle, her quiet tears soaking his shirt as her hips shifted in tiny, helpless circles—seeking pressure, seeking proof.

Her breath came faster against his neck, warm and damp, each exhale a soft moan she couldn’t quite swallow.

His hand stayed low on her back, fingers tracing the edge where cotton met bare skin, brushing the warm, silky curve just above her shorts—feeling her shiver, feeling her press closer, the unspoken hunger crackling between them like static before a storm.

"Ms. Chen called again this morning," she said eventually, voice husky and unsteady, still pressed against him, her fingers now stroking slow circles on his chest. "She calls every day. Sometimes twice. I think once she called just to hear me say your name."

Peter exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the way her body heat was making his pulse thunder, the way her scent was wrapping around him like a drug. "Yeah. I know. I’m going there now."

Linda nodded against him, her lips brushing his collarbone in a way that was definitely not accidental. "She’s not doing well, Peter. Tommy told me she barely sleeps. Just sits up at night listening for the door, waiting to hear him come home. Like if she stays awake, she can protect him with sheer willpower."

"But Tommy’s fine," he said gently, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle on her lower back—dangerously close to the swell of her ass.

"Doesn’t matter," she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes—hers dark, glassy, lips swollen from biting them. "In her head, you’re her son’s other half. You got shot. So now the universe feels unsafe. And she’s spiraling."

Yeah. That tracked. Fear didn’t do math. And neither did desire—the kind that made mothers cling too tight, press too close, breathe too deep when their sons came home alive.

"I’ll go see her," he said, voice low. "Let her see I’m still breathing. Maybe that’ll help reset her brain a little."

"Thank you." Linda cupped his face again, both palms warm against his cheeks, thumbs stroking slow and deliberate along his jaw, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a heartbeat too long. "You’re a good boy, Peter Carter. Even when you’re stubborn. Even when you scare the hell out of me... and make me feel things I shouldn’t."

He smiled, soft and tired—but his eyes darkened, holding hers with unspoken heat. "Learned from the best."

She laughed—a watery, breathless sound that turned into something closer to a sigh when his hands flexed on her waist. She rose on her toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead that drifted dangerously close to the corner of his mouth, her body arching into his one last time before stepping back.

"Go," she whispered, voice trembling with everything she wasn’t saying. "Before she calls again and I have to promise her for the hundredth time that you’re not secretly bleeding out somewhere... or that I’m not losing my mind wanting you home safe in ways no mother should."

Peter kissed her forehead in return—slow, deliberate, lips lingering on her warm skin—then turned toward the garage, every step heavy with the electric memory of her body pressed against his, the forbidden heat still burning where her curves had molded to him.

The Hunter waited there—black, matte, aggressive, looking less like a vehicle and more like a threat someone forgot to lock up. He swung his leg over it, felt the bike settle under him like it recognized its idiot owner and accepted him anyway.

The engine roared to life, vibrating up through his bones, loud and unapologetic and alive as hell.

The distance between their mansion and Tommy’s was short. Less than a mile.

Close enough that the neighborhood stayed the same flavor of ridiculous—gated, manicured, security cameras everywhere, the kind of place where danger was supposed to be a rumor that happened to other people.

Peter twisted the throttle and felt the Hunter surge forward like it had just been insulted. The acceleration punched every rational thought clean out of his skull, replaced it with noise and vibration and that feral hell yeah feeling motorcycles specialized in.

The engine’s growl bounced off the surrounding mansion walls, loud and aggressive, announcing his arrival like a medieval herald who’d failed anger management and chosen violence anyway.

Tommy’s mansion came into view—three stories of matte-black modernity, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows, looking less like a house and more like a billionaire’s final form. The landscaping was minimal, almost aggressively so, like grass was optional and trees were a distraction.

Dark circles under her eyes that screamed I do not believe in rest anymore. Her hands gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Peter." Her voice broke on his name.

Then she moved—fast and clumsy at the same time—and suddenly she was in his arms, stumbling forward like gravity had decided now.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—really look, like she needed to memorize him, like her brain was taking screenshots for later. Her hands came up, touching his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, checking him over like he might suddenly glitch or fade out.

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