Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 715

Chapter 715: Soup & Something Else 2

His eyes met hers. Held. Dark. Hungry. Unblinking. Something passed between them—raw, electric lust—that she couldn’t name but felt in her bones, in her tightening nipples, in the slow, pulsing wetness between her legs.

"I’m not a boy anymore, Ms. Chen."

The words detonated in the space between them—low, rough, laced with dark promise.

Her hand froze on his. Her breath stopped. Her entire world narrowed to six words and the way he was looking at her—like a man looking at a woman he intended to claim, not like her friend’s son, not like anything safe or appropriate.

And God help her, something in her responded—her pussy clenched harder, a fresh rush of wetness flooding her panties, her clit throbbing in desperate rhythm with her heartbeat. Her nipples peaked painfully against her top, aching for touch, for his mouth, for anything.

She jerked her hand back like his skin had burned her. But her palm still tingled. Still remembered. Still craved.

"No," she whispered, voice trembling, trying to find equilibrium that had shattered the moment his words landed. "I suppose you’re not."

The air had changed—thick, charged, humming with electricity that made every breath feel like foreplay, every heartbeat a throb between her legs.

He picked up his spoon again—gave her space to retreat. But the damage was done. The truth was out there now, hanging between them like smoke—thick with the scent of her arousal, the unspoken promise of what could happen if she stopped pretending.

She couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t pretend she hadn’t felt it. Couldn’t lie to herself about the way her body had reacted—wet, aching, desperate—to one sentence and eye contact that had lasted three seconds too long.

They sat in silence that felt louder than screaming. She twisted her tea cup in circles, trying to ignore the way her thighs pressed together, trying to ease the relentless throb in her clit, failing completely.

"I haven’t been sleeping," she said finally, desperate for safe conversation, voice still husky, betraying her.

She told him about the fear. About the nightmares. About her brain that wouldn’t shut off.

And then he was standing. Moving around the island. Pulling her to her feet before she could protest, his hands warm and strong on her arms.

His arms came around her and she collapsed into them—her body melting against his, soft breasts crushing against hard chest, hips slotting perfectly as if they were made to fit.

The solid length of his cock pressed against her belly, the unmistakable heat of his arousal brushing her lower abdomen, making her gasp softly into his shirt.

This is okay, she told herself as tears came. This is appropriate. This is just comfort.

But he was so solid and giant big. So warm.

He was much taller that she had to tilt her head back to rest against his shoulder—exposing the curve of her throat, her pulse racing beneath thin skin.

And his arms around her felt nothing like safety. Felt like danger wrapped in warmth. Felt like possession.

One hand settled in her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, tugging gently; the other rubbed slow, deliberate circles on her lower back—dangerously low, fingertips brushing the swell of her ass through her thin pants.

She cried into his chest while his touch turned soothing into something else—intimate strokes that made her nipples ache harder, made her pussy clench and weep with fresh wetness.

"I’m so tired," she whispered against his shirt, and it sounded like confession. Like surrender. Like please.

"I know." His voice rumbled through his chest into hers—deep, rough, vibrating straight to her core. "But I’m here."

She pulled back to look at him—needing to see his face, needing to check if what she was feeling was real.

Huge mistake.

His face was inches away. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his darkened eyes, the perfect line of his mouth, lips slightly parted, breath warm against her skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to smell the clean, masculine scent that made her clit throb harder.

Her hands rested on his chest—palms flat over hard muscle, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath, strong and steady and alive. Her fingers curled without permission, nails scraping lightly through his shirt, wanting more skin, wanting everything.

And then they were moving without permission—sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, one hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him fractionally closer as her body arched into his, breasts pressing harder, hips rolling slow and helpless against the growing hardness she could feel against her belly.

The line wasn’t just crossed.

It was obliterated.

Traced the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of emerging stubble rasp against her fingertips, the masculine texture making her pussy clench hard, a fresh rush of wetness soaking deeper into her panties.

And she watched herself do it like she was outside her body, watching a woman caress a man she craved, not the way she touched her son’s friend—watching her own hands explore his beautiful face with raw, aching hunger.

Slowly. Deliberately.

This wasn’t maternal. There was no pretending anymore. No lying to herself about what she was doing or why.

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