Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 737

Chapter 737: Oh, Sable~ (Slow r-18)

Sable had been razor-sharp the entire time, firing questions, negotiating terms like a shark who smelled blood in the water. Professional. Impeccable.

And the whole time I’d been the perfect gentleman.

Hands folded on the conference table. Eye contact polite. Voice calm, measured, charming. Just a slow pulse of my Taboo abilities and Lust Presence. Only that, on a low scale.

She’d relaxed, inch by inch, thinking she’d won the round, while she bathed in my abilities and auras. Thinking the lobby stunt had been the peak of the tension, and now we were just two powerful people doing powerful-people things.

Wrong.

The moment the last document was signed and the assistants cleared the room, I stood, buttoned my jacket, and walked—not to the door—but around the table.

Slow. Deliberate.

Sable looked up from her tablet, that cool, victorious smile still playing on her lips.

"Something else?" she asked, arching a brow.

I didn’t answer with words.

I stopped right beside her chair, close enough that the heat of my body brushed the bare skin of her arm where her sleeve ended. Then I leaned down, one hand braced on the table, the other on the back of her chair—caging her without touching her.

Her breath caught. Just once.

"You had your fun downstairs," I murmured, voice low, velvet and steel. "Made me wait. Made me uncomfortable."

My fingers drifted—not to her skin, not yet—just above the inside of her wrist, tracing the air a millimeter from contact. Goosebumps rose instantly.

"Now it’s my turn."

I let my knuckles finally graze her—barely. A ghost of a touch along the sensitive skin of her forearm, up to the crook of her elbow. Slow. Controlled.

Sable’s lips parted. Her eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face, that polished mask cracking at the edges.

"Eros~"

"Shh." My thumb brushed the hollow just beneath her ear, feather-light. "You’ve been thinking about this for months. Every time I walked into a room and looked at you like I could ruin you with a smile. Every time I left you wet and arching and pretending you weren’t."

Another graze—this time along the side of her neck, following the line of her pulse. I could feel it racing.

"I’m not pretending anymore," she said, voice husky, trying for defiance and landing somewhere closer to surrender.

"No," I agreed, lips brushing the shell of her ear, not quite a kiss. "You’re not."

My hand finally settled—palm flat against the center of her chest, just above the neckline of her blouse. Not moving. Just resting there, feeling her heart hammer against my skin.

Her nipples were already hard. Visible through silk.

I smiled.

"This is just the beginning, Sable."

My fingers spread, slow, possessive, thumb tracing the edge of her collarbone—once, twice—then dipping just beneath the fabric. Not enough to expose anything. Just enough to promise everything.

Her thighs pressed together under the table. A tiny, involuntary movement of my fingers, Touch fully on doing it’s magic.

Good.

I pulled back an inch, letting the absence of touch ache more than the touch itself.

"Meeting’s over," I said softly. "But we’re not."

The city sparkled thirty-eight floors below like scattered diamonds on black velvet, but inside the room the only light that mattered was the one catching in Sable’s eyes: dark, defiant, and already slipping.

She stayed seated, fingers pretending to scroll the tablet, but her knuckles were white and her shoulders too rigid.

I didn’t rush.

I was dangerously close. Close enough that my shadow fell over her throat. Close enough that the thick, heavy heat of my cock—already half-hard from the scent of her alone—radiated against the small of her back through two layers of fabric.

She didn’t move. But every fine hair on her nape lifted, as if my breath alone had stroked her.

I let the silence thicken until it was its own kind of touch—heavy, suffocating, electric.

My cock became rock-hard, thick enough that the ridge of it pressed against the seam of my jeans and radiated straight through the back of her chair, a silent, throbbing threat inches from her spine.

She felt it. I watched her spine bow the tiniest fraction, an involuntary arch that offered her throat like tribute.

Every fine hair on her nape stood up, quivering.

I still stood directly behind her chair. Close enough that the thick, heavy heat of my cock (already fully hard, straining against my pants from nothing more than the scent of her perfume and the knowledge of what I was about to do to her) radiated against the small of her back through two layers of fabric.

"Your pulse is hammering so hard I can see it in your throat, Sable," I whispered, voice low and filthy.

"Tell me... is that because you’re terrified a seventeen-year-old is about to make you come in your own boardroom, or because your married cunt is already clenching around nothing, begging for the cock you’ve been fantasizing about since the first time I looked at you like I was going to ruin you for every other man you’ve ever had?"

A broken sound slipped from her lips—half gasp, half moan—raw and feminine and nothing like the ice-queen who’d laughed at me in the lobby.

"Tell me," I breathed, letting my lower lip graze the edge of her ear in the slowest drag imaginable, "when you orchestrated that little lobby stunt, did you picture yourself here? Sitting in your own boardroom, thighs clenched so tight it hurts, dripping into thousand-dollar lace while a seventeen-year-old decides whether or not you deserve to have your married, forty-something pussy absolutely wrecked?"

"Because that’s exactly what’s happening, isn’t it? You’re soaked. I can smell it. Thick, creamy, ready to coat my cock the second I decide to feed it to you."

She turned her head—just enough that our mouths almost, almost brushed. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted on a sound she hadn’t let escape yet.

"You’re very—" Her voice cracked, husky and raw. "Very confident for a boy who still gets carded."

"I am?" My right hand finally descended. One fingertip, nothing more, traced the hollow of her throat, then slid downward in a single, torturous line between her breasts.

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