Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 772

Chapter 772: Sinful Silhouettes (r-18)

She led him straight up the stairs, her grip tightening with every step, the white lace robe fluttering like a ghost’s breath, riding higher on her thighs until the lower curve of her ass flashed in the low hallway light—round, perfect, the kind of ass that made men forget their own names.

The robe clung to her body like a jealous lover, sheer enough that the moonlight painted every bruise, every flex, every jiggle in liquid silver.

Her scent trailed behind her—jasmine warmed by sun and skin, the faint metallic tang of her earlier release, and the sharp, unmistakable musk of fresh arousal—thick enough to coat the back of his tongue, to make his cock throb painfully against his jeans.

The third floor was hers alone, a sanctuary that smelled of lavender, clean cotton, and the deeper, warmer note of her body. She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside, pulling him with her into the hush.

The room wrapped around them like a secret. A massive California king dominated the center, white linens crisp and tucked with hospital corners, pillows stacked like she made the bed every morning out of habit and love.

A faint scent of lavender and clean cotton hung in the air, mixed with the warmer, intoxicating note of her skin. A vanity in the corner held neatly arranged perfumes and lotions, bottles lined up like soldiers.

A single framed photo on the nightstand—her and a very younger version of Charlotte, her small arms around a teenage boy who had to be her son—smiled out at the room, the only witness to what was about to happen.

Peter knew and did not ask anything about the person in the photo.

On the bed, folded with care, sat today’s lingerie: a black lace bra and matching thong, laid out like she’d been deciding what to wear tomorrow, the fabric still holding the faint warmth of her body, the faint scent of her arousal clinging to the lace. She saw him notice and flushed, a soft, embarrassed laugh escaping her as she scooped them up and tossed them into a drawer.

"Sorry," she murmured, closing it with a soft click. "Didn’t expect company."

"The best kind of memorable nights are like that, Margret." She laughed at that.

Then she turned to the mirrored walk-in closet—floor-to-ceiling glass doors, frosted just enough to blur the edges—and stepped inside. She didn’t close them fully. Left them cracked, the light from within spilling out in a warm, golden blade across the carpet, painting the room in honey and shadow.

And she began to undress.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The light behind her turned her into a shadow play of pure sin, every movement amplified by the glass, every curve etched in fire.

Her silhouette moved slow, deliberate, a shadow carved from midnight and hunger. Hands rose to the silk tie of her robe—fingers trembling just enough to betray the storm inside her.

The lace satin whispered as it loosened, a soft hiss like breath held too long, then the fabric slid off her shoulders in a liquid glide. It pooled at her feet with a sigh so intimate it felt like the room itself exhaled.

She stood bare from the waist up now, skin kissed by the low amber glow of the single lamp. The bra came next—black lace, delicate, almost ceremonial.

Fingers reached behind her back, unhooking with a tiny snap that cracked through the hush like the first thunder of a storm. The straps slipped down her arms; she let them fall slow, teasing, the cups peeling away from her breasts with reluctant drag, as though the lace itself mourned the separation.

Her breasts spilled free—medium small, perfect, motherly in the most devastating way. Full enough to overflow a palm, soft enough to sway with every breath, the faint silver threads of stretch marks shimmering like moonlight on water.

Nipples dark and already cruelly tight, standing proud, flushed deep wine-red, begging without words.

The curves carried the memory of Miami—that morning. Now they burned behind his eyes again, hotter, sharper, etched in fire.

She cupped them immediately—slow, reverent, palms cradling the weight like an offering. Thumbs brushed the peaks once, twice, then circled in lazy, tormenting spirals. Her head fell back, throat exposed, a long shuddering breath escaping her lips—raw, needy, almost a sob. The sound curled through the quiet room and settled low in his gut.

Her fingers tightened. Squeezed. Lifted the soft flesh high, letting it spill between her knuckles, then released so the gentle bounce made her gasp. She pinched her nipples—hard, vicious little twists that dragged a sharp, desperate cry from her throat.

Now those same hands claimed it back—for pleasure, for sin, for him. She dragged her nails lightly over the sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh, then flattened her palms and pushed downward, following the inward curve to the flare of her hips.

She swayed—slow, obscene, hips rolling in a deep, filthy rhythm that belonged in dark clubs and darker bedrooms. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

Her ass flexed under the lamplight—round, full, plush—cheeks parting just enough on each sway to hint at the shadowed cleft between them. Fingers dug into her own flesh—gripping hard, kneading, spreading herself open a fraction before releasing. The motion made her breasts bounce again, nipples tracing tight little arcs in the air.

One hand slipped between her thighs—not touching yet, just hovering, letting the heat radiate against her palm. The other kept kneading her ass, pulling one cheek aside so the lamplight caught the glistening trail already making its slow way down the inside of her thigh.

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