Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 777

Chapter 777: Margaret’s Liberation (r-18)

I carried her from the closet like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapped around my waist, her arms clinging to my neck, her face buried in my shoulder as if she could hide from what she’d just done—what we were about to do.

The walk to the bed was only ten steps, but it felt like crossing a threshold into another life.

The moonlight followed us through the open door, bathing us in its glow as it spilled across the white sheets like liquid silver, turning the room into a cathedral of forbidden devotion.

I laid her down in the center of the bed, slow, reverent, like she was something sacred and breakable and mine. She sank into the mattress with a soft sigh, the sheets cool against her overheated skin, her blonde hair fanning out around her head like a halo she no longer deserved.

Her eyes—those ice-blue eyes that had once commanded boardrooms—were soft now, wide, trusting, in love.

I stood at the foot of the bed and let her look.

Let her see what she’d done to me.

I unbuttoned my shirt, one button at a time, slow enough for her breath to hitch with every click. The fabric parted. Her gaze dropped to my chest, my abs, the V that disappeared beneath my belt. Her lips parted. A soft, needy sound escaped her.

I unbuckled my belt. The leather whispered free. I let my jeans fall. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

And my cock sprang free.

Giant. Veined. Beautiful in the way only something made for ruin can be.

The shaft was thick, flushed dark with blood, veins roping along its length like rivers of fire. The head was swollen, glistening with precome that caught the moonlight and shimmered. It curved slightly upward, heavy, proud, perfect.

Margaret gasped—a sharp, broken sound that cracked in the middle. Her hand flew to her mouth, then fell away, trembling.

"Jesus Christ, Peter..." Her voice was wrecked, awed, hungry. "That’s... that’s not... you can’t be real."

I smiled. Slow. Loving.

"I’m real, Margaret." I crawled onto the bed, over her, caging her beneath me. "And all yours."

She reached for me—hesitant, reverent—her fingers wrapping around my cock, barely able to close. She stroked once, slow, her thumb brushing the head, smearing precome in a glistening trail. Her breath shuddered out of her.

I kissed her—soft, deep, slow. Tongue sliding against hers, tasting her love, her guilt, her surrender. She moaned into my mouth, the sound sweet, devoted, eternal.

I moved lower. Kissed her throat—slow, worshipful, tongue tracing the bruises I’d left, the ones from before, the ones that said mine. Down her collarbone. Between her breasts. I took one nipple into my mouth—gentle, loving, sucking until she arched, until her fingers tangled in my hair and pulled me closer.

I kissed every inch of her—every bruise, every stretch mark, every scar. Treated them like holy relics. Because they were.

When I reached her pussy, I didn’t dive in. I worshipped—because Peter, the god who could reduce empresses to quivering supplicants with nothing but the heat of his breath, never rushes the sacred. I savor. I unveil. I make divinity ache.

I knelt between her wide-spread thighs like a high priest before the living altar of creation.

Her legs were already shaking violently—inner thighs flexing and twitching in helpless spasms every time the warm ghost of my exhale brushed her soaked folds. The air between us was thick with her scent: hot, musky honey, the faint metallic tang of earlier fucking, the sweet-sharp flood of fresh arousal that dripped in slow, obscene strings from her entrance to the sheets.

I started high. Lips first—soft, deliberate—pressing open-mouthed kisses to the fevered, trembling skin just above her clit. That tender mound was still flushed crimson from the ruin I’d already inflicted, swollen and glossy with sweat.

I let my tongue slip out—slow, languid—lapping up the salty sheen that had gathered in the delicate crease, tasting the pure essence of her desperation. She arched—spine bowing sharply off the silk, tits thrusting upward, nipples tight and dark as berries, a broken, keening whimper tearing from her throat.

"Peter... oh gods..."

Her hips jerked upward—greedy, involuntary—chasing my mouth like a moth to flame.

I pinned her gently but unyieldingly: one wide palm flat on her lower belly, fingers splayed possessively, thumb resting just above her pubic bone, so she felt the weight of my control. Still. Open. Mine.

Her pussy was obscene in its perfection—a revelation carved from sin. Outer lips swollen dark rose and peeled back like overripe fruit, revealing the slick, deeper pink inner petals that fluttered with every heartbeat.

Her clit stood proud—fat, glossy, throbbing visibly, the hood retracted so the tiny, engorged pearl protruded shamelessly, begging to be crushed, sucked, devoured.

"Peter—please—fuck—please—"

One long, slow, devout lick—from the dripping entrance all the way up to her clit. My tongue flattened wide, dragging through her folds in a single, unhurried glide that gathered every filthy drop: the thick, creamy froth she’d made earlier, the faint salty tang of my own cum still leaking from her, the fresh, sweet-sharp flood of her renewed need.

I savored it—let the flavor explode across my tongue like forbidden wine from the oldest vine—then swallowed with a low, appreciative groan that vibrated straight into her core.

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