Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 841

Chapter 841: Dream of Goddess Mother Again

The bedroom glows.

Not with moonlight—that’s still there, silver through the windows—but with something else. Something golden and thick as honey, pouring through the air like liquid warmth.

I can smell jasmine. And something sweeter. Cream and honey and fresh bread and every scent that ever meant home to a child who never had one.

Madison’s curled against me, her breathing deep and even, one leg thrown over mine. The sheets feel different. Softer. Like they’ve been woven from something that doesn’t exist in normal reality.

Movement at the edge of my vision.

I turn my head.

She’s standing there.

Tall—six and a half feet at least, but the proportions are perfect. Long legs, curved hips, a waist I could span with my hands, breasts full and real in ways that defy explanation.

At first, she is only silhouette and glow, an outline carved from the golden air itself.

Then the light finds her more fully and she becomes impossible. Her legs rise forever, strong yet impossibly graceful, thighs meeting in a shadowed promise that makes the breath catch somewhere deep.

Her hips flare wide and slow, the kind of curve that speaks of cradling entire lineages. Her waist narrows to something fragile yet commanding, begging fingers to wrap around it only to discover it cannot be contained.

And her breasts—Gods—rise proud, firm and heavy, the soft undersides catching the golden light in a faint, wet sheen, nipples already subtly peaked beneath the luminous veil of her skin, as though the mere act of appearing before me has stirred them.

Her skin glows.

Actually glows, pale as moonlight, luminous as pearl, with veins of liquid gold running beneath the surface. They sing—I can hear them, each vein a different note in a harmony that makes my chest ache and sends the first slow, heavy pulse of heat low in my belly.

Her hair falls in waves past her waist. White as fresh snow, moving in currents that have nothing to do with air, each strand catching the golden light and multiplying it, turning the air around her head into a halo while a few silken strands drift forward, brushing the upper swell of her breasts, sliding across skin that looks soft enough to bruise with a sigh.

But it’s her face that stops me. I know that face. I’ve never seen it before in my life, but I know it. The same way the Friesian knew me.

The same way the mansion recognized me.

Her eyes are mismatched—one deep purple-white like distant galaxies, the other burning gold like a sun choosing to be gentle.

They find me. Fix on me.

And she smiles —a slow curve of lips that parts just enough to show the wet gleam inside, tender and ancient and already knowing every secret my body is only beginning to remember.

"My beloved," she whispers, and her voice bypasses my ears entirely, resonating directly in my chest. Warm as summer. Soft as rain. Ancient. "My beautiful, perfect, impossible boy."

She moves onto the bed with liquid grace.

The mattress doesn’t dip.

She’s here but also not-here, existing in that space between physical and something else yet the warmth that rolls from her skin is immediate, intimate, brushing my bare chest like breath.

She reaches for me.

I should pull back. Should question this.

I lean into her touch instead.

Her palm cups my cheek—warm, solid, real—and the contact sends electricity through every nerve. Not sexual. Just... connection. Like a circuit completing —though already that circuit hums downward, waking my cock with a slow, thickening awareness.

"You don’t remember me," she says softly. No accusation. No pain. Just understanding. "Of course you don’t. You were so small when I left."

Her thumb brushes my cheekbone.

Her eyes glisten.

"But I’ve watched you. Every moment. Every breath. Every heartbeat of your beautiful, impossible life."

Every scent that meant safety—and now threaded through it all, faint at first, then unmistakable: the warm, blooming musk of feminine arousal, soft and rich, rising from between her thighs like an invitation older than words.

"I couldn’t stay. The things I AM—the blood running through your veins now—it would have consumed you before you were ready. You needed to be human first."

"Shh, my darling. Just listen. Just feel."

Pure instinct: This is safe. This is home.

Her breast meets my cheek—impossibly soft, impossibly full. The skin is fever-warm, satin-smooth.

Her nipple, already firm, brushes the corner of my mouth; a single warm drop of something sweet—milk laced with honey—touches my lip. I taste it without thinking, and the flavor blooms across my tongue like comfort and sin at once.

She exhales softly, a sound that is both maternal sigh and quiet moan.

Her heartbeat thunders beneath my ear.

Each pulse feels like the birth of a universe and each one sends a deeper throb through me, my cock now fully hard, lying heavy and leaking against my thigh.

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