Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 928

Chapter 928: Eziel’s FootJob

I let the Pheromones roll across the conference table toward her like an invisible tide. Slow. Warm... rewiring her afternoon — or her marriage, whichever collapses first... until every inhale carried me into her bloodstream like a bad decision she was too polite to reject.

By the fifteen-minute mark she’d uncrossed and recrossed her legs four times — each one a tiny rebellion against gravity and good sense. Her pen was tapping a rhythm that had nothing to do with note-taking and everything to do with Morse code for "help, I’m spontaneously combusting."

A faint sheen of moisture had appeared on her collarbones — barely visible, just enough for my Eyes to clock and file under "evidence of imminent poor choices." Her pupils were dilated. Her breathing had shifted from professional composure to something deeper.

Dominic was sitting six feet from his wife and had absolutely no clue that she was slowly drowning in the pheromones of the man sitting across far from her. Bless his heart. Or whatever’s left of it after years of boardroom mergers.

I’m a terrible person. I’m aware. Moving on.

So here’s how the meeting went. Gerald talked. Lawyers talked. Numbers got exchanged. IP details reviewed — full rights, all derivatives, sequel and adaptation rights across all media, merchandise, the whole package. Standard stuff. Their team had drawn up the rights purchase agreement expecting negotiation. ARIA had already reviewed every clause through me and approved.

I wasn’t negotiating. I was watching Eziel.

She sat through the first twenty minutes barely speaking. Professional. Contained. But her jaw tightened every time Gerald called the Celestial Widow "the property" instead of by name. Every time Dominic — her husband, mind you — chimed in with financial observations about depreciation of shelved IP.

Talking about his wife’s life’s work like a line item on a tax return.

And this man was wearing boat shoes. In a boardroom. In Hollywood. I’m sorry but I need you to understand — boat shoes. The man who killed his wife’s screenplay was sitting there in boat shoes talking about depreciation. I can’t.

Anyway.

I pulled out my phone. Typed didn’t care if they could see... I was the one in control here. Money does that despite the age.

Me: I’ve read all seven drafts. The third is the strongest. The ending from the sixth is better.

Sent to Eziel. Casual. Like a scheduling note.

She read it. Her pen stopped moving. She looked at me and for the first time in that meeting something real crossed her face.

The raw, unguarded shock of a creator being told someone actually engaged with their work.

I typed again.

Me: Your father doesn’t deserve this screenplay. I’m going to make it the biggest thing in Hollywood. And I want you involved in every step.

Her eyes went wet. She blinked it away — years of practice hiding what she felt in rooms full of men who never noticed. But her hand shook when she picked up the pen again.

She typed back on her phone: Who are you?

Me: The guy who’s about to pay $85 million for your genius. And take you to dinner after.

The flush started at her neck. Climbed to her cheeks. She pressed her lips together fighting a smile that would’ve been impossible to explain to the room.

Eziel: That’s presumptuous.

Me: That’s confident. There’s a difference. You know the difference.

Her legs uncrossed. Recrossed. Wave of perfume reaching me — warm, subtle, expensive. Something she’d put on this morning without knowing why she’d picked that bottle.

Eziel: You’re flirting with me in front of my husband.

Me: Sorry if I am too blunt but your husband is calculating the tax implications of selling your soul. I’m telling you your work (mind you not your soul) is worth $500 million. Which conversation would you rather be in?

She bit her lower lip. The pen in her hand hadn’t touched paper in two minutes.

While all along my auras and Pheromones were working numbers on her.

And then she’d moved and sat closer across me... and I had felt it.

Pressure against my shin. Light at first. The toe of her heel tracing up the inside of my calf through my pants. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of touch that could pass as accidental if anyone looked and absolutely was not.

Her shoe slipped off — faint sound of it hitting the carpet under the table — and then it was just her foot. Stockinged. Warm. Toes pressing against my inner thigh with pressure that went from exploratory to intentional real fast.

I kept my face on Gerald, who was explaining the Celestial Widow’s development history like I hadn’t already read every internal memo his company ever produced about it.

Looking back, the boardroom felt smaller the second her foot made contact— because the moment Eziel’s stockinged toes brushed the inside of my thigh, the whole forty-seventh floor shrank to the space between her sole and my zipper.

The arch of her foot pressed flat against the growing ridge in my trousers. Slow. Deliberate. She dragged the full length of her sole up my cock — base to swollen head — the nylon rasping faintly against the wool blend, creating just enough friction to make my balls tighten.

She held there, toes curling over the tip, squeezing gently, feeling me throb once, twice against the ball of her foot.

She circled back up, toes spreading wide so they could rake lightly over the head through the fabric — teasing the slit, coaxing a bead of pre-cum to soak through until the spot darkened and stuck to her sole when she pulled away.

Reyna caught it, of course. She didn’t look under the table. Didn’t need to. She just picked up her pen, twirled it once, and muttered under her breath, "You’re unbelievable," so quiet only I heard.

Eziel wasn’t done being unbelievable either.

She planted her foot firmer, toes gripping the outline of my cock like she was trying to climb it. The nylon was starting to cling —and every slow pump dragged the fabric with it, creating a slick, obscene tunnel.

She never broke eye contact with her father while she did it. Answered a question about "narrative integrity" with a calm "absolutely" while her toes flexed and pinched the head so hard I nearly grunted. Dominic laughed at something Gerald said. Six feet away. Clueless. His wife was edging me under the table like it was performance art.

I signed my name. Steady. Professional. While she milked one last thick pulse out of me, enough that the wet spot spread and she finally — finally — dragged her foot away, leaving me aching, leaking, zipper straining.

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