Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 983

Chapter 983: Sex Talk with Daughter? How We Met

Genevieve flicked her gaze toward the bedroom door. The silence hung there like a polite fiction—post-sex hush, the kind that feels less like peace and more like the universe catching its breath before the next round kicks off.

"Where’s Eros?" she asked.

"Showering," Isabella replied, plucking another grape from the bowl with the casual air of someone discussing the weather or a grocery list. As if the man who’d spent the last forty minutes rearranging her internal geography was simply freshening up after a light jog.

"Oh." Genevieve’s eyes drifted back to the door, then slid to Isabella. "Would it be okay if I—"

"Please," Isabella said, flicking the grape stem toward the room like she was shooing a fly. "Just don’t hog him. We’ve still got bonding to do, yeah?"

Genevieve was already on her feet. She paused at the edge of the couch, threw a look over her shoulder, and flashed a smile that was equal parts mischief and warning.

"No promises."

She padded off barefoot, Peter’s oversized jacket still draped over her like a trophy she had no intention of returning.

The bedroom door clicked shut with the soft finality of a guillotine dropping halfway.

Maya and Isabella were left in the sudden, actual quiet.

No moans leaking through the walls. No rhythmic thumping of headboard against drywall. No Isabella narrating her own destruction in language that would make network censors reach for the mute button.

Just mother and daughter, a bowl of grapes down to its last sad survivors, and the distant hiss of shower water running behind two closed doors.

Maya turned slowly.

"You smell like sex."

Isabella blinked once. "Excuse me?"

"You reek. Like, aggressively. A quick rinse would’ve spared me the experience of inhaling my own mother’s post-coital aura from the couch cushions."

Isabella barked a laugh—loud, unrepentant, the sound of a woman who’d officially retired from shame sometime around the third time Peter had folded her in half over kitchen granite.

"Sweetheart, if I step foot in that bathroom right now, we’re looking at minimum two hours. Bathroom threesomes don’t come with a five-minute timer."

Maya stared. The long, slow blink of a daughter who had already swallowed several impossible realities in the last few months and was now being asked to wash down another one with tap water.

"Mom. Are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth?"

"What?"

"You just casually announced—to your daughter—that you’re considering a threesome. With your boyfriend. And another woman. On this couch. While still wearing the evidence. That’s a lot of—"

Isabella gave a one-shoulder shrug, the international signal for I-have-left-the-building-and-taken-societal-norms-with-me.

"What’s to hide? You already know he runs a harem. Pretending otherwise at this point would just be bad theater."

Maya opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, like a fish auditioning for existential crisis.

"That’s... not the point. I know about the harem. I’m saying you’re dumping a very specific visual on your daughter. Right here. Right now. While you smell like a crime scene."

Isabella glanced down at herself, then back at Maya. Considered. Nodded once.

"Fair." She reached over and stole the very last grape. "Still not showering."

Maya snatched a throw pillow and mashed it against her own face like she could suffocate the conversation out of existence.

****

Her nipples drew into tight, aching points instantly, dark and flushed against the pale stream pouring over her breasts. Before the chill could settle, Peter’s arms were around her, hauling her back against his chest with the kind of effortless strength that made her knees want to give out.

His body heat swallowed the cold in seconds. Water warmed where their skin met, steam curling between them like smoke.

She felt him everywhere: the solid wall of his chest at her back, the hard planes of his abs flexing against her spine, and lower—his cock, already thick and heavy, nestled snug in the cleft of her ass like it belonged there.

Just rocked forward slow, deliberate, letting the fat length slide up and down her crack—hot skin dragging over sensitive flesh, the blunt head bumping the base of her spine on every upstroke, then gliding back down to nudge the tight ring of her asshole without pushing in.

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