NOVGO.NET Chapter 726: The Black Sheep & The Wolf
Chapter 726: The Black Sheep & The Wolf
Eros could admit, at least to himself, that he’d failed the challenge. Spectacularly.
The whole thing had started as a dare. Patricia, Janet, and Priya had cornered him on that video call, lace, confidence, and a challenge that made his cock twitch before they’d even finished speaking.
He’d laughed. Accepted. And it was fun.
Right up until two and a half hours in, when all three of them were passed out.
Patricia sprawled across the ottoman like a broken doll, cream still leaking from her ruined cunt, pink, gaping, rim stretched, glistening under the amber light. Her tits to the sides, milk and his cum crusted on her skin, breathing deep and even, completely unconscious.
Janet curled on the marble floor—he’d moved her to the couch before leaving—hair matted with sweat, milk, cream, everything else, clamps removed, nipples red, swollen, sleeping like she’d been drugged.
Her cunt still gaped, pink tunnel pulsing faintly, cream dripping onto the leather.
Priya on her side, dark hair spilling across silk pillows, snoring softly, jeweled plug removed, asshole gaping, rim stretched, cream leaking down her thigh, milk crusted on her massive tits, her black nipples had grown soft.
He cleaned them. Gently. Wiped down their thighs, faces, cunts, asses, removed the clamps, toys, plugs, covered them with blankets. Made sure they were comfortable before he left.
Because that’s what you did for your women. You destroyed them. Then you took care of them.
But he’d lost the challenge anyway.
Not because they’d outlasted him. Not even close. He could’ve kept going for hours, days, his stamina infinite, his cock still hard, veins pulsing, head flared, precum dripping, his body hungry for more.
He lost because he couldn’t resist them in the first place.
That was the thing nobody understood about his power. Yeah, he had supernatural control. Could watch a woman finger herself right in front of him and remain indifferent if the situation required it.
Had the willpower to resist any temptation when it mattered, when strategy demanded restraint, when playing the long game required patience.
But when it came to his women?His sirens and goddesses?
He didn’t want to hold back. Didn’t want control. Didn’t want to be strategic, patient, or any of that calculated bullshit.
They had control over him in ways that bypassed all his defenses. They knew it. He knew it. And he fucking loved it.
Most men, most relationships, that intense desire faded over time. You fuck someone enough, the urgency dulls, the need becomes routine, the fire banks into comfortable warmth.
Not with him.
Every time he fucked his women, the desire grew stronger. More intense. More consuming. Like addiction except healthy, like obsession except mutual, like need except it fed both of them instead of depleting.
He couldn’t resist them. Didn’t want to resist them. Would never learn to resist them.
So yeah. He’d failed the challenge.
He’d shown up when they called. Fucked them exactly how they wanted. Given them everything they asked for, and more.
The fact that they’d passed out two and a half hours in while he was still going strong didn’t change the fundamental truth: When his women called, He came.
Always.
The elevator ride from Penthouse 2 to Helena’s suite on the 41st floor gave Peter exactly ninety seconds to transition from "just destroyed his three women" to "professional business meeting."
He didn’t bother trying to fix what didn’t need fixing.
His appearance was... disorganized. Yeah. That was the polite corporate word for it.
His shirt was unbuttoned for the top buttons making the whole thing sit unbearably hot for any woman who met him, collar crooked, fabric straining over his chest. His hair looked like hands had been in it for hours, which they had, platinum strands wild, tousled, falling into his eyes.
No tie.
The expensive watch was on the wrong wrist, put on absentmindedly while walking out. His belt wasn’t quite straight, buckle tilted.
He looked unprepared. Rushed. Like he’d rolled out of bed after a marathon fuck session and thrown on whatever was nearby.
Which was exactly what had happened.
But here was the thing about being a god: Effort was optional.
The disheveled appearance didn’t make him look sloppy. It made him look dangerous. Raw. Like he had better things to do than worry about looking professional, because he was so far beyond needing to impress anyone that presentation was irrelevant.
The shirt emphasized the body underneath, the defined muscle, the perfect proportions, the supernatural symmetry that made asymmetry look intentional instead of accidental.
The fucked hair looked artful. Expensive. Like he’d paid someone to make it look like he’d just had someone’s hands in it.
The missing tie made the open collar look deliberate. Gave a glimpse of collarbone and throat that somehow made him look more powerful instead of less formal.
And he smelled... fuck, he smelled like sex and expensive cologne losing a war against pheromones and the musk of having just spent hours inside three different women, pussy, ass, milk, sweat, cream, cum, all layered, intoxicating, overwhelming.
It should’ve been unprofessional.
It was devastating.
Because even without putting in any effort, maybe especially without, he looked exactly like what he was: A teenager god in making who didn’t need to try, because trying was for people who weren’t already perfect.
The staff had already alerted Helena. Per his instructions, they’d called her room five minutes ago with the message: "Mr. Desiderion will be arriving shortly."
Not asking if it was convenient. Not requesting permission. Just informing her that her wait was over and she’d better be ready.
The elevator dinged. 41st floor.
Eros stepped out into the hallway, plush carpet, muted lighting, the kind of understated luxury that cost a fortune to make look effortless. Suite 1407 was at the end of the hall. The presidential suite he’d booked for her.
Not out of generosity.
Out of strategy.
He knocked once. Brief. Sharp.
The door opened almost immediately.
Helena Voss stood there, and for a second, just a fucking second, Eros saw her actually react.
Helena Voss, the former CIA Ice Queen, the untouchable, the woman every boardroom feared and every man (and half the women) who knew her; secretly jerked off to, had dressed for war.
She stood in the center of the Celestial Grand’s presidential suite like a glacier carved into human form: charcoal-grey suit, five figures easy, bespoke, Italian, thread count obscene. The jacket cinched her waist to an impossible hourglass, nipped in so tight it looked painted on, then flared over hips that could launch hostile takeovers.
The skirt—pencil, knee-length, slit up the back—clung to an ass so round, firm, high it defied gravity, the kind of ass that made grown men forget their own names.
Underneath?
Sheer black stockings, garter clips flashing when she moved, heels four inches of murder-red Louboutin, sharp enough to draw blood.
Her tits—Jesus fuck—pushed against the silk blouse like twin weapons, full, heavy, defying the laws of physics and corporate dress codes.
No bra.
The outline of her nipples, hard, pierced with tiny platinum bars, pressed against the fabric, visible when the light hit just right. Every breath strained the buttons, threatening to pop, promising chaos.
Platinum blonde hair, so pale it looked silver, pulled back in a severe bun, not a strand out of place, the kind of bun that said I will end you and still make the 3 PM earnings call. But the severity only amplified the danger: cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, ice-blue eyes that could freeze a man’s soul, lips painted blood-red, full, cruel.
Minimal makeup— almost a lie. The smoky shadow made her eyes look like winter storms, the liner winged sharp as a blade. Diamond studs, real, flawless, five carats each, glinting like warning lights.
A single platinum chain dipped into her cleavage, disappearing between those perfect, heaving tits, hinting at the pierced nipples beneath.
She’d prepared.
Hours.
She knew what she was doing.
She knew he’d see the effort.
She knew it would break him.
Ice Queen?
Try nuclear winter with a body built for sin.
And she was here to negotiate.
Or surrender.
Depending on who blinked first.
She looked like she was walking to annihilate someone’s quarterly earnings.
Except her eyes gave her away.
They went wide—just for a fraction of a second—when she saw him. When she registered what he looked like standing in her doorway. When her brain processed that this teenager looked like he’d just walked out of a fever dream titled What if a God Fucked Me.
And then she smelled it.
He watched her nostrils flare slightly. Watched her pupils dilate. Watched the micro-expression that said her body had just registered pheromones at concentrations that bypassed rational thought and went straight to primal recognition.
This man just fucked someone. Multiple someones. Very recently.
"Mr. Desiderion." Her voice was controlled. Professional. The Ice Queen reasserting dominance over the woman who’d just had a very physical reaction to his presence. "You’re late."
"I’m exactly when I intended to be." Eros stepped forward without waiting for invitation, and she moved back automatically—territorial instinct yielding to the reality that he wasn’t asking permission.
"You’ve been comfortable, I assume?"