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

Chapter 772: Sinful Silhouettes (r-18)

She led him straight up the stairs, her grip tightening with every step, the white lace robe fluttering like a ghost’s breath, riding higher on her thighs until the lower curve of her ass flashed in the low hallway light—round, perfect, the kind of ass that made men forget their own names.

The robe clung to her body like a jealous lover, sheer enough that the moonlight painted every bruise, every flex, every jiggle in liquid silver.

Her scent trailed behind her—jasmine warmed by sun and skin, the faint metallic tang of her earlier release, and the sharp, unmistakable musk of fresh arousal—thick enough to coat the back of his tongue, to make his cock throb painfully against his jeans.

The third floor was hers alone, a sanctuary that smelled of lavender, clean cotton, and the deeper, warmer note of her body. She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside, pulling him with her into the hush.

The room wrapped around them like a secret. A massive California king dominated the center, white linens crisp and tucked with hospital corners, pillows stacked like she made the bed every morning out of habit and love.

A faint scent of lavender and clean cotton hung in the air, mixed with the warmer, intoxicating note of her skin. A vanity in the corner held neatly arranged perfumes and lotions, bottles lined up like soldiers.

A single framed photo on the nightstand—her and a very younger version of Charlotte, her small arms around a teenage boy who had to be her son—smiled out at the room, the only witness to what was about to happen.

Peter knew and did not ask anything about the person in the photo.

On the bed, folded with care, sat today’s lingerie: a black lace bra and matching thong, laid out like she’d been deciding what to wear tomorrow, the fabric still holding the faint warmth of her body, the faint scent of her arousal clinging to the lace. She saw him notice and flushed, a soft, embarrassed laugh escaping her as she scooped them up and tossed them into a drawer.

"Sorry," she murmured, closing it with a soft click. "Didn’t expect company."

"The best kind of memorable nights are like that, Margret." She laughed at that.

Then she turned to the mirrored walk-incloset—floor-to-ceiling glass doors, frosted just enough to blur the edges—and stepped inside. She didn’t close them fully. Left them cracked, the light from within spilling out in a warm, golden blade across the carpet, painting the room in honey and shadow.

And she began to undress.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The light behind her turned her into a shadow play of pure sin, every movement amplified by the glass, every curve etched in fire.

Her silhouette moved slow, deliberate, a shadow carved from midnight and hunger. Hands rose to the silk tie of her robe—fingers trembling just enough to betray the storm inside her.

The lace satin whispered as it loosened, a soft hiss like breath held too long, then the fabric slid off her shoulders in a liquid glide. It pooled at her feet with a sigh so intimate it felt like the room itself exhaled.

She stood bare from the waist up now, skin kissed by the low amber glow of the single lamp. The bra came next—black lace, delicate, almost ceremonial.

Fingers reached behind her back, unhooking with a tiny snap that cracked through the hush like the first thunder of a storm. The straps slipped down her arms; she let them fall slow, teasing, the cups peeling away from her breasts with reluctant drag, as though the lace itself mourned the separation.

Her breasts spilled free—medium small, perfect, motherly in the most devastating way. Full enough to overflow a palm, soft enough to sway with every breath, the faint silver threads of stretch marks shimmering like moonlight on water.

Nipples dark and already cruelly tight, standing proud, flushed deep wine-red, begging without words.

The curves carried the memory of Miami—that morning. Now they burned behind his eyes again, hotter, sharper, etched in fire.

She cupped them immediately—slow, reverent, palms cradling the weight like an offering. Thumbs brushed the peaks once, twice, then circled in lazy, tormenting spirals. Her head fell back, throat exposed, a long shuddering breath escaping her lips—raw, needy, almost a sob. The sound curled through the quiet room and settled low in his gut.

"Mmmhmm~’

Her fingers tightened. Squeezed. Lifted the soft flesh high, letting it spill between her knuckles, then released so the gentle bounce made her gasp. She pinched her nipples—hard, vicious little twists that dragged a sharp, desperate cry from her throat.

The peaks darkened further under the abuse, swelling fatter, glistening faintly as though already weeping for more. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, thighs pressing together once, then parting again like she couldn’t decide whether to hide the ache or spread it wider.

Hands slid lower.

Over the gentle, forgiving plane of her stomach—fingers tracing the silver lacework of stretch marks with something close to worship. Each faint line a map of nights she’d carried life, fed life, survived life.

Now those same hands claimed it back—for pleasure, for sin, for him. She dragged her nails lightly over the sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh, then flattened her palms and pushed downward, following the inward curve to the flare of her hips.

She swayed—slow, obscene, hips rolling in a deep, filthy rhythm that belonged in dark clubs and darker bedrooms.

Her ass flexed under the lamplight—round, full, plush—cheeks parting just enough on each sway to hint at the shadowed cleft between them. Fingers dug into her own flesh—gripping hard, kneading, spreading herself open a fraction before releasing. The motion made her breasts bounce again, nipples tracing tight little arcs in the air.

Her breath fractured into soft, broken moans—each one lower, throatier, spilling into the room like smoke.

One hand slipped between her thighs—not touching yet, just hovering, letting the heat radiate against her palm. The other kept kneading her ass, pulling one cheek aside so the lamplight caught the glistening trail already making its slow way down the inside of her thigh.

She looked at him then—eyes glassy, pupils blown wide, lips parted and wet.

No words.

Just the slow, deliberate roll of her hips again—deeper this time, more shameless—ass clenching, thighs trembling, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale.

Then she turned—slow, graceful, predatory—presenting her back to him. Spine arched. Ass lifted.

Hands sliding up to grip the back of a chair for balance. She bent forward just enough—legs spreading wider—until the shadowed cleft between her cheeks opened fully.

The pink pucker winked once in the low light, tight and untouched tonight, while lower still her cunt came into view: lips swollen, dark, already slick-shining, a thick bead of arousal welling at the entrance and stretching downward in a slow, glistening thread.

She reached back with both hands—fingers spreading herself wide—exposing everything.

"Peter..." Her voice floated through the cracked door, low and trembling, thick with want, the sound wrapping around his cock like a fist.

He sat on the edge of the bed, cock throbbing painfully against his jeans, eyes locked on the shadow dance she was giving him—unknowing or knowing, it didn’t matter. Every movement was a confession. Every sway a prayer. The light behind her turned her into a living silhouette of sin, every curve amplified, every breath a promise.

She hips swayed back still to him now, hands sliding down her sides, over her hips, between her thighs.

The shadow of her fingers dipped lower, tracing the line of her pussy through the air, hips rolling slow, ass clenching, offering. Her fingers spread her lips in the shadow, the light catching the glistening wetness that dripped from her, the scent of her arousal flooding the room, thick and heady, making his mouth water and his cock leak.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only watch. And want.