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

Chapter 996: Vanessa’s First (r-18)

The door barely clicked shut before Vanessa slammed into me, mouth open and starving, tongue thrusting deep like she’d been drowning for two years and I was the only air left on earth.

Fuck.

Not the careful kisses from the car.

Not the tentative, am-I-allowed, first-page kisses that had tasted like permission being granted one syllable at a time.

These were the kisses that came after—the ones that happened when a woman had already made her decision and her body was furious at her brain for taking so long.

Her hands clamped to my face. Both of them. Fingernails digging into my jaw like she’d claw me open if I tried to pull away.

Her mouth was open, wet, ravenous—desperate in a way that wasn’t performance but pure, overflowing starvation. Years of celibacy poured out through her lips, her tongue, the small, wrecked, animal whimpers she couldn’t stop making against my teeth.

I tasted the feeling of old loneliness on her, the sweet metallic edge of pure want, felt her tongue trembling as it chased mine like she was trying to crawl inside me through my mouth.

I walked her backward. Slow. Deliberate. Hands locked on her waist, steering her through a room she wasn’t seeing. She didn’t care about the penthouse, the view, the golden afternoon light sliding across marble.

She only cared about my mouth on hers and the fact we were finally somewhere with a lock, a bed, and no interruptions.

The backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sat. Looked up at me.

Gods—the way she looked up at me.

Cheeks flushed crimson. Lips swollen, slick, bee-stung. Hair wrecked from the car, strands plastered to her damp neck. Eyes wide, dark, glassy with fear and hunger and something achingly honest and pure despite the sexual tension in the air.

I want to ruin her... I want to corrupt her so well!

She looked like a woman who’d dreamed of this cliff for years—and she was terrified, and she was jumping anyway.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi."

"I’m nervous."

"I know."

"It’s been—"

"Years. I know."

"What if I’m bad at this? What if I forgot how to—"

I dropped to my knees in front of her. Placed my hands on her knees—gentle pressure, grounding her. Looked up deliberately, because Vanessa had spent decades looking up at people who made her feel small, and right now I wanted her to look down at someone choosing to kneel.

"You’re not going to be bad at this," I told her. "Your body remembers. It already proved that in the car when you soaked through your jeans just from my fingers on your thigh."

Her breath hitched—shaky, almost a sob.

"I’m going to take care of you," I said. "Slowly. Thoroughly. And if at any point you need to stop—"

"I don’t want to stop."

"I know. But if you ever do—"

"Peter." Her hands cupped my face again—fierce, tender. Thumbs stroking my cheekbones like I was something precious. "I’ve been stopped for years. I don’t want to stop. I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember what empty feels like. Please."

That please. Raw. Expensive.

Like it cost her every scrap of dignity she had left... I loved it... loved the way she was letting me in and in forever!

To be my women because she understood that once we did this... she’ll be mine and Rory would be my daughter.

I couldn’t ask for more but just take her!

I rose. Kissed her forehead—soft. Then her lips—slow, reverent.

My fingers found the hem of her top.

"Arms up for me, honey."

She lifted them—trembling so hard the motion looked like surrender.

I peeled the fabric away inch by slow inch, letting it drag across her skin like a tease, then let it drop to the floor in a soft heap.

She sat there in nothing but her plain black bra, arms instinctively folding over the soft, rounded swell of her stomach—the part she hated most, the gentle pouch that had cradled Rory never quite flattened again. Stretch marks gleamed silver in the low light, faint tiger stripes radiating outward from her navel like delicate lightning scars.

I caught her wrists gently but firmly, eased her arms down until they hung helpless at her sides.

"Don’t hide from me, babe."

Her jaw clenched, eyes glassy. "I have stretch marks."

"I know."

"From Rory. They never went away. They’re ugly."

I dropped to my knees between her parted thighs, bent low, and pressed my open mouth to the first silver line on her stomach—soft, reverent, tasting the faint salt of her skin.

Then the next.

Then lower, lips dragging across the warm, slightly doughy flesh below her navel, tongue tracing every faint groove like I was memorizing scripture. Her stomach jumped under my mouth.

Her breath hitched into a sharp, broken gasp, fingers threaded shakily into my hair, gripping like she might fall apart if she let go.

"No! They’re beautiful," I murmured against her belly, voice vibrating into her core.

"They’re not—"

"They’re proof you made a life." I kissed another mark—harder this time, sucking lightly until a small red bloom appeared beneath the silver. "And I’m going to worship and own every fucking one of them."

She made a sound—half-laugh, half-sob, something raw and cracked open and bleeding light.

I reached behind her. Fingers found the clasp.

One flick.

The bra loosened.

I slid the straps down her shoulders—slow—watching the black lace drag over the upper swells of her breasts before letting it fall away completely.

They spilled free—heavy, full, gloriously mature. No perky teenage tightness here; these were woman’s breasts, softened by time and motherhood, swaying gently with every ragged inhale.

Creamy skin stretched taut over generous curves, faint blue veins tracing delicate rivers beneath the surface like hidden lightning.

They hung with natural, pendulous weight, the undersides soft and plush, brushing the tops of her ribs when she exhaled.

Her nipples—thick, dark-chocolate, obscenely erect—jutted forward like they were begging. Wide areolas crinkled into tight, pleated rings, flushed a deeper rose at the edges, puckered so hard they looked almost painful.

Each thick bud throbbed visibly—literally pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat—glossy with the fine sheen of arousal sweat already beading along the tips and trickling down the textured skin in slow, shining trails.

The very ends were wet, glistening, as if her body was already leaking need from every possible place.

I leaned in. Blew a soft stream of air across one swollen peak.

She whimpered—high, helpless.

I caught the nipple between my lips—gentle at first—then sucked hard, tongue lashing the rigid tip while my hand cupped the heavy underside, lifting the full weight, kneading the soft flesh until it overflowed my palm.

The stretch marks on her lower breasts—fainter silver threads—gleamed under the light as I dragged my mouth across them too, kissing, licking, biting just enough to leave faint red crescents.

Her back arched. Hips rolled forward instinctively. A fresh gush of slick soaked through her panties—I could smell it, sweet and musky, pooling beneath her pussy... the sweet smell of incoming corruption.

"Every mark," I growled against her breast, teeth grazing the areola. "Every scar. Every soft place. They’re mine to worship now."

I could feel my own cock jerk hard in my pants just looking at them—years untouched and already this desperate, already leaking pre-cum at the tip just from being stared at.

My hands claimed them again—palms overflowing, fingers sinking into soft, yielding flesh.

She gasped—sharp, almost hurt, because simple contact after so long felt like fire and relief at once. I lifted them gently, thumbs sweeping the ultra-sensitive crease underneath, then circled those dark, aching peaks with slow, teasing strokes.

I kissed the upper swell of the left breast.

Then the right.

Then dragged my tongue along that tender underside crease—hot, wet, tasting salt and skin and that heady mature-woman scent rising stronger now: warm musk, faint soap, ripe fruit left to ferment in sunlight.

Her spine bowed hard, shoving those heavy tits deeper into my face.

"Oh—fuck—that’s—"

I closed my mouth over her left nipple. Deep, slow suction. My tongue swirling the swollen bud, feeling it thicken even more against my palate, the pebbled surface rasping my tongue.