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

Chapter 988: Bullshitting My Way into Sable’s Pants

I froze mid-stride like a man who just remembered he left the stove on in someone else’s marriage.

Sable’s fingers clamped around my hand—firm, entitled, the grip of a woman who’d spent her entire adult life making interns cry and now wanted to make me stay.

Three steps from sweet freedom, and she’d anchored me like I owed her tax.

"Are you really going to leave me like this?" Her voice was calm on the surface, but underneath it was the unmistakable sound of a woman who’d been edged for weeks and was now one polite refusal away from arson. "Again?"

I turned. Slowly. Dramatically. Giving her the full three-sixty of what she was about to lose if I actually walked out that door.

And fuck me if she wasn’t hotter than the last time. The dress was new—obviously chosen post-interview,pre-ambush. Neckline plunging like it had a personal vendetta against gravity. Hem riding high enough to qualify as a belt in most jurisdictions.

The whole outfit screamed "I dressed to ruin your day and your zipper."

If this was warfare, she’d brought tactical lingerie underneath that dress and air support.

This was Sable Rivera. The Empress’s baby sister. Sharp as a guillotine, twice as pretty, ran the media arm of a dynasty that had been puppeteering American opinion since before most tech bros could spell "algorithm."

And my friends... that same woman was right now was standing in her forty-second-floor glass cathedral, gripping my hand like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic, wearing Fuck-Me couture, staring at me like I was the final boss she couldn’t beat.

Last time we were alone in this office—it was me eating her pussy through lace panties right there on that very desk.

Tongue flat, fabric soaked, her thighs clamping my skull like she was trying to crack a walnut with her quads.

She’d bitten her lip bloody trying not to scream loud to get a live update.

The wood hadn’t forgiven her.

Neither had she.

And then I’d left. Walked out. Left her married cunt throbbing, panties ruined, pulse doing cardio, ache so deep it probably needed its own ZIP code.

It was cruel. Methodical.

Denial play. You don’t conquer a woman like Sable by fucking her on night one.

You conquer her by making her beg for night seventeen.

So after today’s interview—which was flawless because I’m flawless on camera, ARIA fed the questions, the host performed like a caffeinated parrot—I let her summon me for a "discussion."

We talked scheduling. Media cadence. Audience metrics. Neither of us gave less of a fuck about audience metrics if we tried. I watched her cross and uncross her legs like she was trying to start a fire with her thighs.

Watched her tongue flick her bottom lip when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I’m always paying attention.

Then I stood. Said I had to prepare for a flight to Paris.

Headed for the door.

And here we were.

Her fingers tightened.

I looked down at her hand, then up at her face. The boardroom predator smile she’d worn the first time we met—"Peter Carter, or should I call you Eros?"—was gone.

That version of Sable had been slowly disassembled over weeks of proximity, teasing, and surgical blue-balling. She was down to raw wiring now.

"The issue, Sable," I said, dropping my voice to the register that makes knees buckle, "is that you’re not ready to leave your life behind and be my woman."

She blinked. Actually blinked.

"Your life. Your loyalty. They still belong to the Empress. You know it. I know it. And I know you can’t fully let yourself cut that cord." I held her gaze like I was reading her Miranda rights. "Can you?"

The silence was so sharp it could’ve drawn blood.

Inside my head I was screaming bullshit at maximum volume.

Every word was pure, uncut, artisanal horseshit. Oscar-worthyhorseshit.

I didn’t give a flying fuck about the Empress or her geriatric family—which by the way I had sworn to fuck one day— or Sable’s blood-oath loyalty to anyone except the man currently holding her hand and her sanity hostage.

I was standing here monologuing about ethics and readiness like some sad-sack couples therapist when the truth was a lot simpler:

I was taming her.

Patiently. Deliciously. Making her so desperate that when I finally unzipped, she’d forget her own name, let alone her sister’s throne.

Empress Catalina Rivera—smile like liquid nitrogen, political instincts like a chainsaw with rabies—would’ve smelled my game from orbit and laughed in my face.

Sable? She bought it. Hook, line, and tragic little sister complex.

She actually believed I was wrestling with the moral quandary of claiming a woman whose family ties made things "complicated."

I wasn’t wrestling.

I was curating.

But the way her fingers dug in harder—

The way her jaw clenched and her breath hitched and something dangerous flashed behind those clever eyes (hurt, fury, hunger, all at once)—

Maybe I’d landed the bullshit harder than I meant to?

I chuckled—low, dark, the laugh of a man who knows he’s won and is still going to make everyone suffer for it.

Then I kissed her.

Fast.

Brutal.

One hard press of lips—there and gone before she could react, before she could open her mouth and turn it into the kind of kiss that ends with her bent over that desk, skirt around her waist, begging in full sentences.

I pulled back just enough to see the damage.

"Relax," I said, flashing a grin so wide it showed every tooth I’d ever used to bite someone else’s wife. "I’m just teasing you."

Her mouth popped open on a sharp inhale—then slammed shut like she’d just remembered she was supposed to be a terrifying media mogul, not a woman currently short-circuiting from denial.

Her eyes narrowed into that special murder-flirtation glare only women can pull off: fifty percent "I will actually kill you," fifty percent "please god do not stop doing whatever evil thing you’re doing right now."