Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1012: Maria’s Own Ruthless Attention

Not the flashy goodness or porn-perfected moves, the scripted routine of a guy who'd mastered technique from screens rather than actual flesh.

He excelled like a master surgeon excels—because he focused intently, because he valued the result above his own pride, because Luna’s bliss wasn't just a side benefit of his satisfaction. It stood as the full purpose.

Peter murmured something into Luna’s neck. Maria failed to catch the words, but she observed Luna’s lips part open, her eyes squeeze shut more tightly, and her fingers trail from his shoulders down his chest, outlining him beneath the fabric as though surveying hallowed land.

The expression on her daughter’s face radiated utter reverence—overwhelmed, raw, bordering on unbelief. The reverence of a woman who could scarcely accept she had leave to stroke a form like his.

Luna’s hand ventured lower, across his abdomen, fingertips following the defined V-cut under his abs via his shirt in a languid, purposeful glide.

She bit her lower lip and gazed up at him from beneath her lashes with a look that blended innocence and utterly sinful allure.

Maria’s own hand lay flat on her belly, and she had no recollection of placing it there.

No memory of the fingers fanning out wider, no recall of the palm pushing firmer, no awareness of the instinctive slide downward that halted just an inch shy of her waistband—halted solely by a final desperate shred of propriety throwing itself before the rush.

She snatched her hand away, clenched it into a fist, and pounded the fist against the wall.

Peter seized Luna’s wrist just before her hand dipped further.

He stopped her with gentleness, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed each knuckle individually—thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky—methodically, purposefully, with devotion.

Every kiss seemed to inventory each digit, to etch the contours of her hand into memory, to convey through his mouth what words might have expressed but which he opted against voicing.

For this held greater truth.

Luna’s features crumbled. Not from irritation—but from something immensely deeper.

Tenderness so sharp it resembled agony.

She buried her face in his neck, her shoulders trembling once, twice—whether laughter or tears or a mix, the sort of noise that bursts free when emotion overwhelms categorization and the body seizes the nearest release.

And Peter simply embraced her.

Simply held her. Arms encircling her, chin atop her head, solid and unyielding, as if he could remain so eternally.

As if the hallway vanished. As if the whole manor vanished. As if no other females existed.

As if nothing remained in existence save this young woman and the elemental, weighty truth that she remained secure in his grasp.

Maria retreated from the door.

She attempted to settle on the bench, yet her legs buckled prior to committing—muscles rigid with strain for a quarter-hour at last rebelled.

She collapsed onto the seat without grace and covered her face with her hands.

She recognized it with the icy conviction of knowing surgical structures—exact, irrefutable, devoid of doubt's leniency.

She had pleasured herself to pilfered clips of this man thrusting deep within her daughter.

She had climaxed so intensely on her sofa that her sight blanked entirely.

She had discreetly forwarded those images to her phone and erased all evidence with a surgeon’s cold precision.

She had stroked herself amid Luna moaning Peter’s name... then lingered ten solid minutes after, gazing vacantly at the ceiling, struggling to align the upstanding woman she believed herself with the one she had revealed.

And now she lingered here, thighs squeezed tight, nipples erect, observing the real-time display like history’s most perverse reviewer.

And now she remained—watching, wet, trembling, her fist jammed to the wall as her body defied every desperate order from her morals.

She had seen her own daughter caressed and sensed desire over fury.

She had seen those hands upon Luna’s form and

She had seen that mouth on Luna’s neck and sensed its echo carving an illusory trail along her own throat—a throat untouched by a true kiss in twenty damn years.

A frail excuse murmured at the rear of her thoughts like a lawyer aware the trial was doomed. The way his voice lowered uttering her name, as if it carried luxury. Perhaps he craved it too. Perhaps when eyeing Maria, he perceived what he did in all women—something to seize, to free, something to fuck until sorrow melted into shrieks. Perhaps she already featured on his roster.

Maybe Luna had offhandedly noted her and he’d calculated like the arrogant prick he was, deeming one extra victory mere smart stock control.

Yet even assuming all that rang true— —

It altered nothing of what she had witnessed.

Luna’s face nestled to his chest.

Eyes shut. Every barrier fallen.

The universe's most potent spot. Maria had nearly stolen it.

She had nearly dashed barefoot over chilly tiles to seize it—not requesting her personal edition, but precisely that item, that particular man, that exact joy which transformed her cautious, shielded, fortified daughter into someone who chuckled spontaneously, who rested her forehead on a man's chin while emitting deep chest noises Maria never heard during twenty-three years as a mother.

That wetness lingered between her legs. Her heartbeat remained quickened.

Her nipples persisted traitorously erect against the racing suit's lining.

Her form failed to get the message the spectacle ended—it kept blazing from the thrill of nearness, peeping, two decades of deprivation, and the devastating realization the guy ending her dry spell now cradled her daughter just fifteen feet off as if she alone counted in his realm.

Yet she was unable to leave. That struck as the cruelest blow.

She attempted it. Palm on the door. Mere ten seconds to the elevator.

Just an hour away from a bland hotel room to rinse away this filth and act like it never transpired.

Then Luna laughed—that vivid, hearty, open sound—and Maria remained.

For she refused to abandon her daughter. Refused to create secure space from Luna even though such space might rescue her from her own impulses.

Refused to depart the estate aware her child stayed within, joyful, secure, cherished, without Maria present to observe.

Though observing tore her apart.

Though lingering so near Luna’s bliss placed her within easy grasp of the man extending his own to her.

The identical love compelling her stay also rendered it intolerable. Poetry. Pure, refined agony.

From below echoed the soft mechanical whir of the go-kart track rebooting—ARIA adjusting the layout, readying for the upcoming race as if no profane event unfolded above.

Twenty minutes prior, Maria crossed the finish holding Peter’s hand, marking her greatest joy in years.

All thanks to him—plus somewhat the velocity, the yells, the wild surrender, the splendid sensation of being alive after twenty years merely performing routines.

But only he could deliver that. There lay the issue.

Tomorrow occupied her thoughts.

By the karts, with adrenaline still buzzing through her blood and legs trembling, she informed him—one additional day to "complete her assessment."

He grinned as though victory was already his, since both recognized the assessment concluded when she flushed at his absurd

Another day within this residence.

Another day close to him.

Another day feigning disinterest in her true desires as her physique scorched, her daughter beamed, and barriers between them thinned, igniting more readily each hour.

She might depart this evening. She could depart this evening—climb into the vehicle, head home, phone Luna from her secure bed, inventing all excuses why Peter fell short of expectations.

Craft disapproval. Fabricate proof.

Take any measure needed to yank her daughter from this man’s gravitational pull before Maria plunged too far to break free.

All that lay within her power.

Yet she perched on the bench, face hidden in palms, form vibrating like exposed cable, Luna’s laughter reverberating down the hall—a tone starved for twenty-three years, unearthed in Earth’s final sought spot.

Departure tonight was off the table.

She recognized this with the surety of surgical knowledge, her daughter’s features, the icy, precise conviction—devoid of doubt’s solace—that another day beside Peter Carter promised her life’s gravest peril.

Still, she’d remain for it.

For certain errors prove too tantalizing to forsake.