Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1023: The Devil Knocks

Straight to Maria’s assigned room in the guest mansion I marched my cocky self, while back at the main house, my ladies remained trapped in what had clearly turned into a total chaotic vote-fest over how to get around.

Only Maria occupied the space.

Delightful silence filled the guest mansion, utterly vacant, with that flawless marble hush closing in from all angles like it hungered for some naughty event to unfold.

My women kept debating if we’d arrive at the Ghost Mansion in one ride or everyone in their separate cars.

Some claimed ARIA’s fresh Harem Van was overly showy and obvious — like a mobile flashing sign shouting its presence before you could even figure out what it was.

Others countered that a stretched line of supercars would draw even more eyes — two dozen high-end rides gliding through LA in tight array, resembling a rich man’s funeral parade without the courtesy of any actual passing.

Charlotte offered a middle ground: three cars, spaced-out starts, varied paths.

Helena nixed it citing safety issues.

Madison shot down Helena’s veto purely for style reasons.

Amanda whipped out a freaking spreadsheet as if we were starting a massive corporate empire.

Celeste proposed they simply stroll there, but Vivienne ordered Celeste to shut the fuck up, all with affection.

The debate had dragged into its forty-fifth torturous minute with no end in sight.

I allowed their voting to continue.

Dragging all of them to the Ghost Mansion that evening regardless, they could squabble over the method of arrival. Long ago, I’d discovered that chiming in on logistics hashed out by thirty women guaranteed I’d be incorrect regardless of my stance.

Screw that self-destruction.

Upon arrival, I rapped on Maria’s door.

Her voice drifted out — cozy, laid-back, like a woman who’d claimed a stranger’s room and turned it cozy as her own.

"It’s open. You can come in."

"It’s me," I said. "Peter. You sure it’s fine?"

She laughed — damn, that tone had shifted.

Relaxed and unguarded she sounded. The real chuckle of a lady dropping the act of judgment, no longer battling her desires, free from mentally prosecuting herself before a bathroom mirror.

"What’s this?" she teased from behind the door. "Are you suddenly a gentleman instead of the attempted devil you are?"

Ma’am," I answered, hand gripping the knob already, smirking at the door like the cocky jerk I am.

I pushed the door open.

Well. Now that’s one hell of a view, right?

Maria stood near the window wearing solely a black lace robe.

Just that.

The black lace robe hung loosely knotted at the waist, seeming ready to give way with a single deep inhale.

That lace — no coy play or subtle suggestion, purely transparent — while golden late-afternoon rays cut through the panes in sharp beams, illuminating her like an uninvited yet unabashedly embraced spotlight.

Her hair fell freely, dark and unbound, tumbling over her shoulders, bearing faint dampness from a fresh shower.

A subtle, captivating blend of vapor and her floral-warm fragrance lingered in the room — a scent merged with her very skin, uniquely hers. Minuscule water beads still dotted her collarbones like wicked gems.

One droplet trailed lazily between her breasts, following the visible inner contour through the fine lace, vanishing into the deep shadow of the robe’s plunging neckline.

She pivoted as I entered.

Her robe swayed with the turn.

The slack waist tie allowed the front to gape open a risky extra inch — revealing her full sternum, the plump inner curves of her breasts, the smooth gentle expanse of her belly where wet lace stuck possessively.

From mid-thigh down, her legs stood exposed, the hem offering scant cover, and as she adjusted her stance, her hips swayed beneath the material with nothing shielding them from the lace.

Utterly bare underneath.

Warm flesh, black lace, plus two decades of shameful neglect.

Barefoot she stood, toes flexing lightly on the chilled marble. Her nipples showed plainly via the transparent weave — dark, erect, stiffened by the chill breeze, post-shower chill, or my ravenous gaze.

She didn’t bother hiding anything.

Arms hung loose by her sides.

Robe left alone.

Posed like a breathing shrine of ignored beauty, wrecking the room’s very atmosphere just by being there.

Her figure showed no decay whatsoever — correct as she’d claimed in the changing room, though she chose the wrong term.

Not decayed, but neglected.

Even years of neglect failed to conquer her superior genetics, iron discipline, and a physique that scorned the ravages of time—unlike her miserable marriage, which crumbled under apathy.

Her breasts hung full and weighty, swaying with tantalizing heft at every motion, dark lace clinging to them while the dark rings of her areolae peeked seductively through the intricate weave.

Her waist curved inward with refined poise. Her hips blossomed outward in that ideal, breeding allure.

Beneath the golden glow, the silky, tender skin of her thighs—where the robe gave way—radiated warmth and allure, craving strokes, conquest, and reverence.

She gazed upon me. I gazed upon her.

Whatever feral, voracious shadow crossed my features seized her breath—a subtle hitch in her torso that heaved those massive breasts beneath the lace, stiffening her erect nipples tighter still—until she regained composure and forced a mask of nonchalance onto her face.

Fresh from her shower, she'd loosened the robe's sash, left her skin exposed, and intentionally stationed herself before that window at my knock.

She perfectly understood her appearance in that spot, for she was female—and females instinctively sense when they're poised to indulge in delicious sin.

Certain events stood utterly, inescapably, universally inevitable.

I grinned, languid and feral, allowing the Dark Lord's aura to infuse my visage.

"You wanted to talk?" she murmured, her tone husky and thick with purpose.