Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1024: Mother-in-law Tempress: "Come Right to Me"

Her silhouette appeared before me in the black lace robe, afternoon sunlight piercing the diaphanous material like a director sabotaging my composure.

Each shaft of golden light exposed precisely the contours it should have veiled—the heavy, full curve of her breasts, the dark, rigid peaks of her nipples thrusting boldly and seductively against the intricate lace, the gentle indentation of her navel, and the ominous shadow of temptation between her thighs where the robe had split just sufficiently to reveal glimpses of bare flesh.

'Where do you want to talk?' I asked, keeping my tone deliberately nonchalant.

She inclined her head slightly, an intentional gesture causing the robe to slide once more.

The lace brushed softly over her skin, one edge dropping a bit further, baring the inner swell of her left breast completely to my ravenous eyes, its plush weight alluring beneath the sunlit glow.

One lingering droplet of water adhered to the upper swell, inching its way down gradually.

'Why not right here?' she inquired, her tone relaxed and inviting. 'I’m just about to rest. Unless you’re planning for a long chat, here would be just enough.'

I held back the thoughts racing through my mind with my mother-in-law displayed like that.

Couldn't voice them.

She proved so damn distracting that my thoughts were glitching out.

No matter the number of women I'd claimed earlier today or the fact I'd been deep inside her daughter less than an hour prior.

That only intensified it. The Bloodline Tension lingered unresolved. Remained heated.

Failed to grant me the mercy of deactivating after exiting the changing room—and truthfully, I preferred it active.

A persistent thrum coursed through my blood like a treacherous, lewd vibration calibrated solely for the barefoot woman on the chilled marble, clad in that black lace robe chosen with clear intent—and both of us recognized it.

She was fully aware of her attire. Aware of its revelations—the damp sheer lace molding to her ample breasts, delineating every contour, scarcely concealing the broad sweep of her hips, leaving her long legs bare from mid-thigh downward.

Yet she opened the door wearing it regardless.

Either oblivious or deliberately provocative:

I'd relish the second option.

Two decades without intimacy hadn't dulled her grasp of black lace's message. It honed it to a lethal edge.

I approached the couch and took a seat. She arranged herself on the facing bed, legs tucking elegantly underneath.

The robe adjusted with her motion, the lace performing wicked feats I avoided fixating on—lest my gaze dwell on how it hiked up her thighs, the shadowy juncture of her legs, or her nipples peaking harder from the chill or my scrutiny, ending our talk prematurely.

Six feet of marble flooring and fragrant, warm air divided us. A distance feeling both intimately close and impossibly vast.

'Family,' I stated.

She blinked. Clearly unprepared for those words. Her stance altered subtly—the subtle realignment of someone anticipating a different exchange and now adapting.

'I’m afraid I won’t be here for another day. I’m going to Paris tonight and I’ll be there for two and a half months, minimum.' I reclined against the couch, palms placed openly on my thighs, posture open and sincere.

She gave an elegant shrug of one shoulder. The action caused the robe to slip another perilous inch, unveiling more of the plush, weighty arc of her breast and the shadowy rim of her areola against the lace.

'It’s fine.'

Her gaze sharpened. The word landed precisely as planned—a marker, a limit, a purposeful context for the electric tension sparking in the room.

It conveyed:

She maintained the intense stare a moment beyond ease, weighing the term, assessing if it defended or challenged.

With me, it might serve both purposes, and she was starting to realize it.

I rose to my feet.

I headed for the door. Took three paces before glancing back over my shoulder.

'Be safe while I’m gone,' I told her. 'And thank you for the game today.' A pause. 'I hope you reconsider your stance about my relationship with Luna.'

I faced the door again and continued onward.

Her voice called out. My name. This time it rang differently—bare of defenses, devoid of pretense, free of detached formality or parental command.

Simply a woman uttering a man's name to make him halt.

I halted.

The query lingered thickly between my turned back and her voice. Her breaths came audible—shallow, measured, the cadence of someone posing a question at great personal cost.

I refrained from turning.

She pressed on, her voice now more guarded, selecting words as if cradling breakable crystal.

"I must confess that absolutely nothingconcerning you adds up for me. I can't claim to grasp you in the slightest. However, I do grasp teenagers and their obsessions with . Hormones drive it. Novelty fuels it. The rush from something forbidden powers it." She paused.

"Yet after toying with all these women... what comes afterward? Will you simply abandon her or all of them in time?"

I refused to turn around. "Even after a few hours here, it's clear you grasp nothing whatsoever."

"Would you?" she inquired, her question bearing true gravity—the sort from a woman not assailing but sincerely seeking answers. "If positions were reversed. Would you comprehend?"

I stated it without any plan to elaborate. No more constructing arguments, no more offering proofs, no more seeking validation from someone who had judged me long before entering my space.

It held no importance.

Maria couldn't steal Luna away—Luna was an adult, Luna had decided for herself, Luna belonged to me beyond any ethical code Maria sought to impose.

Should she choose to condemn, let her do so across an ocean while I lounged in Paris with Luna eager and nestled in my sheets.

"Doesn't that trouble you?" she pressed, tone softer now. "The incest. The taboo. All the morals and ethics involved."

That... lacked judgment... lacked rebuke.

Lacked a mother arming for battle.

It rang quiet. Authentic.

Her query stemmed from an answer that truly impacted her inner struggle—unrelated to Luna, tied fully to the changing room mirror, the door she nearly fled through, the robe clinging to her still.

I detected the change. The core beneath her words. It concerned her. Her own sensations.

Her near actions. The robe, the shower, the door she allowed to stay ajar, fully aware of who waited beyond.

She sought my approval. Indirectly, maybe unconsciously.

Yet the question's whole framework— —depicted a woman probing the waters using another's toe before risking her own.

I shook my head. "No."

Silence dragged on.

Long enough for me to nearly resume my steps.

Long enough to catch the AC humming start and stop—and the faint rustle of lace as her form shifted forward slightly, legs uncrossing perhaps, or some motion hidden since I faced away, every fiber urging me to pivot.

she inquired.

A stir rose in my chest.

Her tone sank to that private pitch beneath everyday talk yet above admission—the precise tone females employ right before uttering irreversible words they've resolved to voice.

I replied.

Absolute stillness gripped the room.

The AC halted its rhythm. Golden sunlight maintained its slant through the pane.

Marble floor shadows halted.

Even the guest mansion's subtle background drone faded, leaving solely our breaths and the six feet of heated, electric space between us, which had narrowed relentlessly since my entry.

Maria uttered, voice deep, throaty, and clearly alluring.