Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 959: Mask Until They Don’t

Standing out as the prime target amid a crowd of enigmatic masked figures creates a distinct form of tension that I'll never gripe over, given my clear awareness of the path that led me here and the sharp recall of my former life. I'll just immerse myself in it, express thanks, feel a touch overwhelmed too, yet withhold that detail from ARIA.

she uttered. Her tone remained hushed. Balanced. Precisely modulated. It belonged to a person who'd already mapped out their words prior to voicing them.

I responded. 'Regarding the subject we're discussing. And the spot where it'll occur.'

She inclined her head a bit. The golden edging on her mask gleamed under the amber glow. 'Both yet to be settled. The latter particularly so.'

At my back, Charlotte stood firm. Madison charmed from a cautious range. Eziel engaged in whatever secretive activities Eziel pursues unseen, likely something alarming should I discover it.

My companions—acting true to form, competent, requiring no support from me.

Thus, I possessed ample opportunity.

The lady observed my mental deliberations.

She excelled in composure. The variety born from prior experience, aware that the one initiating speech seldom dominates the exchange.

Still, I initiated the words, since mastery of the dialogue held no true significance.

'A conversation won't cause harm,' I stated.

Her grin extended to the sole visible portion of her features.

'Indeed,' she concurred. 'It won't.'

The venue for intimacy at select gatherings and events holds importance, and I spoke truthfully about lacking experience with it at such a bash—had I ever?

I'd indulged in it in Plural. I'd savored it within a VP's workspace—she'd feigned illness for her lecture, summoned me similarly absent from mine, then enacted acts upon me at that executive's desk undoubtedly breaching school rules alongside various global pacts.

That tale remained untold to others. Solely to ARIA, who, knowing all, had archived it under

I remain uncertain about the mug's owner on that desk—the one toppled. I trust it wasn't his.

In truth, I truly don't mind. I've reconciled with the incident.

Yet a soiree? Unexplored territory. It struck me as a lapse deserving remedy this evening.

Our exchange lasted roughly eight minutes.

Eight minutes where she balanced accuracy and cordiality perfectly, offering just sufficient intrigue to captivate without enough clues to identify her—a calculated approach, evident to me.

Eight minutes as the festivity swirled nearby, each lady who'd observed from afar reassessing, adapting, poised for the chat's conclusion to slip into any opening she might provide.

She intended no such opening.

She drew nearer.

Sufficiently proximate for her lips to brush my ear, her heat arriving prior to her words.

'The building features the,' she murmured. 'Or so I've heard.' A brief halt, serving as a comma. 'Moreover—my zipper's jammed. I could seek another's aid, but truly, you seem the sole attendee I'd rely on for the task.'

She withdrew. Grinned. Departed.

Precisely so. Without flourish. Without a backward glance. The assured poise of a female certain she required none.

ARIA noted in my earpiece, arid as a financial report.

I tracked her departure for about two seconds prior to her enacting it—the , palm pressing the partition, one stiletto raised from the floor in that refined manner of an ankle twist.

She glanced rearward with a look of flawless vulnerable regret.

This utterly wild, thoroughly dedicated, remarkably clever female.

I traversed the space to reach her, guided her limb into mine, and we proceeded—her relying on me subtly enough to persuade, me steering us to the distant hallway as if merely assisting heel-clad navigation through the event.

No inquiries arose.

The assembly divided and reformed in our wake like liquid, for that's how throngs behave when you traverse them with evident purpose toward your destination.

This ranks as either the pinnacle of romance I've encountered at an affair or the inaugural segment of a true crime docuseries.

Potentially both.

They're not mutually

Upon rounding the bend—

My mask disengaged initially. I tugged it above my crown and allowed it to fall wherever on the ground aft, indifferent to its resting place.

Hers followed—my fingers locating the tie at her nape, untying it, the covering loosening to unveil the complete visage at last.

.

No opportunity emerged to comment on it, as her palms were already upon my shoulders while I shifted—my grasp locating her midsection, and she elevated effortlessly, her limbs encircling me with the fluidity of someone who'd resolved this far earlier than the zipper pretext.

Her gown ascended her legs in the shift. My palms discovered the curve of her via the material, drawing her nearer, with all pretense vanished between us.

She initiated the kiss.

She'd it.

Her lips asserted firmly—not an inquiry, not a trial, merely a declaration issued forthright.

The impact struck my torso foremost, that unique spark from one who bestows kisses mirroring their speech: purposeful, affectionate, fully cognizant of desires and disinclined to atone.

I kissed her in return, eliciting a noise from her against my lips—gentle, deep, the sort preceding a choice to unleash the more intense variants.

Next, her tongue met mine.

And she emitted a moan. Subtle. Authentic.

The noise across the tunes seeping from the upper level and settled into my vertebrae, lingering there.

I squeezed her via the attire—both grips, complete spans—and she curved toward it, her digits fanning over my rear as if charting territory, each contact intensifying her hold, as if startled by her physique's reaction yet resolved to explore the revelation further.

We collided with the barrier.

I hadn't intended it, yet neither had I avoided it—the passage sufficiently confined for the sway to feel instinctive, my flank brushing the surface and us pivoting simultaneously so her rear met it over mine, prompting a fresh utterance from her—keener, thrilled, untroubled—and her limbs constricted as we paused there briefly, exhaling into one another's lips at null separation, her digits hooked in my coat, my holds brimming with her, the subdued rhythm of the gala overhead the sole cue of external presence.

This stands as the wildest gathering of my existence, and I began relishing it immensely.

We parted sufficiently to advance.

She disentangled her limbs, contacted the ground, heels resounding—and subsequently her palm seized mine, tugging, directing, and I trailed since the restrooms lay oppositely and she'd evidently scouted the layout.

We covered roughly six paces ere I reconsidered her guidance, and she chuckled—sincere, vibrant, unexpected—upon my whirling her toward me for another kiss versus the facing barrier, her rear meeting the wallcovering gently, her palms darting to my torso then opting to remain.

We reached the remainder to the lavatories fragmentarily.

In that manner.