Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 983: Sex Talk with Daughter? How We Met

Genevieve glanced toward the bedroom door. Silence lingered there like a courteous illusion—the quiet after intimacy, more akin to the cosmos pausing its breath before the following bout erupts.

"Where’s Eros?" she inquired.

"Showering," Isabella responded, snatching another grape from the bowl with the nonchalance of chatting about weather or errands. As though the fellow who had reshaped her inner landscape over the previous forty minutes was merely rinsing off following a brief jog.

"Oh." Genevieve’s gaze returned to the door, then shifted to Isabella. "Is it alright if I—"

"Go ahead," Isabella urged, tossing the grape stem toward the room as if swatting away a pest. "Just don’t hog him. We’ve got more bonding ahead, right?"

Genevieve rose swiftly from the couch. She halted at its edge, glanced back over her shoulder, and offered a grin blending playfulness and caution.

"No promises."

She slipped away barefoot, still clad in Peter’s oversized jacket like a prize she planned to keep forever.

The bedroom door shut with a gentle yet decisive click, akin to a blade descending halfway.

Maya and Isabella remained amid the abrupt true stillness.

No sounds of pleasure seeping through the walls. No steady bangs from the headboard against the wall. No Isabella voicing her own unraveling in terms that would silence TV broadcasters.

Simply mother and daughter, the grape bowl reduced to its final pitiful remnants, and the faint rush of shower water from behind two sealed doors.

Maya pivoted gradually.

"You smell like sex."

Isabella blinked once. "Pardon?"

"You reek. Intensely. A shower would’ve spared me from breathing in my mother’s after-sex scent right from the sofa cushions."

Isabella let out a sharp laugh—bold, shameless, the noise of a woman who abandoned embarrassment around Peter’s third time bending her over the kitchen counter.

"Darling, if I enter that bathroom now, expect at least two hours. Bathroom threesomes lack a quick five-minute limit."

Maya gaped. The prolonged, deliberate blink of a daughter who had accepted multiple unreal truths lately and now faced swallowing yet another with plain water.

"Mom. Do you hear what you’re saying?"

"What?"

"You just offhandedly suggested a threesome. With your boyfriend. And some other woman. Right here on this couch. Still marked by it all. That’s quite a load—"

Isabella shrugged one shoulder, the universal gesture for

"What’s there to conceal? You know he manages a harem. Faking ignorance now would make for poor drama."

Maya parted her lips. Shut them. Opened again, resembling a fish trying out for a role in a life crisis.

"That’s... beside the point. I’m aware of the harem. What I mean is you’re dumping a vivid image onto your daughter. Here and now. While reeking like a crime scene."

Isabella looked down at her form, then at Maya. Pondered. Nodded affirmatively.

"True enough." She grabbed the final grape. "Still skipping the shower."

Maya seized a throw pillow and pressed it to her face, as if smothering the talk into oblivion.

From behind two doors, Peter caught the bedroom opening and closing. Bare feet padded softly over tiles. The shower curtain rustled—someone poised just beyond the water, contemplating outcomes they had already dismissed.

Then she entered.

He spun around. Genevieve waited at the water’s brink, jacket discarded at last, her figure precisely as he had explored it the night before: sleek elongated curves, dark locks damply adhering to her shoulders from the steam, subtle purple bruises from his thumbs high on her thighs glowing under the light.

She eyed him like that daring curve on Mulholland—thrilled equally with the assurance that what followed could shatter her most delightfully.

He reached out a hand.

She grasped it. He drew her beneath the cascade.

Cold water struck Genevieve sharply—she inhaled sharply, a full shudder tearing through her as chills raced from scalp to toes.

Her nipples drew into tight, throbbing peaks right away, dark and rosy amid the pale torrent over her chest. Before the chill rooted, Peter’s arms encircled her, pulling her firmly against his torso with strength that weakened her legs.

His body heat swallowed the chill rapidly. Water heated at their contact points, vapor rising between them like mist.

Her tremors faded, yet her breaths remained rapid—short gasps misting before her lips.

She sensed him all over: firm chest pressing her back, rigid abs shifting along her spine, and below—his cock, thick and weighty, settled firmly in the cleft of her rear as if at home.

He held back from thrusting. For now.

Instead, he rocked forward slow, purposefully, allowing the hefty shaft to glide along her crease—warm skin rubbing delicate tissue, tip prodding her spine’s base upward, then descending to brush her tight rear opening without entering.

The glide tormented: slippery from water, silky-firm upon her, parting her cheeks slightly so each stroke tantalized the tender flesh near her entrance.

Genevieve broke—head dropping back onto his shoulder.

Water poured over her features, carving paths across collarbones, through the full curves of her breasts, dripping from stiff nipples as if overflowing.

Peter’s left hand ascended her ribs, enveloped one breast fully, thumb stroking below before tweaking the nipple—deliberate squeeze, turn, pull—drawing her arch and a soft cry.

His right hand ventured down. Fingers located her clit—swollen, emerging from its cover—and orbited lazily once, then bore down solidly.

She twitched, hips bucking rearward on reflex, pressing her ass firmer to his cock. He maintained a merciless tempo: slow circles on her clit, syncing with his length’s slide between cheeks—upward, downward, repeat—tormenting relentlessly.

He mouthed her neck initially—wetly open, teeth skimming the pulse—then shifted to her ear. Lips grazed the curve, breath scorching damp skin.

"You’re shaking," he whispered, tone deep beneath the shower’s roar. Another languid thrust, tip snagging perfectly at her rear on descent, eliciting her gasp. "Not the water’s fault."

She chuckled—gasping, ruined—hips circling back for more. "Blame yourself."

He nipped her earlobe, fingers clamping her nipple tighter as he flattened two against her clit, rubbing in swift tight loops.

She cried out louder, legs quaking, core tightening emptily while his cock persisted, weighty and demanding, coating her crease with precum blending into the flow.

He trailed kisses along her jaw—deliberate, slick, claiming—returning to her ear.

"So..." His tone deepened, gravelly, lips caressing skin per syllable. "Bathroom sex. Interested?"

She leaned her head further back, water rushing past sealed lids, lips ajar on a quivering breath. Her dark eyes parted, locking on his amid vapor—intense, ravenous, nearly lost.

"I seem to recall," she breathed, tone quivering with desire,