Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 988: Bullshitting My Way into Sable’s Pants

I halted in my tracks, just like a guy suddenly recalling he'd left the stove burning in another man's marriage.

Sable's fingers gripped my hand tightly—possessive, demanding, the hold of someone who'd spent years terrorizing interns and now refused to let me go.

She'd latched onto me as if I owed her a debt to the IRS.

"Are you really going to leave me like this?" Her tone stayed composed outwardly, yet beneath lurked the raw edge of a woman teased endlessly for weeks, teetering on the brink of arson with one gentle no. ""

I pivoted around. Deliberately. Offering her a complete view of everything she'd forfeit if I truly exited that door.

And damn if she didn't look even sexier than before. The gown was fresh—clearly picked out pre-ambush. Its neckline dove defiantly against physics. The hem climbed so daringly it might pass as a belt in certain places.

The ensemble shouted seduction loud and clear.

In this battle, she'd deployed strategic lingerie beneath that gown along with backup from above.

This was Sable Rivera, the Empress's younger sister. Razor-sharp like a guillotine, even more stunning, overseeing the media empire of a lineage that shaped American views long before tech whizzes mastered "algorithm."

And get this—that identical powerhouse now stood in her towering forty-second-floor glass sanctuary, clutching my hand like the sole escape vessel from the Titanic, clad in haute couture, gazing at me as if I were the unbeatable final adversary.

Our previous solo moment in this office? I devoured her pussy via lace panties atop that exact desk.

Tongue pressed wide, material drenched, her thighs squeezing my head like she aimed to crush a nut with her powerful legs.

She'd chewed her lip until it bled, fighting not to yell and summon security for a live check-in.

That desk bore grudges against her still.

She hadn't forgiven either.

Then I'd departed. Simply walked away. Abandoning her there, panties wrecked, heart racing wildly, craving so intense it deserved its own postal zone.

It was merciless. Calculated.

Denial tactics. You don't dominate a woman like Sable by taking her on the first evening.

You break her by forcing pleas on the seventeenth night.

Post-interview today—I allowed her to call me for a so-called "discussion."

We covered timetables. Media rhythms. Viewer stats. We couldn't care less about those stats if we attempted. I observed her legs crossing and uncrossing, as if sparking flames between her thighs.

Saw her tongue dart across her lower lip when she assumed my focus wandered.

But my attention never strays.

Then I rose. Mentioned prepping for a Paris flight.

Made for the exit.

And now this moment.

Her grip intensified.

My eyes dropped to her hand, then lifted to her expression. The commanding boardroom smirk from our initial encounter—vanished.

That Sable facade had been methodically dismantled through weeks of closeness, taunts, and precise edging. Now only exposed nerves remained.

"The problem, Sable," I murmured, lowering my pitch to that knee-weakening timbre,

She blinked. Genuinely blinked.

"Your existence. Your devotion. They remain tied to the Empress. We both recognize it. And I realize you haven't fully severed that link." I locked eyes with her like reciting her rights. "Haven't you?"

Silence cut like a blade, sharp enough to slice skin.

In my mind, I bellowed bullshit at full blast.

Every syllable dripped pure, refined nonsense. Complete nonsense.

No moral dilemma about her loyalty to the Empress or her ancient clan—or Sable's sworn allegiance to anybody but the guy now controlling her hand and her composure.

I stood there spouting therapy-speak on morals and commitment like a pathetic counselor, while reality boiled down simpler:

I was breaking her in.

Deliberately. Savagely sweet. Driving her to such frenzy that when I finally unzipped, she'd blank on her identity, never mind her sibling's crown.

Empress Catalina Rivera—would detect my ploy from space and mock me outright.

Sable? She swallowed it whole. Bait, sinker, and sibling rivalry baggage.

She truly thought I agonized over the ethics of seizing a woman bound by family chains.

I wasn't struggling.

I was orchestrating.

Yet her fingers burrowed deeper—

Her jaw locked tight, breath caught, a perilous mix sparking in those shrewd eyes (pain, rage, desire, blended fiercely)—

I let out a chuckle—deep, shadowy, the sound of victory assured yet prolonging the torment.

Then I kissed her.

Swiftly.

Fiercely.

A single firm clash of lips—vanished before response, before she could deepen it into the frenzy finishing with her draped over the desk, skirt hiked, pleading coherently.

I drew back slightly to survey the impact.

"Relax," I said, baring a grin revealing every fang once sunk into another's spouse. "I’m just teasing you."

Her lips parted on a gasp—then snapped closed as if recalling her role as fearsome media titan, not the woman glitching from prolonged denial.

Her gaze sharpened into that unique murder-flirtation stare women alone master: fifty percent kill intent, fifty percent "take me now."