Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 383

Chapter 383: In Mom’s Kitchen (R-18)
My fingers found the loose knot of her robe’s sash. With a deliberate tug, it whispered undone. The heavy silk sighed open, sliding slowly, deliciously down her shoulders like molten darkness. It caught briefly at her elbows, baring her torso to the warm, steam-laden air.

The sight stole my breath.

The contrast was breathtaking. Cool air kissed her exposed skin, raising gooseflesh across her breasts and flat belly, even as the residual heat of the kitchen and the fire of my gaze washed over her. She shivered violently, a full-body ripple.

“It’s… cold,” she breathed, her nipples pearling instantly into tight, hard buds against the sudden chill.

“But you’re burning up,” I thought, tracing the rosy areolas with my thumbs. Her breasts were fuller than Emma’s, heavier in my palms, the soft weight fitting perfectly. The sight of them—pale, flawless, topped with those straining peaks—sent a jolt straight to my cock.

It throbbed, thick and insistent against the fly of my pants, a visible ridge straining the denim.

She was perfect. Full, rounded, with creamy skin flushed with arousal. I leaned down, my tongue darting out to circle one tight peak, teasing it before drawing it slowly into the warm heat of my mouth.

Sarah cried out, her back bowing sharply off the counter, her hands flying to the back of my head, holding me to her. “Oh god! Peter!” Her voice was shattered, filled with years of suppressed longing finally finding release.

Slowly, reverently, I pushed the silk aside, exposing her completely from the waist up.

I suckled gently, then harder, my tongue flicking relentlessly against the sensitive bud. My free hand roamed, tracing the curve of her waist, her hip, then sliding down her thigh.

I pushed the gathered silk of her robe higher, bunching it around her waist, revealing the long, smooth lines of her legs, the black lace of her panties stretched taut over her mound. I could see the damp spot darkening the fabric, smell the intoxicating musk of her arousal mingling with the soap.

My fingers grazed the damp lace, tracing the outline of her swollen lips through the material.

Sarah whimpered, bucking her hips up against my hand. “Please,” she begged, the word a ragged prayer. “Peter… please…” She didn’t know what she begged for – more touch, more kiss, relief from the unbearable tension coiling within her.

Her legs wrapped instinctively around my waist, pulling me tighter against the counter, grinding her damp heat against the hard bulge straining my jeans. The friction was exquisite torture for us both.

I traced the elastic band of her panties, fingers dipping just underneath the lace at her hip, feeling the fevered heat of her skin.

“Tell me,” I murmured against her breast, moving to lavish attention on its neglected twin. My voice was heavy with demand. “Tell me what you want, Sarah. Tell me about the burn.” My fingers teased the edge of her panties, promising entry but not yet granting it.

She writhed beneath me, a captive of sensation. “I want… I want to feel what Emma felt,” she gasped, her voice thick with tears and need. “I want… I want you… like she has you… like…” Her words dissolved into a desperate moan as my fingers slipped beneath the lace, encountering the slick, molten heat of her folds for the first time.

She was impossibly wet, coating my fingers instantly.

The touch was electric. Her entire body convulsed. A sharp cry tore from her throat. She clutched at me, hips bucking wildly against my hand. “Yes! Oh god, yes!” The dam had burst.

Her shyness, her hesitation – all burned away by the fire of my touch and the relentless tide of the Taboo abilities. She was open, vulnerable, utterly mine for the taking, her body arching off the counter in desperate supplication, her eyes locked onto mine, reflecting the same primal hunger that consumed me.

The kitchen, the cooking, the outside world – it had all ceased to exist. There was only the counter, the steam, the scent of arousal, and the desperate, shared breath between us, hovering on the knife-edge of the inevitable.

Her eyes dropped. A choke caught in her throat. “Peter… you’re…” Her hand flew out, not to touch, but to push weakly at my chest. “We… we can’t…” Her denial died as her gaze locked onto the solid length pressing towards her.

The push faltered. Conflicted hunger warred with ingrained inhibition. Then, with a desperate whimper, her hand wasn’t pushing anymore; it was pulling. Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt, dragging me closer, grinding her suddenly damp silk-clad core against the bulge.

The friction was searing. “Uhnn!” The moan was torn from her, deep guttural. Her hips bucked forwards, seeking more pressure, more heat. Then fear flashed again, and she pushed—harder this time, planting a hand flat against my sternum, creating inches of space.

“Wait… wait…” Her chest heaved. Her eyes darted between my face and the undeniable evidence of my desire. “It’s… too much…”

But I didn’t retreat. I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. “Too much for who, Sis? For me?” My voice was a low growl. “Or for you?”

My hands slid down her torso, pushing the robe completely free. It slithered off her arms, pooling like a black shadow on the countertop, leaving her utterly bare except for the tiny, damp black triangle of her panties.

The sudden exposure stole her breath. She stood frozen on the counter, vulnerable yet radiant, bathed in the soft kitchen light. The cool air caressed her everywhere—her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the smooth expanse of her thighs already slick with her arousal.

The vulnerability was palpable, yet amplified by the fierce, unashamed desire in her eyes. “Sacrilegious beauty,” my system-whispered mind supplied. “Yours to claim.”

She looked down at herself, then back at me, a tremor running through her. “I’m… I’m naked,” she whispered, the statement thick with shock and a dawning, dangerous pride.

“I see,” I murmured, my gaze drinking her in. My hands returned to her skin, tracing the line of her panties, feeling the heat trapped beneath the lace. She gasped, a sharp inhale. Her hips rocked forward, seeking my touch, then snapped back as if burned.

The push/pull was agonizing, a physical manifestation of her inner storm. Her hand, still flat on my chest, trembled violently.

The pressure coiled tighter. The system hummed, demanding. Her eyes glazed over, pupils swallowed the blue.

A low keen built in her throat.

The conflict, the intensity, the sheer wrongness and rightness crashing over her—it was too much. With a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, she lunged. Not for my lips, but for my shoulder.

Her teeth sank into the hard muscle just above my collarbone. Sharp. Possessive. Desperate. It wasn’t gentle; it was a fierce, instinctive bite, marking me, anchoring herself against the tidal wave of sensation threatening to drown her.

“Ah~!” I hissed, the pain mingling explosively with pleasure. It was the catalyst. Her entire body convulsed against me. Her legs locked like vices around my waist, pulling me impossibly tight against the counter.

Her other hand clawed at my back, fingers digging in. The bite eased instantly, replaced by a hot, apologetic tongue laving the mark she’d made, but the desperation remained. Her eyes, when they met mine again, were feral, unguarded, blazing with a need that obliterated every boundary left between us.

The robe, the cool air, the bite, the frantic clutch of her hands—it was all foreplay distilled to its purest, most dangerous essence. We stood suspended, trembling on the knife-edge, the kitchen spinning around us.

The scent of her arousal was overwhelming, mixed with the faint coppery tang of my skin where she’d bitten. Her bare skin pressed against my clothed body, a constant, maddening friction. The bulge in my pants was trapped tight against her molten core, separated only by the thin, soaked lace of her panties and my own tormenting denim.

“Peter…” her voice was broken, nothing but liquid need. Her hips moved in tiny, helpless circles against me. “Please… I can’t… I can’t stop…” The confession was a surrender. The push was over. The pull was absolute. The kitchen foreplay had reached its inevitable, shattering climax. She was ready. Utterly. Irrevocably.