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

Ava didn't move toward the door. She turned slowly from the window, city lights reflecting in her dark eyes like fractured glass. The predatory grace of her movements had shifted—the hunter now scenting something unexpected, something magnetic.

"You talk a good game, Eros," she said, voice low, rough velvet over steel. "Giving away billions like pocket change. Playing the saint." She took one step closer, then another—closing the space between us until the scent of her (gun oil, coffee, and something uniquely, dangerously female) invaded my air. "But I see the gaps in your story."

Her hand shot out—not fast, but deliberate. Fingers brushed the lapel of my jacket, tracing the line of muscle beneath. Her touch burned through the fabric. "Two billion for damaged goods? Please. You're not a philanthropist. You're a predator playing possum."

Her other hand rose, thumb hovering just above my jaw. The air crackled. "I want to know what you really are." She leaned in, lips a breath from my ear. "And I always find out. I told, ya, I too wanna know what's in those pants."

Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up—bold, challenging, dripping with naked curiosity. "Show me, Eros. Show me what you hide behind the good boy act." Her tongue wet her lower lip, slow, deliberate. "Or do you need me to make you?"

The challenge hung between us—sharp, electric, a dare wrapped in silk and steel. The hunter had just made her move. And she wasn't talking about business anymore.

My senses picked up everything—her elevated heart rate, the subtle dilation of her pupils, the pheromones mixing with that gun oil scent. She was trained to resist my presence, but resistance and immunity were different things entirely.

The air between us hung heavy with unspoken tension. Ava stood like a blade—shoulders squared, spine straight, every muscle wired for combat or control. But her eyes… her eyes betrayed her. They flickered with curiosity, with a challenge, with a hunger so sharp it almost cut through the air between us.

I didn't move to touch her. Not yet.

I didn't speak to dominate. Not yet.

I just moved closer. One slow, deliberate step. Then another. Letting her feel the shift in the atmosphere—the weight of my attention wrapping around her, the electric charge of my gaze holding her in place. Her pulse fluttered at the base of my throat. I watched it. Memorized the rhythm.

Her breath hitched—just slightly. The first crack in her armor.

"Your hands," I murmured, voice low, quiet—like gravel under silk. "Let me see them."

Ava's eyes narrowed. Suspicion warred with intrigue. "Why?"

"Because every scar, every callus, every line tells a story I want to read." I held her gaze, unblinking. "I'm not taking anything you're not offering."

She hesitated—a lifetime of training screaming at her to step back. But her fingers slowly uncurled from her sides. She presented her hands—palms up—reluctant, but yielding. They were beautiful. Strong. Scarred. The hands of a woman who'd fought, who'd bled, who'd survived. The hands of a predator.

I didn't grab them. I slid my hands beneath hers, lifting them until her palms rested against mine. My thumbs brushed the delicate skin of her wrists, tracing the faint scars there. Her breath hitched again. Sharper this time.

"You resist," I murmured, my thumbs slowly circling the pulse points. "It's instinct." My gaze lifted to hers, intense but soft. "I admire it."

Her throat worked. She swallowed. "This is a mistake."

"Is it?" I lowered my head, pressing my lips to the inside of her wrist. Not kissing—just resting. Letting her feel the warmth of my breath against her skin. Her pulse jumped beneath my lips. A soft, shuddering inhale left her.

My hands slid from beneath hers, tracing the powerful lines of her forearms, up to the solid muscle of her biceps, hidden beneath her tactical top. Fingertips danced along her shoulders, feeling the tension coiled in her frame. She shivered. She tried to suppress it—her shoulders stiffening immediately—but I felt it.

"You're always braced for impact," I murmured, my voice vibrating against her skin as I kissed my way up the inside of her arm. "Always ready for a fight."

My hands slid to her back, tracing the line of her spine through the fabric. Slow. Reverent. Memorizing the architecture of her strength. My lips brushed the curve of her shoulder. She trembled. Again.

"Stop," she whispered. The word lacked conviction.

I ignored her. "You want to be seen." My hands slid to her hips, gripping them firmly—not bruising, just possessing. "Not conquered. Seen."

Her head tilted, exposing more of her neck. An invitation. A surrender.

My lips found the pulse point there again, nuzzling, tasting the salt and faint tang of gunpowder and skin. "Let me worship what you hide, Ava."

She didn't refuse. After all, to her this was just fleeting moment with the most handsome man she's ever known, and it would pass, so she could let of her guard just this once. Unlike her though, I wasn't gonna let her go after today.

Her fingers, tense moments ago, now relaxed against my chest. Her body, coiled for fight seconds ago, now leaned into mine, melting into the warmth of my touch. Her breath came faster—uneven. Ragged.

My hands mapped her waist, tracing the curve of her hips, the strength in her thighs visible even beneath the tactical pants. My lips followed—slow, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, down the center of her sternum. I nuzzled the fabric stretched over her abdomen, breathing in the scent of her—sweat, gunpowder, her.

"Eros…" she breathed. Not a moan. Not yet. Just a name. A prayer. A plea.

I smiled against her skin. She felt it.

My hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair, not pulling, just resting. Holding her steady as I kissed the hollow of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse hammering beneath my lips. Her hips rolled forward. Involuntary. Seeking.

"Again," I whispered against her skin.

This time, her hands slid up my back, gripping my shirt, pulling me closer. "Please…"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop."

A quiet surrender. A broken wall.

I kept going. Every touch was slow, deliberate, filled with reverence. My mouth never left her skin, my hands never hurried. I mapped the lines of her strength, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the heat radiating through her tactical pants. I touched her through the fabric, letting her feel the devotion, the reverence, the hunger without taking what wasn't freely given.

And when she finally trembled, when a soft, broken moan escaped her lips—not from lust, but from surrender—I knew.

She was ready.

"Now," I whispered, my lips brushing her ear. "Beg."

Ava shuddered violently. Her hands tightened in my shirt. "Please…" she breathed, voice thick. "Please… show me…"

And finally—it wasn't just begging.

It was hunger.

And I gave it to her—without force, without violence—just the slow, deliberate unraveling of the woman who'd never yielded. Until now.

Until me.