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

"Honest mistake? That's rich. You're probably one of those creeps who follows girls around the party, waiting for a chance to sneak in and watch. Perverted asshole—get out before I really lose it!"

I didn't move, just tilted my head slightly. "If I was a creep, I'd be acting differently. But I'm not. And for what it's worth, your dance was beautiful. Hypnotic. Like watching art come to life."

She paused, breath catching, the flush on her cheeks deepening—from anger or something else? "Don't you dare try to flatter your way out of this! What kind of sicko watches a woman dance in private and then compliments her like that? You think that makes it okay? Get. Out. Now!"

Her voice rose again, echoing off the glass walls, but there was a waver in it now, her hands trembling on the robe.

I smiled faintly, still calm. "You're right. It doesn't make it okay. I shouldn't have watched. But it was impossible to look away. You move like you own the room, the light, the air. Stunning. Truly."

She blinked, the anger cracking just a fraction, her grip loosening on the robe. "Stunning? You think you can just say that, and I'll forget you're a trespassing pervert? Who the hell are you anyway? Some drunk kid who wandered up here thinking he could get a free show?"

"Eros," I said simply. "And no, I'm not drunk. Just… exploring. Again, I apologize. If you want me to leave, I will."

She hesitated, eyes narrowing as she tried to see me clearer in the shadows. "Eros? Dex's friend? The guy from the beach? That doesn't give you a pass to creep around! But… fine. If you're really him, prove it. And then get out."

From the sound of her voice she di not let me off because she trusted me or anything or because she'd seen me, no, it was of because of Dex and not willingly but because the name Dex willed it so that she complies without saying no.

What was going on?

It felt like she was being forced?

I stepped fully into the light, letting her see: the carved jaw, the broad shoulders, the calm eyes that held hers without flinching.

She went still.

The blanket trembled slightly with her breath.

"You… you're indeed him," she whispered. "The Beach King."

I inclined my head. "Guilty."

Silence stretched, thick and electric.

Then: "You're still a pervert."

"Technically, yes," I said, voice warm. "But only because I walked in on a goddess mid-ritual. That dance…" I let out a low whistle. "Should be illegal. Or framed. Or both."

Her lips twitched. Just once.

"Flattery won't get you out of this," she said, but the edge was dulling.

"Wasn't trying to get out," I said. "Was trying to apologize. And maybe ask if you wanted the door closed… or a drink. I make a mean bourbon neat. No ice. No judgment."

She studied me in the half-dark.

"You're trouble," she murmured.

"Born and raised," I said.

She exhaled slowly, robe slipping another inch. "FYI that dance wasn't for you. It was… private. You shouldn't have seen it."

"Private or not, it was breathtaking. The way you moved—graceful, powerful, like the music was part of you. Beautiful doesn't cover it."

She bit her lip, the anger fading into something warmer, her cheeks flushing deeper. "Flattery again? You're smooth. Too smooth. But… thanks, I guess. Not many people appreciate dance like that."

"I do," I said, voice steady. "It's art. And you're a masterpiece."

I couldn't help a laugh.

She clutched the blanket like armor, chin high, eyes spitting blue fire.

"You think this is funny?" Her voice cracked like a whip. "Some rich kid wanders up here, drunk and entitled, thinking he can just watch? I should scream right now. Let the whole party see what kind of creep their 'Beach King' really is."

I stayed in the shadows, hands still raised, voice steady. "Like I said... You could. But you won't."

Her nostrils flared. "And why the hell are you so sure?"

"Because you're not the screaming type," I said. "You're the break a man's jaw and step over the body type. And because if you wanted me gone, I'd already be bleeding on the carpet."

A beat.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're cocky."

"Observant," I corrected. "And sorry. Genuinely. I followed the light. Thought it was another bar. Or a smoke room. Or… hell, I don't know. A shrine to the gods of bad decisions. Didn't expect you."

She scoffed, but the blanket loosened a fraction. "Flattery's cheap. And you're still trespassing."

"True on both counts," I said. "But I'm not lying. That dance…" I let out a low, reverent breath.

"Jesus. You move like the music was written for you. Like you're pulling the beat out of the air and wrapping it around your hips. I've seen women half your age try and fail to look half as dangerous."

Her lips parted. Just slightly.

"Half my age?" she repeated, voice sharp again. "You have no idea how old I am."

"Don't need to," I said. "You're not twenty-five pretending to be thirty. You're thirty-five owning twenty-five. There's a difference. One's a costume. The other's a weapon."

The blanket slipped lower, baring the lace edge of her bra, the soft rise of her breasts. She didn't fix it.

"You're smooth," she said, but the venom was fading. "Too smooth. That how you got all those girls downstairs drooling?"

"No," I said. "That was iron and ego. This? This is just me trying not to get murdered by a woman who could probably snap my neck with her thighs and make it look like foreplay."

A laugh slipped out before she could stop it. Short. Surprised. Real.

She caught it, pressed her lips together, glared harder.

"Don't," she warned.

"Too late," I said. "You laughed. That means I'm not completely fucked."

She rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased. The blanket dropped to her waist now, robe still half-open beneath it, lace clinging to sweat-damp skin.

"You're still a pervert," she said.

"Certified," I agreed. "But I'm a pervert who knows when to shut up and admire from a respectful distance. Unless invited closer."

She studied me. Really studied.

"You're not drunk," she said finally.

"Buzzed. Not blind."

"And you're not scared."

"Terrified," I said. "But the view's worth the risk."

Another beat.

Then, softer: "You really think I dance like that on purpose?"

"No," I said. "You dance like that because you have to. Like breathing. Like the music lives in your blood. And anyone who says otherwise is lying or jealous."

Her fingers loosened on the blanket. It fell to the floor.

The robe hung open now, framing her like a painting: lace, skin, moonlight, power.

She tilted her head.

"Close the door, Beach King."

I stepped forward.

"Yes, ma'am."

****

A/N: This impossible *****fucker just talked his way into her room!