Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 170

Chapter 170: "Bedroom?"

"No." The word shot out, surprising even her. "That’s the problem. I should be calling you an Uber. Instead, I’m debating if offering water makes my intentions too obvious."

"Hydration’s important. Medical professional like yourself should know that."

She laughed, breathless. "Right. Medical necessity."

The apartment swallowed us whole. Organized elegance, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city like it belonged to her, bookshelves sagging under the weight of medical texts and crushed dreams. Even the couch looked like it came with its own tax bracket.

"Nice place," I said, setting her bag down like I’d been doing this for years.

"Thanks. Water’s in the kitchen. Unless you want something stronger? Though that’s definitely contributing to delinquency." She removed her sweater revealing the shirt underneath.

"Water’s fine. I’m already buzzed on pharmaceutical foreplay."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, moving toward the kitchen. I followed, definitely checking out how her jeans performed miracles normally reserved for scripture. When she stretched for glasses from a high cabinet, her shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of skin that made Nobel Prizes look like participation trophies.

"Here." She handed me a glass, fingers brushing mine with all the subtlety of a defibrillator.

We stood there drinking water like Olympians, the silence so thick it could’ve been cut with one of her scalpels.

"This is insane," she finally muttered.

"Which part? The age gap, the professional suicide, or the fact we’re pretending water was the mission objective?"

"Yes." She abandoned her glass, dragging her fingers through hair that probably had a maintenance budget. "All of it. What the fuck am I doing?"

"Whatever you want as you said. Or nothing. Entirely your call."

She looked at me like I was a medical mystery—something dangerous but fascinating. "Want to know the really fucked up part?"

"Tell me."

"I haven’t felt this alive in months. Maybe years." She stepped closer, close enough that her body heat rewired mine. "One coffee with a delinquent, and suddenly I remember what wanting feels like."

"What do you want?"

"Dangerous question." Her hand pressed to my chest, like checking for arrhythmia. "Because what I want and what I should want are currently in a cage match."

"Who’s winning?"

"Guess."

And then she kissed me.

Not a collision of mouths. A detonation.

Her fingers sank into my hair like daggers seeking purchase in stone, the other hand clawing at my shirt—not grabbing, rending fabric like she aimed to peel it from my skin along with my restraint. Our noses crushed, teeth clicking in a near-painful impact as her lips claimed mine with the force of a verdict.

This wasn’t tenderness; it was a confession sealed with pressure; a bargain struck in breathless seconds. My back hit the counter with enough force to rattle the glasses, her body following, pinning me there with surprising strength.

She made a sound—a guttural moan that vibrated from her chest into mine, equal parts triumph and terror—that short-circuited every thought except more.

When we broke, gasping like survivors pulled from wreckage, her lipstick was a smear of crimson violence across my mouth, my jaw, like war paint applied by a conqueror. I probably looked like I’d been mauled by desire.

"Fuck," she whispered, forehead pressed hard against mine. Her breath came in ragged bursts, fanning my lips. "That was..."

"Yeah." My voice was gravel, scraped raw.

"I’m going to hell." The words were a tremor against my skin.

"I’ll save you a seat." My hands, previously braced on the counter, slid around her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hips, dragging her impossibly closer.

"VIP section."

She barked a laugh—short, sharp, entirely devoid of joy. Sinful. Dark. "Promises, promises." But she didn’t retreat. Her grip in my hair tightened painfully, knuckles bone-white against my shirt, anchoring herself to the precipice.

My lips found the desperate pulse point below her jaw, sucking just hard enough to make her gasp, her hips jerking against mine.

"We should stop," she breathed, the words a ragged plea against my neck—while simultaneously arching into me, pressing her breasts against my chest, her hand abandoning my hair to slip under my shirt, nails raking down my spine.

She tasted like coffee laced with arsenic, and I couldn’t get enough. Her hands were everywhere—fisting my hair again, raking my back under my shirt, kneading the muscles of my shoulders like she needed to convince herself this was real, this ruin was real.

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