Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 298

Chapter 298: Morning Rom-Com

I needed something real. Something mine to ground me.

Found it in the bedroom.

Madison and Amanda. A study in contrasts tangled in sheets that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Both face down, unconscious, the morning light painting masterpieces across their exposed backs.

The dip of Amanda’s spine created a shadowed valley leading down to the sweet swell of her ass, barely covered by Egyptian cotton so soft it practically whispered promises against her skin. Madison’s tan lines, faint tracks from some ridiculously exclusive beach, framed the strong lines of her shoulders. Fuck the Louvre; this art hung in my bed. My private collection.

I moved to Amanda first. The bed dipped slightly under my weight. Leaned down, pressed my lips to that warm, sensitive spot between her shoulder blades – the one that always made her melt like caramel in the sun.

Her skin tasted clean, expensive, faintly of some floral lotion Madison doubtlessly insisted on.

The kiss sent a shiver rippling through her, muscles tensing then relaxing under the touch.

"Hey you..." Her voice was thick with sleep, gravelly, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with fucking and everything to do with belonging.

"Hey beautiful." No embellishment needed. She just was.

She pushed herself up just enough, eyes still heavy-lidded, and found my mouth. Morning breath be damned. Her lips were soft, warm, chapped from sleep – achingly real against mine.

That sweetness... it wasn’t just taste. It was her. The essence of the girl who’d looked at Harold’s millions and family forceful arrangements to marry her off and said, Nah, I’ll take the chaos. Her body melted against my chest, soft curves molding to hard muscle, bare breasts warm through my shirt, nipples peaking into hard little points that sent a jolt straight to my dick. Not a demanding jolt, but a remembering one. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

I held her. No roaming hands, no urgency. Just kissing her deeper, tasting the profound trust she’d handed me when she chose danger over sterile safety. The choice still knocked me sideways.

"I want to sleep more," she mumbled against my neck, pulling away, her breath hot.

"Of course, beautiful. Beauty needs her sleep." Pressed a kiss to her forehead, tasting salt and night sweat, then breathed in the scent of her hair – expensive French shampoo blended with pure Amanda. Settled her back into the warm nest. She curled up instantly, a contented cat, all soft surrender.

Gods, I fucking loved mine.

Before I could shift towards Madison, she moved. That voice, dark honey and command, wrapped around me like custom-tailored velvet.

"Come here, my king."

King. The position only I held in her life. Just mine. Not the trust fund assholes who’d circled her like vultures at every sterile gala, not the CEOs’ spawn waving Ferraris and Cartier like cheap bait.

Just me. The ghost from the wrong side of the tracks who’d somehow walked off with the crown jewels.

This was my Madison. The anchor. The one who looked at the god who burned through lovers, the Dark Lord who made grown women weep and beg, and saw Peter. Saw the fucking mess beneath the power, the kid who might drown in the liquor store earthquake of my own making without her.

Lose yourself in a world sculpted from beauty, power, obscene wealth, and sex so addictive it should be illegal? Easy. Staying sane for twenty-four hours in that shitstorm? That was the trick. Throw in a snarky AI whispering tactical data in your ear and abilities that blurred the line between human and weapon, and madness started looking like a viable retirement plan.

But Madison... she held the tether. My anchor in the hurricane. She kept me fucking here. Grounded in the glorious, messy, complicated reality of owning the world, one woman at a time. And right now, the world felt perfectly, dangerously, beautifully mine.

She undressed me with the precision of a swordswoman—each button surrendered, each zipper lowered under fingers that understood the terrain of my body like a map. Her nails scraped against my ribs: not marks of ownership, but shorthand for I know every scar, every tremor.

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