Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 346

Chapter 346: Sable Rivera

The heavy oak doors swung inward without a sound, admitting a vision that stopped time itself.

She moved like honey poured over silk—a woman carved from a bygone era of Technicolor dreams and whispered scandals. Her dress screamed Old Hollywood glamour: a crimson satin sheath that hugged every lethal curve of her hourglass figure, the neckline plunging just enough to promise damnation.

Hem brushing mid-calf, seam straight as a razor against nylon-sheathed legs. Hair? Bottled platinum waves cascading past bare shoulders, catching the chandelier light like spun gold. Lips painted a violent, wet red—a slash of defiance against porcelain skin.

A pearl choker sat snug against her throat, both adornment and collar. Perfume preceded her: jasmine and bourbon and something else.

Danger.

She stopped just inside the threshold, one gloved hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding a leather portfolio folder like a shield. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Age hadn’t touched—it had distilled. Crow’s feet at the corners of eyes the color of storm clouds? Not wrinkles. Battle scars. Eyes that missed nothing. A cougar in her prime, dressed to kill and knowing it.

Her thoughts flooded my mind, sharp and bourbon-soaked:

{Holy fuck. Who the hell is this? He’s so younger than I expected... but those eyes. Christ, those eyes look like they’ve seen hell and bought the fucking T-shirt. That attire... tailored like a second skin. Money. Real money. Quiet money. Dangerous godly being.}

I allowed myself to lean forward slightly, showing the first hint of interest. Let her think the seduction was working.

"Good morning," I said, my voice carrying just enough warmth to seem affected by her presence. "You must be from the Empress’s Assistant."

{Christ, what is it about him? I spend my days giving orders, controlling meetings, making executives twice my age jump when I speak. But looking at him... I want him to take control completely. Not just in business - in everything. }

She moved—not walked, glided. Steps silent on the parquet, hips swaying with deliberate, measured grace. The scent of her intensified, wrapping around me like a velvet fist. Her storm-cloud eyes bored into mine, a flicker of something raw and hungry behind the polished ice queen facade.

"Mr. Desiderion," she murmured, voice like whiskey poured over gravel—low, cultured, with an undercurrent of smoky amusement. "I’m Sable Rivera, the Empress’s... personal assistant. She regrets she is momentarily detained. She sends her regards... and her apologies for the delay."

ARIA’s voice whispered in my mind: "Master. Subject: Sable Rivera, 49. Role: Executive Assistant & Family Historian. Primary target, Empress Catalina Rivera, is observing via camera feed in the Klimt frame. Audio monitoring active. Subject Sable is assessing you for the Empress."

Perfect. I kept my expression neutral, showing just enough reaction to seem genuine.

{I’m imagining him pulling me across his lap right here, making me submit while the cameras watch. The thought of Catalina seeing me lose all composure... it should horrify me, but instead it’s making me ache.}

Gods, I like sex starved women, they’re direct and straightforward even in their thoughts

She moved like liquid sin poured into that crimson satin, every step a study in calculated allure. The dress clung—painted—across her breasts, heavy and full, pressing against the silk like ripe fruit demanding harvest.

The neckline plunged, framing deep, sun-kissed cleavage that swayed with each deliberate step. And Christ, the nipples—two hard, demanding points scraping against the fabric, visible even in the filtered light, twin beacons of her arousal she made no effort to hide.

Her hips... God. They rolled with the rhythm of a forbidden tango, flaring out from a suddenly cinched waist before narrowing into those mile-long nylon-sheathed legs.

The dress hugged the swell of her ass like a lover’s hand, molding to every inch, the fabric taut across the generous, rounded curve. It was an ass built for worship, for gripping, for brand spanking-red handprints.

She paused at the edge of the sitting area, one hand resting lightly on the high back of the emerald velvet sofa, the angle subtly pushing her hip out—a silent, blatant invitation.

{Those hands... I want them everywhere. Gripping my hair, holding me down, showing me exactly who’s in charge. For once in my life, I want to kneel for someone. Right here on this Persian rug.}

{God, I’m so tired of being the one everyone fears, the ice queen who never breaks. With him... I want to break. I want to be his completely. His to command, his to own, his to use however he sees fit.}

{Why am I thinking these things? I’ve never wanted to submit to anyone - I’ve built my entire life on being untouchable, unbreakable. But the way he sits there, so calm and controlled while I’m falling apart inside...}

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