Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 612

Chapter 612: Midnight Sonata

My hands moved before my brain caught up, sliding to her waist—that perfect, narrow dip above her flared hips, the lace of her skirt rough under my palms, but her skin—fuck, her skin was a revelation.

Warm, silk-smooth, trembling under my touch, the heat of her body seeping into my fingers like a drug.

The act was illicit, forbidden in the very air of this house—my mother, dressed in sheer black lace, her nipples hard through the bralette, her pussy bare and dripping beneath the skirt, standing in the room next to Sarah’s, where my sister used to sleep.

The wrongness of it, the taboo, only made my cock throb harder, the Halo pulsing in my veins, amplifying the heat of her skin, the way her waist curved into my grip like it was made for my hands.

I lifted her effortlessly, muscles flexing, and she shrieked—a high, delighted sound, half-surprise, half-arousal, her hands flying to my shoulders, nails digging through my shirt.

"Jesus, baby," she gasped, laughing, her breasts bouncing with the motion, the lace bralette straining, her nipples so hard they cast shadows. "You make that look easy."

I set her on the piano’s lid, the black surface cool against her thighs, her legs parting slightly as she settled, the slit in her skirt falling open to reveal the full expanse of her inner thigh, the soaked lace clinging to her pussy lips, the glisten of her arousal catching the light.

She leaned back on her hands, arching her spine, pushing her tits forward, the bralette doing nothing to hide the dark peaks of her nipples, the heavy swell of her breasts begging for my mouth.

"Sit," she ordered, nodding to the piano bench.

I obeyed, dropping onto the cushioned seat, my eyes level with her hips, her pussy, her everything.

From here, she was a fucking altar—every inch of her on display, the piano lid elevating her like a goddess on a pedestal.

Her breasts heaved with each breath, the lace stretched to breaking, nipples jutting like they were screaming for my teeth. Her stomach, soft and smooth, glistened with sweat, the faint stretch marks a map of her sacrifice, now a canvas for my lust.

Her pussy, bare beneath the sheer skirt, was a wet, glistening promise, the lace soaked through, outlining her lips, her clit, the slick heat I could practically taste. Her thighs, thick and powerful, spread just enough to tease, the inner softness flushed pink, trembling under my gaze.

Her ass, perched on the piano, pressed against the polished wood, the lace riding up to reveal the undercurve of her cheeks, the shadow of her crack. Her legs dangled, calves flexing, feet arching, toes curling as if she could feel my eyes like a touch.

"This," she said, voice low, her thoughts flooding my mind...

{—I want him to see me, all of me, want him to lose his fucking mind—}

"is your birthday gift."

My birthday? Oh. Tomorrow. November 2. It was past midnight, and I hadn’t even clocked it, too lost in the empire, the women, the war. But she had. She’d planned this, orchestrated this moment, called me here at midnight to unwrap her like a present.

"How long have you planned this?" I rasped, voice rough, my cock straining so hard I could feel the pulse in my throat.

She smiled, slow and wicked. "Long enough. Play for me, baby."

I was godly at anything—piano included. My fingers found the keys, muscle memory kicking in, and I started playing—a dark, sensual piece, Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor, the notes low and haunting, filling the room, vibrating through the piano, through her. The tones were rich, resonant, the bass notes thrumming in my chest, in her thighs, her pussy, her thoughts screaming—

{Fuck, the way he plays, the way his hands move, I want those fingers inside me, want him to play me like this.}

The Nocturne spilled from my fingers—dark, liquid, a river of minor chords that curled through the room like smoke.

Each note struck the Steiway’s massive soundboard and vibrated up through the lid, through the polished ebony, through her. Linda felt every tremor in her bones, in her clit, in the slick heat dripping from her cunt onto the wood beneath her ass.

She began to move.

Her hips rolled first—slow, deliberate circles that made the lace skirt flutter like black fire, the slit parting wider until the entire left side of her body was bare to the hip. The candlelight caught the sheen of sweat on her skin, turning her into living sculpture: thigh muscle flexing, calf arching, the delicate tendons in her foot straining as she pointed her toes against the piano lid.

She leaned back on one hand, spine bowing, breasts thrust skyward. The lace bralette—already a joke of coverage—slid higher with the motion, the undercurve of her tits spilling free, heavy and pendulous, nipples so stiff they cast tiny shadows on the ebony beneath her. With her free hand she cupped one breast, fingers splayed wide, squeezing until the flesh bulged between them, then dragged her thumb across the nipple in time with a low bass note. A soft, broken moan slipped from her throat—

{"Mmmph"—} and her thoughts slammed into me: {Feel that vibration in my cunt... want his mouth there, want him to bite...}

She shifted, knees bending, thighs spreading obscenely wide. The soaked lace between her legs stretched taut, clinging to swollen lips, the fabric now a second skin outlining every fold, every pulse of her clit.

A bead of her arousal slid down the inside of her thigh, catching the light like liquid diamond before it dripped onto the piano lid—plink—a single note of wetness joining the music.

The impact sent a thud through the soundboard, a percussive counter-rhythm to my playing. She laughed—low, breathless—then slid one foot forward, sole flat on the lid, knee bent, opening herself completely. From my seat I could see everything: the dark flush of her inner thighs, the way her pussy lips parted beneath the lace, the glisten of her entrance clenching on nothing, begging.

{Look at me, baby... look how wet your mother is for you...}

The motion lifted her hips; the skirt rode up to her waist, bunching like a belt, leaving her ass bare against the piano—two perfect globes, flushed pink, the cleft between them shadowed and slick. She clenched, cheeks flexing, and a fresh gush of wetness seeped through the lace, pooling beneath her.

Her head fell back, throat exposed, pulse hammering under the skin. She began to ride the vibrations—hips

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