Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 625

Chapter 625: The Shy Afterglow

The kitchen was a golden sanctuary at 8:17 a.m., sunlight pouring through the bay window in thick, liquid streams, viscous, molten, dust motes drifting like slow-motion fireflies caught in amber light, each particle glowing, twirling, settling on the oak table, the granite counters, the curve of Linda’s shoulder, catching in the fine hairs on her arms, glinting like tiny diamonds. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

The air was warm, heavy, layered with butter melting in the pan, cinnamon spicing the pancake batter, coffee brewing in the French press, dark, rich, steaming, bacon fat popping in the cast-iron skillet, sizzling, spitting tiny droplets that hissed on the stove, smoke curling in thin, fragrant wisps.

And her—Linda’s scent clinging to every corner, sweet, milky, musky, divine, vanilla, salt, sex, sweat, blood—thick, heady, impossible to wash away, lingering in the steam from the shower, coating the back of my throat like honey, sticking to my tongue, nostrils flaring with every breath.

Pans sizzled on the stove, bacon crackling like tiny fireworks, curling at the edges, fat rendering into golden pools, bubbling, spitting, eggs fluffy in the cast-iron skillet, yolks trembling as she stirred.

Whites setting in delicate lace, pancakes golden on the griddle, bubbling at the edges, syrup warming in a small pot, sticky, sweet, bubbling slowly, maple scent rising in sweet clouds.

Linda stood at the counter, back to me, hair loose, still damp from the shower, dark waves cascading down her spine like liquid midnight, curls clinging to the nape of her neck, wet strands sticking to her skin, glistening in the sunlight, water droplets beading on the ends, dripping slowly down her back, trailing between her shoulder blades.

She wore my T-shirt—bare, soft, faded from years of washing, too big, hanging off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, fabric clinging to the swell of her ass, no bra, nipples dark, faintly visible under the cotton.

Still leaking tiny wet spots that darkened the fabric in slow, spreading circles, milk pearling at the tips, dripping occasionally with a soft plink onto the counter, leaving tiny white pools.

Her bare legs were smooth, still flushed from the shower, skin pink, calves flexing as she shifted her weight, toes curling against the cool tile, nails painted a soft pink, chipped at the edges, arches high, heels slightly lifted.

She hummed under her breath—soft, shy, off-key, a lullaby from my childhood, voice trembling, flipping a pancake with a trembling wrist, spatula scraping the griddle with a nervous squeak, batter hissing as it hit the hot surface, edges crisping, butter foaming around it.

Her shoulders were tensed, spine straight, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in quick, nervous puffs, ribs expanding under the T-shirt, pulse visible at the base of her throat—she knew I was watching, felt my gaze like heat on her skin, goosebumps rising on her arms.

I leaned in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants low on my hips, drawstring loose, fabric clinging to the curve of my ass, towel-dried hair wild, curls damp at the ends, water droplets still beading on my collarbone, trailing down the grooves of my pecs, abs, pooling in the V of my hips, glistening in the sunlight, catching the light like liquid mercury.

Linda’s scent clung to my skin—milk, sex, sweat, salt, blood—thick, heady, impossible to wash away, coating my tongue, my throat, my soul, nostrils flaring with every breath, taste of her still lingering on my lips.

I watched her reflection in the window—eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, breath fogging the glass in tiny, rapid puffs, nostrils flaring, tongue darting out to wet her lips. She couldn’t stop looking.

Not just at my face. Not at my eyes. My whole body.

Her gaze traveled—slow, hungry, shy, devouring, unblinking—down my chest, lingering on the scratches, fingers twitching like she wanted to trace them, heal them, worship them, nails light on my skin, feeling the heat, the pulse.

Down the grooves of my abs, following the water droplets still trailing, pooling in the V of my hips, disappearing under the sweatpants, fabric stretched over the bulge, still half-hard, outline clear, veins pulsing, head pressing against the cotton, pre-cum darkening the fabric in a small, wet spot.

Lower.

Eyes widening, lips parting, breath catching in her throat as she stared, cheeks burning, hands gripping the counter white-knuckled, knuckles pale, nails digging into the granite.

"Hi, Mom," I said, voice low, teasing, warm, rumbling in my chest, vibrating through the air, echoing off the cabinets.

She froze, spatula mid-air, pancake sliding off the griddle with a soft plop, syrup dripping from the edge, sticky on the counter. "P-Peter..."

Her voice was small, shy and so fucking cute like she was a teenager again--fuck I wanted to fuck her right now--cracking, nothing like the woman who’d screamed my name in the shower an hour ago, begging for my seed, crying "my son" as she came, pussy gushing on the marble, milk spraying the glass.

Stopped behind her, hands sliding around her waist, palms flat on her bare stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, feeling the warmth, the softness, the tremor in her skin, the milk still leaking, wet, sticky under my fingers, pulse racing under my palms.

"Smells good," I murmured, voice velvet, teasing, breath hot, goosebumps rising on her neck. "Almost as good as you did this morning. When you were screaming my name. Begging for my cock. Cumming on my tongue. Your motherly pussy milk spraying my chest."

She gasped, soft, spatula clattering to the counter, hands flying to cover her face, fingers trembling, nails digging into her cheeks, breath hitching. "Peter—stop—someone could—"

"You said ’fuck your mother’," I teased, hands sliding under the T-shirt, palms gliding up her ribs, thumbs brushing the swell of her breasts, feeling the weight, the warmth, the milk still leaking, wet, sticky, dripping onto my wrists.

"And then screamed ’breed me’. And ’my son’s cock’. Loudly. While I had you bent over, ass up, pussy gushing on the floor, milk spraying the glass."

She whimpered, burying her face in her hands again, body trembling, thighs pressing together under the T-shirt, wetness glistening on her inner thighs, dripping onto the counter. "Oh God... I’m a terrible mother..."

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