Chapter 227: Eyes on the Bride-to-be

Her ass was magnificent—round, firm, high without a single sign of age, flexing beautifully beneath the fabric

Every curve screamed touch me: squeeze the swell, cup the full weight of her tit, trace the line down her spine, slide into the damp heat between her thighs where I knew her pussy throbbed soaked behind the panties tonight.

Her lips were sin itself—upper lip full, lower lip glossy, parted slightly as she breathed, exposing the damp pink gloss beneath her upper teeth.

My mind was doing its own things of

how

I’d fuck her tonight if got the chance. Images flashed through my mind: —I would rip off that dress, my teeth on her lip until it bled, make her scream as my fingers pistoned into her cunt, feel her walls pulse grip around my knuckles.

Then I’d rub my cock on her clit damp until she was gushing, quivering violently, before I slid my fingers deep into her tight hole, stretching her wider, listening to her incoherent pleas while her fiancé blissfully unaware of the ruin I was about wreak—

Bent over a table, legs spread wide, my cock pounding into her dripping cunt from behind, slapping ass... red cheek while her hands groped her own breasts, kneading the tissue until she shriveled against my fingers inside her

pussy

, begging my

cock

to ruin her clit more

before

even touching it tonight

But it was her aura that made her devastating. The confidence in every step, the way she held her head when she talked business, eyes sharp, assessing, calculating.

The way she turned toward me—not just moving, but predatory. The air around her crackled with the tension of a woman deciding her next move—all while her fiancé sat oblivious, scrolling through market updates on his phone.

Beauty like hers wasn’t meant to be passive. It was lethal. A weapon. And the moment she looked at me—eyes darkening with recognition, a flicker of

need

cutting through the mask of boredom— she became something

more

.

A vision in a killer dress. A goddess abandoning her gilded cage. A temptation ready to be ruined.

Amanda was absolutely gorgeous—blonde hair that caught the Miami lights perfectly, a body built for magazine spreads, and a face that could launch investment portfolios. But when she glanced at her fiancé—a man in his sixties, more in love with his phone than his future wife—I saw the look I’d learned to recognize instantly.

Sexual frustration. Wrapped in designer clothes and disguised with an engagement ring.

"Amanda," Margaret said with obvious pride, "this is Eros Desiderion, Charlotte’s business partner."

The moment Amanda’s eyes met mine, her entire axis tilted. I watched her expression flicker through surprise, then recognition, before landing on the kind of awe usually reserved for natural wonders or religious experiences.

"Eros," she breathed, extending her hand with fingers that trembled just slightly. "I... Margaret told me you were impressive, but she didn’t adequately prepare me."

Funny lie. Margaret had only just met me herself. Amanda wasn’t thanking her for an introduction—she was buying time while her brain short-circuited.

When I took her hand, I let my enhanced touch linger just long enough to make her pulse spike and her cheeks flush. "Amanda. Congratulations on your engagement."

"Thank you," she replied, though her tone carried all the conviction of someone trying not to admit she regretted every life choice that had led to settling for the old man currently ignoring her existence.

Her fiancé finally looked up from his phone, annoyed like a landlord catching tenants admiring the property.

"Amanda," he said sharply, "who’s this?"

"This is Eros Desiderion," Margaret interjected smoothly. "Charlotte Thompson’s business partner. Eros, this is Harold Whitman, Amanda’s fiancé."

Harold stood to shake my hand, and it was like watching a budget Ken doll realize he was trying to wrestle Godzilla. At six-foot-three of supernatural perfection, I made his five-foot-eight frame look like an IKEA chair propped up next to a throne.

"Pleasure," Harold said stiffly, his handshake lasting just long enough to confirm: younger, taller, sharper jawline, probably better hair, and yes... probably better equipped than he’d ever dare fantasize.

"The pleasure is all mine," I said, letting my enhanced voice flatten his like a punchline to a bad reality show. I swear I could almost hear the inner monologue screaming,

Why didn’t I marry someone my height and with a functioning libido?

Margaret was watching with that dangerous spark—the look of a woman who understands exactly what kind of energy is flowing between Amanda and me. Not shocked. Not disapproving. Interested. Very interested.

"Eros," she said, her voice dipping into that subtle, boundary-testing cadence women use when they’re evaluating someone for extracurricular relevance, "perhaps you’d like to see the penthouse suite? Harold had it specially decorated for the occasion."

The subtext was thick enough to carve out a space in the marble floor. Charlotte caught it immediately, trying to hide her shock—but there was no hiding Margaret Thompson orchestrating private opportunities with the precision of a symphony conductor.

"I’d love a tour," I replied, letting my enhanced voice carry all the promise she was hoping for.

Harold’s face darkened faster than a celebrity caught in a paparazzi scandal. He’d just realized his future wife’s friend was basically offering his fiancée to another man. And what could he do? Margaret controlled the guest list, the venue, and, honestly, probably half of his social capital.

As we headed toward the elevator, I caught Madison’s eye. She was barely containing a grin, watching the Miami elite positioning themselves like moths to a flame I hadn’t even ignited yet.

Amanda walked beside me with that reverent, slightly trembling deference of someone granted an audience with royalty but still unsure she was worthy. Margaret flanked my other side, hand resting on my arm like she was literally staking a claim.

Behind us, Harold was fuming and muttering to his friends, whose frantic expressions screamed realization: all their money, influence, and Wall Street arrogance meant

jack

in the face of supernatural sexual magnetism.

Tonight was going to be... deliciously chaotic.

The hunt had begun, and Margaret Thompson had just declared herself

first in line

by giving me direct access to her entire social circle.

Years of these women settling for financial security over sexual fulfillment were about to end tonight. And me? I was going to enjoy showing them exactly what they’d been missing.