After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 206: There Was a ’Peanut Dick’ Rumor

The thirty-second video played on a seamless, hypnotic loop.

Damien sat at the head of the mahogany table, completely paralyzed, the low volume of the video’s audio feeding directly into his earpiece. He heard the soft, breathy rustle of silk. He heard the quiet, hitching intake of Aria’s breath.

His golden eyes were glued to the screen.

He watched, utterly spellbound, as she slowly brought her knees up, parting her thighs just a fraction of an inch to offer a devastatingly suggestive silhouette.

She arched her spine, thrusting her chest forward, the heavy, rapid rise and fall of her breasts clearly visible beneath the unforgiving 4K resolution. And then, she swept her rose-gold hair over her shoulder, boldly exposing the dark, purplish bruises he had sucked into her neck.

Her heavy-lidded, emerald eyes stared straight into the camera lens. It was a dark, sultry bedroom gaze that felt like it was physically dragging him through the screen.

Damien’s chest heaved. The video looped for the second time. His throbbing, painfully rigid erection straining ruthlessly against the tailored wool of his suit trousers.

The video looped for the third time. He was entirely hypnotized.

"Mr. Sinclair?"

A tentative, trembling voice sliced through his trance.

Damien jumped a fraction of an inch. He slammed his phone face-down onto the mahogany table.

The entire room flinched, their eyes widening in terror, instantly convinced they had just interrupted the Demon King while he was staring intensely at something very important.

The Senior VP of Marketing, the woman who had bravely called out his name, swallowed hard, sweat beading on her forehead.

"I apologize for the interruption, sir," she stammered quickly, gesturing to the holographic projector. "But we... we have concluded our departmental presentations."

Damien stared at her, his jaw locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. He was breathing heavily, his mind still entirely consumed by the image of his wife parting her thighs on their bed.

A sharp, dark look of profound irritation flashed across his face.

He didn’t say a word. He placed his hands flat on the desk and pushed himself abruptly out of his chair, standing up.

"Email the quarterly reports to my assistant by end of day," Damien commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sounded rougher than usual. "This meeting is adjourned."

He expected them to immediately scramble for the doors.

But nobody moved.

The room fell into an eerie silence.

Because as Damien stood up, stepping slightly away from the shadow of the mahogany table, his erection was put on full, undeniable display.

The bespoke, tailored slacks of his suit were designed to fit his body flawlessly, but not to camouflage a massive, rigid erection that looked ready to rip straight through the zipper.

The collective gaze of twenty elite corporate executives dropped.

The older board members, men in their sixties, immediately looked away, suddenly finding the crown molding on the ceiling absolutely fascinating.

The younger male executives, however, stared in stunned, deeply bitter silence.

It wasn’t enough that Damien Sinclair was a multi-billionaire. It wasn’t enough that he had the face of a terrifyingly beautiful fallen angel and the broad, muscular physique of a heavyweight fighter. He had to be packing too? The universe was unfair. What chance did any of them have against a man whose genetics were essentially a cheat code?

But the female executives were having an entirely different experience.

For the past few years, a very specific, deeply comforting rumor had circulated through Sinclair Headquarters. The women of the company had collectively rationalized Damien’s icy, untouchable demeanor and his absolute cruelty toward female advances with one, highly logical coping mechanism:

He’s too mean. He’s definitely compensating for something. He must have a peanut dick.

It was the only way to humanize the monster.

Staring shamelessly at the massive, indisputable tent in his trousers, the female executives watched that rumor violently die and get buried in real-time.

They were flushed atomic red. In their heads, they were throwing absolute parades. ’I knew it,’ they cheered silently. ’I knew a man with hands that big wasn’t lacking.’

The VP of Marketing was currently staring at his crotch, entertaining a series of intensely explicit thoughts about what that actually looked like outside of his pants.

The blood rushed to her face so fast that her blood pressure spiked.

A single, bright red drop of blood slipped from her nostril and hit her pristine white silk blouse.

Damien frowned, his golden eyes narrowing in pure confusion as he watched the woman scramble for a tissue to cover her bleeding nose. He looked at the rest of the room. Everyone was red-faced, sweating, and acting completely deranged.

Sitting to Damien’s right, Ken was equally baffled. He followed the unified, shameless trajectory of the executives’ gazes.

Ken’s eyes widened as they landed on his boss’s crotch.

He stood up, leaning toward Damien, his voice dropping into a frantic, panicked whisper.

"Sir," Ken hissed urgently, hiding his mouth behind his hand. "You might want to sit back down. You have a... situation down south."

Damien paused.

He slowly looked down at himself.

He saw the bulge trying to burst through his zipper, but he didn’t feel a single ounce of embarrassment. However, looking back up at his staff, noticing the thirsty, shameless ogling in the eyes of his female executives, a wave of dark annoyance washed over him.

His body belonged to Aria. He did not want these vultures looking at him.

"Get out," Damien said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but the disgusted chill in his tone was enough to snap the entire room out of their trance.

The executives scrambled. They grabbed their iPads, shoved their chairs back, and basically stampeded each other to get through the double glass doors.

The gossip was already heavy and burning on their tongues. By the time they reached the elevators, the entire corporate floor would be talking about Damien Sinclair’s massive package, or the wild speculation that the Demon King was casually watching hardcore porn in the middle of a Q3 projection meeting.

The doors clicked shut, leaving Damien completely alone in the silent boardroom.

Damien squeezed his eyes shut, aggressively massaging his temples.

"Fuck," he swore under his breath, a ragged exhale leaving his chest.

Damien picked up his phone from the table. He popped out the sleek, built-in kickstand on his matte-black phone case and propped the device up on the mahogany wood.

He tapped her contact and hit the FaceTime icon.

The phone began to ring.