Page 22 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
He leans in, all warm breath and molten eyes, and asks so softly it nearly melts me, “So, what do I call you?”
I open my mouth to answer—out of habit, really. But something inside me rebels.
I don’t want to be Tamare tonight.
Not the girl couch-surfing at her brother’s place.
Not the almost-teacher.
Not the woman who cried in the shower last week because her love life has all the consistency of a broken vending machine.
Definitely not the hopeful, slightly desperate woman who emailed some strict nightmare of a dad about a nanny job earlier this afternoon.
No.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want to be the sexy girl this handsome man met in the park.
The one he looked at like she was made of magic and moonlight.
The one whose curves he keeps sneaking glances at like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the menu.
I want to be mystery.
I want to be wild.
I want to feel like more—like possibility and heat and danger in all the right ways.
There’s something intoxicating about anonymity. A freedom I didn’t know I craved. If I don’t have a name, then I don’t have a history. I don’t have expectations. I’m just me. Here. Now.
So I stop him with a single word.
“You can call me anything you want,” I say, soft but sure. “Just no names. Not tonight.”
His eyes flare like I surprised him. And maybe I did.
But the hunger doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies.
“Let’s just feel this,” I whisper. “Let’s be untamed. Just for tonight.”
And oh, the way he looks at me then?
Like he’s ready to ruin me sweetly.
Like I’ve just handed him permission to worship every inch of me like I deserve.
It’s dizzying.
It’s dangerous.
It’s exactly what I want.
And when he leans in to kiss me again, it’s not just a kiss—it’s a claim.
Not of ownership, but of attention. Of desire. Of raw, unfiltered connection.
I let it happen.
