Page 24 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
And oh, do I ever.
The world fades around us.
There’s only lips and teeth and gasps.
His mouth slides along my jaw, my neck, worshipping every curve like I’m his favorite prayer.
When he peels my dress off and sees the soft parts I usually try to hide, he groans like a man on the verge of unraveling.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, like he’s stunned. “So fucking beautiful.”
We stumble to his bedroom, shedding clothes like secrets.
It’s dark, so I don’t see much, but that’s more than okay.
We can do the tour thing tomorrow.
The air is thick with heat and need and something else—something other.
His hands on my skin feel like fire and velvet. His mouth? Pure sin.
He kisses me until I forget my name.
Touches me until I forget every reason I ever thought I wasn’t enough.
Then he stands, shucking off his jeans—and I swear, I lose all track of time and space.
The air thickens. My breath catches.
He. Is. Devastating.
His body is a brutal symphony of hard muscle and wild strength.
Not the sculpted vanity of a gym rat—no, this is earned power.
A body carved by instinct and action.
Broad shoulders that look like they could carry the world. Thick thighs that flex with barely restrained force. Veins that trace down his forearms and disappear beneath coarse, masculine hands.
Every inch of him is built to take. To protect. To claim.
And tonight? He’s mine.
All that heat, all that strength—mine.
My body responds to him like it’s been waiting my entire life.
I ache for him—hot, tight, throbbing.
My core clenches on nothing, desperate for his touch, his mouth, his cock.
He hasn't even touched me yet, not really, and I’m already soaked for him.
He sees it.
Feels it.
That dark, dangerous smirk that curls his lips tells me he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
