Page 25 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
“Gonna take care of you, Pretty Girl,” he rasps, voice low and rough, pure gravel and sex. “I swear it.”
He moves like a predator, slow and sure, crawling up the bed with devastating focus—his amber eyes glowing faintly like twin suns.
My breath stutters.
My thighs part on instinct.
I’m open for him before he even lays a hand on me.
“But first,” he murmurs, dragging one palm up the inside of my leg, fingers callused and reverent, “I gotta taste you.”
And then he bends, all that raw, male power folding into worship as he lowers his head between my thighs.
His breath ghosts over my swollen folds, and I whimper—soaked, swollen, aching.
“Look at you,” he groans, voice full of gravel and awe. “Dripping for me. You’ve been waiting so long for me, haven’t you, Baby? I’m here now,” he growls, his warm breath tickling my thighs.
“Please,” I mewl.
“I got you, Pretty Girl. Now, let go.”
Then his mouth finds me.
Hot.
Skilled.
Lethal.
And as his tongue sweeps through my folds with agonizing slowness, tasting, teasing, tormenting—I think I touch heaven.
And when he finally latches onto my clit—sweet moon and stars—I shatter.
Back arching.
Fingers fisting in the sheets.
The world narrowing to the obscene, glorious sounds of his mouth on me and my cries filling the room like music made just for us.
He eats like a man starved.
Like he’s dying and I’m the last thing he’ll ever taste.
And when he growls—actually growls—against me, the sound vibrating straight into my core, I scream his name.
Or I try to.
Because I still don’t know it.
“Oh God, D!” I yell, using the first initial he used on the app, assuming they were his initials.
But it doesn’t matter if I know his name or not because he knows me.
Every lick, every suck, every sinful swirl of his tongue feels like he’s memorizing me.
And when he slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them just right, I come completely undone.
Writhing.
