Page 28 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
Every filthy, addictive inch.
Each thrust stealing the air from my lungs and replacing it with pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.
I don't know where he ends, and I begin.
And I never want to find out.
Like he’s trying to make me feel every inch of him.
Like he wants to ruin me for anyone else.
And he does.
Oh, God, he does.
He moves with reverence and hunger, his forehead pressed to mine, his hand tangled in my hair, whispering things I don’t quite catch but feel in my bones.
By the time we both come undone—sweaty, tangled, crying out each other’s names in the shadows—I already know.
This isn’t just a date.
It isn’t just a hookup.
Not even close.
There is way too much emotion in the way he holds me after.
Too much reverence in the way his fingertips ghost over my skin like I’m something precious.
Like I matter.
Like I’m his.
And the scariest part?
It feels good.
Too good.
Too perfect.
I let him tuck me against his chest, our bodies still humming with the aftermath, and I listen to the steady beat of his heart like it can tell me what to do.
As if it has the answers, I don’t.
I’m not good at relationships. I never have been.
I love too hard, too fast.
I overthink. I over share.
And deep down, I’ve always assumed love is for other people.
But I can have tonight.
I can keep this blissful little interlude like a treasure, close to my chest, a precious memory to relive when I feel lost and alone.
D sleeps like a man with no secrets—on his back, mouth parted slightly, one hand still resting over where I’ve been lying next to him.
