Page 32 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
From a woman who sounds too qualified to be real.
I click Reply and type my email like my fingers are possessed:
Can you come by for a trial run tomorrow at 8 a.m.? My son starts lessons and we need help immediately.
Click. Send.
Because life doesn’t stop.
Even when the woman who lit your soul on fire disappears into the night like a beautiful fever dream.
Next, I’m showering and dressing in a rush.
Trying not to replay every moan, every gasp, every way she cried out D without actually knowing it’s the first letter of my name.
But still I do.
Over and over, like a goddamn soundtrack set to ruin me.
I yank on a shirt, tug up my jeans, and move to make the bed—because I’m that guy now, apparently.
The guy who wants the room looking perfect just in case she what? Magically reappears?
Wishful fucking thinking.
Then I see it.
Something soft. Half-hidden under the edge of the sheets.
Panties.
Pink cotton.
A tiny bow on the front.
Hers.
My breath catches like I’ve been punched in the chest by a vengeful spirit.
I crouch, pick them up slowly like they’re fragile, sacred.
She left here without these.
Which means she walked away probably sore and utterly satisfied and—God help me and anyone else who noticed—completely fucking bare beneath that goddamn sundress.
Fuck.
I close my eyes, biting back a growl that starts low and thick in my throat.
My Cougar’s raking its claws down my insides, ready to bolt.
Ready to hunt.
But I can’t.
Because no matter how much I want to tear through the city sniffing her out, I have responsibilities.
Priorities.
