Page 72 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
He’s thick, stretching me to the brink, and it feels so good I forget how to breathe.
“Fuuuck, you’re tight,” he growls into my throat. “Hot and wet and perfect. Like your pussy was made for me.”
Every stroke of his hips is a prayer and a sin.
Every thrust drives me closer to the edge.
“I’ve never—Dane, yes, there,” I pant, fingers tangling in his hair, “It’s never been like this. You make me feel so whole.”
He stills. Eyes glowing bright gold.
“That’s because you are whole with me, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine.”
He fucks me like he means it.
Like claiming me is the only thing keeping him alive.
He thrusts deeper, harder, until my cries fill the room, and I don’t care if the neighbors hear.
I don’t care about anything but him.
Us.
This magic.
And when I come—hard, sobbing, writhing beneath him—he strikes, biting me in that place between my neck and shoulder.
And—oh fuck—I come again.
Harder.
More intense.
My whole body pulses to the rhythm of us.
Not just the slap of skin or the gasp of breath—but the deeper, older rhythm, the one beneath the surface. The one that says this is fate. This is forever.
Dane roars my name, low and guttural, slamming into me one final time.
His release crashes through us like a tidal wave, thick and hot and claiming, and I swear the world shifts around us.
Gold sparks dance in the air—actual, shimmering streaks of light zipping and sizzling over our skin like live wires.
It’s wild. Beautiful.
It’s magic.
His soul speaking to mine.
I feel it then—sharp and hot—a tug deep inside me, a squeeze that borders on pain but settles into something breathtaking.
A snap, like the universe just locked something ancient into place.
The rhythm of us slows, stretches.
Becomes something sacred.
Dane slumps over me, panting, his big body still trembling with the aftermath of what we did—what we are.
