Page 21 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

“ O ff. I need your clothes off,” Dane growls, already reaching for the hem of my shirt like a man possessed.

My brain short-circuits.

Because— hello —he’s growly.

Clawed— seriously.

And desperate for me in a way that feels primal, intoxicating, and completely real.

“Okay,” I breathe, even though my limbs are jelly and my brain is still buffering.

I’m straddling his lap, wide-eyed and barely breathing, while he’s manhandling my clothes like they’ve actually offended him.

His pupils have blown wide, rimmed in gold, and the tips of his fingers have sharpened into claws— actual lethal-looking badass Cougar claws .

He tears through the waistband of my panties with one vicious swipe, tossing the ruined lace aside like it’s the villain in our story.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Condom.”

I freeze.

My stomach dips.

My heart pounds.

And now, well, it’s confession time.

I hate that this could ruin the mood— ruin us —but he gave me his story and now he deserves my truth.

“No need,” I murmur, biting my lower lip so hard I taste blood.

Dane freezes, his entire body going still beneath me, and when he lifts his head, those golden eyes of his are molten.

“Are you on birth control?” he asks gently, though there’s tension coiled in his shoulders. “Or are you saying we’re good to?—?”

I swallow hard. My voice trembles, but I push through because he deserves the truth. And because I want this — him —too much to let shame ruin it.

“Actually,” I whisper, “I have PCOS. Polycystic ovarian syndrome. I don’t ovulate regularly. Or at all sometimes. The doctors told me getting pregnant would take work . Help. Fertility treatments. A lot of them.”

I can’t meet his gaze now. I feel exposed. Like I’ve peeled myself open and dumped the least lovable part of me right in his lap.

Stupid, I think. So stupid .

But then his hands come up— warm, sure —and he cups my cheeks.

Gently. Reverently.

“Look at me, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs.

I do.

His expression? Not pity. Not judgment. Just— need .

Fierce and tender and heartbreaking all at once.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he says softly. “And I swear to every star in the sky, you’ll never face it alone.”

“Are you sure?” My voice cracks. “Because I don’t want you stuck with me. With my broken parts.”

“Stuck with you?” His brow furrows, and he exhales a disbelieving laugh. “Tamare, Baby, there’s no stuck here. There’s only blessed . You’re not broken. You’re mine .”

I blink fast, but the tears come anyway. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re horny,” I whisper, trying to joke. Trying not to fall apart.

But he doesn’t let me deflect.

“No,” he says firmly, eyes locked on mine. “I’m saying it because I’m in love with you . Every inch, every curve, every part you think you have to apologize for—I adore you, Tamare.”

The sob escapes before I can stop it. “You love me?”

“I do,” he says simply. “So fucking much it scares me. I love your warmth. Your fire. That sexy, wicked laugh. I love how you smell like sunshine and oranges, how you feel in my arms. I love that you challenge me. That you light up the whole damn room. And I love how you love Alex.”

“I do,” I whisper. “I love him so much.”

“I know,” he says, voice thick. “He told me. And I see it every time you kneel down to talk to him, every time you remember his snack, or check on his comfort, or laugh at his dinosaur facts.”

“He really told you?” I ask, heart full.

“Oh yeah. He said you were the best. And that he hopes I marry you. No pressure, by the way, but I already planned to propose in the morning.”

My laugh cracks into a sob. “Dane!”

“Tamare.”

His voice goes low.

“You’re everything. The only thing I’ve ever wanted and didn’t dare believe I’d get.

So if you’re worried about the PCOS? Don’t be.

If you want kids and we need help? I’ll be that help.

I’ll go to every damn appointment, learn every hormone name, hold your hand through whatever.

And if you don’t want more kids? I’ve already got everything I need.

You. And my son. That’s a family. That’s home . ”

Tears roll down my cheeks.

“Say yes, Pretty Girl. Stay. Be mine. Be ours.”

I nod slowly, like my heart is finally catching up to what my soul already knows.

“Yes, Dane. I’m yours.”

He exhales a rough, broken sound of relief— and then that hunger, that need, crashes over him again.

And me. God, yes, me.

His hands slide down, palms skimming every inch of me with reverence and greed.

“So I gotta ask,” he growls, voice ragged. “Does this mean I can take you bare, Baby? That I can finally slide my cock into your hot little body and feel every fucking inch like I’ve been dying to?”

I answer by rocking my hips against his length and whispering, “Yes. Please .”

And that’s all it takes for the man I love to lose control .

“Mine,” he growls.

My thighs clench at the sound of his voice, thick with hunger and worship. I know he can feel the flood of slick between my legs. I’m soaked for him.

Open. Ready.

“Yes, Dane,” I whisper, pulse thundering in my ears. “Please, I need you inside me. Now.”

“Thank the fucking gods,” he growls, and then his mouth slams into mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s consuming.

A kiss that says mine, that demands everything.

And I give it.

All of it.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the mattress beside him with a reverence that has me trembling.

His body follows, heavy and hot, settling between my thighs.

No more delaying.

No more pretense.

He drags his cock along my center, slicking himself in my arousal.

The feel of his thickness against my bare pussy makes me arch and moan.

“No more waiting,” he murmurs, echoing my thoughts, his voice a sinful promise. “I’m going to claim you. Make you mine. Inside and out.”

“Yes,” I cry, clutching at his shoulders. “I want it. I want you.”

The moment he pushes in, slow and deep, I shatter.

My back bows, my fingers dig into his skin.

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 .

But his weight is a comfort.

His presence is a balm.

His hand finds mine and laces our fingers together like he can’t stand the idea of even that small space between us.

And I swear to God, I feel it.

That golden magic?

It doesn’t vanish.

It roots .

Wrapping around my soul like vines climbing toward the sun.

Tethering me to him in a way that no vow, no signature, no ceremony ever could.

My heart’s still racing, my body boneless and aching in the best possible way, and yet all I want is more.

More of this.

More of him .

The rhythm of us beats inside me, soft and steady.

“I feel it,” he whispers against my temple, voice hoarse and full of wonder. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

I nod, tears prickling my eyes.

“It’s like your soul just wrapped around mine.”

He pulls back, eyes glowing gold in the dark.

“No, Pretty Girl. It’s not just mine anymore.”

And it hits me like lightning.

It’s ours.

The rhythm of us. Forever.