Page 8 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)
Tamare
I shoot off a quick text message to my brother—just a pin and:
Tam
Don’t freak, I’m alive, just not on the couch tonight.
Because yeah. I’m following a gorgeous, mysterious man home.
And no, I’m not usually this reckless.
But somehow, with him , it doesn’t feel reckless.
It feels inevitable .
“Smart,” he murmurs when I tell him. “If he’s anything like a good brother should be, he’ll have a tracker on your phone, anyway.”
I smirk.
“He totally does.”
“Good. Now, I can give him my name?—”
He starts to say something else, but I cut him off.
“No,” I interrupt, soft but sure. “No names. Not tonight.”
He leans in, all warm breath and molten eyes, and asks so softly it nearly melts me, “So, what do I call you?”
I open my mouth to answer—out of habit, really. But something inside me rebels.
I don’t want to be Tamare tonight.
Not the girl couch-surfing at her brother’s place.
Not the almost-teacher.
Not the woman who cried in the shower last week because her love life has all the consistency of a broken vending machine.
Definitely not the hopeful, slightly desperate woman who emailed some strict nightmare of a dad about a nanny job earlier this afternoon.
No.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want to be the sexy girl this handsome man met in the park.
The one he looked at like she was made of magic and moonlight.
The one whose curves he keeps sneaking glances at like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the menu.
I want to be mystery .
I want to be wild.
I want to feel like more —like possibility and heat and danger in all the right ways.
There’s something intoxicating about anonymity. A freedom I didn’t know I craved. If I don’t have a name, then I don’t have a history. I don’t have expectations. I’m just me . Here. Now.
So I stop him with a single word.
“You can call me anything you want,” I say, soft but sure. “Just no names. Not tonight.”
His eyes flare like I surprised him. And maybe I did.
But the hunger doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies.
“Let’s just feel this,” I whisper. “Let’s be untamed. Just for tonight.”
And oh, the way he looks at me then?
Like he’s ready to ruin me sweetly.
Like I’ve just handed him permission to worship every inch of me like I deserve.
It’s dizzying.
It’s dangerous.
It’s exactly what I want.
And when he leans in to kiss me again, it’s not just a kiss—it’s a claim .
Not of ownership, but of attention. Of desire. Of raw, unfiltered connection.
I let it happen.
I let us happen.
And for once, it feels like more than enough.
His eyes darken with something primal as he lifts his head, and I swear I sway on my feet closer to him.
Something about him sends heat spiraling low in my belly, and I’ve never had that before.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says, voice like gravel dipped in sex. “But I need you to understand something, Pretty Girl. This isn’t a one-night stand for me. And I want you to be sure you want this. That you want me .”
Holy. Shit.
Is this real life? Because I swear, I’m seconds from combusting.
His words hit me right between the thighs, straight-up short-circuiting my brain.
My heart is pounding.
My skin’s on fire.
And my panties? Soaked.
Utterly ruined.
If he so much as brushes a finger against me, I might scream.
He’s serious.
Maybe he’s not just here to fuck and forget. Maybe he’s here for me.
The idea is too delicious to pass up. But so is the way I feel right now.
And the way he’s looking at me? Like he wants to tear me apart just to put me back together again.
I’m dizzy with it. Drunk on him already.
And yeah, maybe I’m not the kind of girl who gets offers like this.
A man this hot— GQ-cover, jawline-to-sin-for, pack-of-sexual-dynamite hot—wanting me like this ? It’s unheard of.
But I’m not about to question it.
Not tonight.
“I do,” I whisper, my voice shaky but sure. “I want you so fucking bad.”
The moment the words leave my lips, he slams his lips to mine.
And I swear I hear a whole symphony in my head.
The music of connection. Of fate. Of something bigger than both of us.
He presses me against the wall the second we’re inside. His hands are everywhere—on my waist, tracing the curve of my hip, fisting in the fabric of my dress like he’s already half feral with want.
And I burn under his touch.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, breath ragged against my ear. “I’ll stop. I swear it.”
“I will. And I’ll tell you if I want more,” I promise.
And oh , do I ever.
The world fades around us.
There’s only lips and teeth and gasps.
His mouth slides along my jaw, my neck, worshipping every curve like I’m his favorite prayer.
When he peels my dress off and sees the soft parts I usually try to hide, he groans like a man on the verge of unraveling.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, like he’s stunned. “ So fucking beautiful.”
We stumble to his bedroom, shedding clothes like secrets.
It’s dark, so I don’t see much, but that’s more than okay.
We can do the tour thing tomorrow.
The air is thick with heat and need and something else—something other.
His hands on my skin feel like fire and velvet. His mouth? Pure sin.
He kisses me until I forget my name.
Touches me until I forget every reason I ever thought I wasn’t enough.
Then he stands, shucking off his jeans—and I swear, I lose all track of time and space.
The air thickens. My breath catches.
He. Is. Devastating.
His body is a brutal symphony of hard muscle and wild strength.
Not the sculpted vanity of a gym rat—no, this is earned power.
A body carved by instinct and action.
Broad shoulders that look like they could carry the world. Thick thighs that flex with barely restrained force. Veins that trace down his forearms and disappear beneath coarse, masculine hands.
Every inch of him is built to take. To protect. To claim.
And tonight? He’s mine.
All that heat, all that strength— mine .
My body responds to him like it’s been waiting my entire life.
I ache for him— hot, tight, throbbing.
My core clenches on nothing, desperate for his touch, his mouth, his cock .
He hasn't even touched me yet, not really, and I’m already soaked for him.
He sees it.
Feels it.
That dark, dangerous smirk that curls his lips tells me he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
“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.
Panting.
Completely ruined.
And he isn’t even inside me yet.