Page 9 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

“ Y ou ready for me, Baby?” he growls, moving to his knees.

I’m still coming down from the high he just gave me and when I open my eyes I find him stroking his thick, long cock with one hand, squeezing his balls with the other, and fuck me, it is so hot.

I nod because the words simply aren’t coming.

But I did. And I will be again. Soon.

He reaches for the condom—smooth, confident, like he’s done this a hundred times, but somehow, I know this is different.

It feels different. It feels like everything.

I push the thought away, not wanting to get caught up in what could be simply an incredible one-night-only physical connection.

I don’t want to think about anything right now except for how good he’s making me feel.

Back to D. That’s what I’m calling him now in my head and maybe a few times aloud.

I hadn’t even noticed him slipping the condom onto the bed earlier, but I’m glad he did. Because the truth is, my mind hasn’t exactly been on safety tonight.

Not when every inch of him has me burning from the inside out.

I can’t look away as he tears open the packet and rolls it over his gorgeous, thick cock with practiced ease.

My breath catches, mouth parted, pussy trembling, aching to be filled.

He is beautiful.

Raw, powerful, devastatingly masculine.

Every part of him made to ruin me in the best possible way.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking hot,” he rasps, voice low and wrecked as he positions himself between my thighs. “I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me.”

He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing my slick entrance, and I nearly sob with need.

Every nerve ending in my body is tuned to this moment— this connection.

“Here,” he whispers, catching my gaze and holding it like a vow. “Watch me claim what’s mine.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

That right there, those words? That takes this to a whole other level of top sexual fantasies.

I rise up on my elbows, mesmerized, as he begins to push his thick dick inside me— slowly, so slowly, filling me inch by inch.

My body stretches around him, clenching tight, desperate to take him deeper.

The pressure, the fullness, the delicious tension.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, his brow furrowed, eyes glowing like wildfire in the shadows.

Concern mingled with hunger. He’s trying to hold back.

“No,” I gasp, legs wrapping around his hips of their own accord. “You feel so good. Please, I need you to move.”

His answering growl is feral, his restraint snapping like a taut thread.

“I’ve got you, Pretty Girl. Just hold on.”

He cages me in, braced on his forearms, and crashes his mouth down on mine— hungry, claiming, reverent.

Then, he begins to move.

Long, deep strokes that set my blood on fire.

Each thrust a promise.

Each kiss a surrender.

And I know, without a doubt, this night is going to change everything.

Every glide of his cock through my soaked, aching pussy feels like poetry written in the language of sin and shadows— each word a thrust, each line a breathless moan trapped in my throat.

He’s slow.

Deliberate.

Devastating.

He holds my hips like he owns them, like he’s branding me with every roll of his body against mine.

The stretch of him is exquisite— almost too much —and yet not nearly enough.

My spine arches as he pushes deeper, and a helpless cry spills from my lips, raw and needy.

“Fuck, Pretty Girl,” he groans, voice wrecked as he watches me fall apart beneath him. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made to take me.”

I am.

I was .

There’s no other explanation.

The weight of him on me, the heat of his skin, the scent of musk and male and mine surrounding us— it’s primal, a claiming in every sense of the word.

Maybe I’ve read too many books or watched too many movies, but this? This feels important. And it scares the shit out of me.

His mouth finds my neck, nipping and licking, his teeth dragging across sensitive flesh until I’m trembling, clawing at his back, begging for more.

For everything.

For him .

And he gives it to me.

All of it.

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.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The trust in that gesture.

The vulnerability in his peace.

Because I know myself.

And I know that if I stay, I’m going to fall.

Hard.

So before the sun rises, before he wakes up and looks at me with those golden eyes that make me want to believe in impossible things, I slide out of bed.

Silently, gently, I gather my clothes.

I pause in the doorway, heart hammering against my ribs, torn in half by the weight of my own cowardice.

But I still leave.

Barefoot. Bare-faced.

No note. No name.

Just a memory between the sheets and a soft whisper of what-if clinging to the air behind me.

Because I don’t know what this is.

And I know I’m not ready.

Not yet.

But maybe, just maybe, if it’s real, if it’s meant to be, maybe I’ll see him again.

Maybe he’ll come find me.