Page 20 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
Just then the band starts to play an instrumental version of that old rock song, Jersey Girl, by that old Jersey boy himself, Bruce Springsteen, and fuck, I am awestruck.
So far, I like everything I’m learning about her.
I like her.
And then the music gets stronger—soft strings rising like something from a dream—and we drift into silence, our bodies close but not touching, the air humming between us with something extra. Something more.
I feel peaceful.
Happy.
Desire is racing through my veins.
The night’s perfect.
Not hot enough to sweat.
Not cool enough to freeze.
Just right.
But then she shivers.
It’s the kind of full-body tremor that sends a flare of heat straight through me.
My first instinct—deep, primal, impossible to ignore—is to reach for her.
My Cougar stirs under my skin, all golden fur and prowling tension, begging to move closer.
To touch. To soothe.
So I do.
I slide a little closer, just enough to offer warmth without crowding. My shoulder brushes hers.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she turns to me, and her eyes—God, her eyes—catch the light like they’ve got secrets of their own.
Mossy green rimmed with a gold that looks almost molten in the dusky glow of the park lights.
She looks like some kind of forest nymph made flesh, all soft curls and mystery.
And me?
I’m helpless. Completely swept under her spell.
My breath locks.
My pulse goes haywire.
And completely uncharacteristically—because I do not kiss strangers, not even drop dead gorgeous ones—I lean forward.
Just a breath.
A heartbeat.
