My $70k Nurse Trap

The paycheck was astronomical—enough to make me swallow my pride and agree to care for my husband's wealthy uncle, Vincent Roland.

But I should've known there'd be strings attached.

His first demand? A skimpy nurse uniform and black stockings.

And every night, without fail, he expected me to bathe him.

Vincent had broken his leg, and his wife, Margaret Lowell, came to me—begging, really—since I used to be a nurse.

I almost said no. The way that man looked at me… like I was dessert he couldn't wait to devour. If my blouse dipped even slightly, his eyes locked onto my chest like a heat-seeking missile.

But then she dropped the number: $70k a month.

I caved.

From day one, Vincent pushed boundaries. The uniform was just the start. When I wiped him down, he'd grab my wrist and drag my palm over his hardening arousal.

Disgusting? Absolutely. But that paycheck kept my mouth shut.

Then one night, after I finished cleaning him—dressed in that ridiculous, curve-hugging nurse outfit—he lunged.

I bolted for the door.

Margaret locked it behind me.

I'm Luna Valentine. Twenty-six, a nurse, and cursed with what my husband calls "a dangerous silhouette"—soft curves, full breasts, and a natural sway in my hips that turns heads.

At the hospital, male patients stared like I was the main course. The harassment got so bad, I quit in a rage.

Ethan, my husband, was furious. We didn't speak for days.

Then Margaret called. Vincent needed care.

Memories of his lingering stares made me refuse—until she named her price. Temptation won.

With Ethan's salary barely covering rent, we needed this. And since he was leaving for a business trip, we agreed I'd take the job.

He dropped me off at Vincent's Beverly Hills mansion, kissed my forehead, and left.

Upstairs, Vincent lay sprawled on the bed—completely naked.

Not even underwear.

I spun away, but his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist.

"Luna… so glad you're here," he murmured, fingers skimming up my arm while his gaze dropped to my cleavage.

I shot Margaret a help me look. She didn't even glance up from her phone.

I yanked back, but Vincent hauled me against him—his thick body hair scratching my skin, his musky cologne choking me. Then I felt it: him, hard beneath me.

I shoved him off. "You're my elder. Act like it!"