NOVEL NEXT Chapter 142: Nurse Luna... Hot Luna
I was mid-monologue with ARIA about the finer points of our soon-to-be software empire—IPO timelines, market annihilation, and which industry titans we'd make kneel first—when Mrs. Henderson's shadow broke over my desk like a hawk circling a dying rabbit.
"Mr. Carter!" Her voice hit my train of thought like a brick through a Ferrari windshield. "Perhaps you'd like to rejoin us here on Earth and explain the economic implications of market consolidation?"
Translation: Stop ignoring my lesson and start performing for the plebeians.
I blinked once. Shit. Caught mid–global domination fantasy, sentenced to perform econ karaoke. Thirty sets of eyes pinned me in place, broadcasting that special cocktail of curiosity and secondhand embarrassment you only get when a teacher decides you're the day's entertainment.
Old me might've panicked, stammered, or at least sweated through the shirt. New me? The upgraded model? My mind didn't just switch gears—it rewrote the road.
"Market consolidation reduces competition, raises barriers to entry," I said, smooth enough to sell perfume. "Companies buy up smaller ones to dominate market share, which can lead to higher consumer prices but greater efficiency through economies of scale."
I kept it entry-level genius—just enough to say, I know my shit, without tipping into I could buy this school, rename it, and sell it back to you at a markup. No reason to make the sheep panic before the shearing.
Henderson nodded, pleased. "And the regulatory concerns?"
"Antitrust laws exist to prevent monopolies, but enforcement depends on political climate and how many politicians you can fit in your pocket."
Safe. Polished. Absolutely true. And not even the tip of the iceberg of what I actually knew from running simulated black-market takeovers at 3 a.m.
From across the room, Lea Martinez delivered her daily glare—a cocktail of rage, suspicion, and the kind of misplaced moral superiority you only get from losing arguments in your head. Once upon a time, her attention mattered. Now she was just background static—like a chess beginner convinced they were about to corner the grandmaster. Cute, if you ignore the irrelevance.
Mrs. Henderson drew breath to continue, but the knock on the classroom door cut her off. The sound sent a ripple through the male half of the class—a collective inhale, followed by murmurs like they were expecting salvation itself.
Henderson's eyes rolled, slow and weary, like she'd seen this play before.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Nurse Valentina Luna stepped in, and suddenly the room's air pressure changed. She wasn't beautiful. That word's a Honda Civic. She was a Ferrari idling at a red light, knowing the speed limit is just a suggestion.
Long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that was somehow both professional and good luck keeping your mind on your sentence. Latina features sharp enough to make traffic stop, paired with a smile that was perfectly safe on paper but came with a mental health warning in practice.
Her uniform was regulation, but her body refused to comply with regulations.
I'd seen dangerous women before. Isabella could start wars with a glance. But Nurse Luna? She was a war that started herself.
Valentina Luna didn't walk into a room—she rewrote it.
The air shifted, like she'd stepped out of a perfume ad halfway through a confession you weren't ready to hear. Every man's attention locked onto her the way prey locks onto a predator, not quite sure if it's terror or desire. Women didn't look away, either. They measured her, knew they'd lose, and kept watching anyway.
She had the kind of face that made religion feel obsolete—warm bronze skin, cheekbones like god's signature, eyes the color of coffee served in bed by someone who doesn't care if you're late for work. Her smile was professional, but every molecule in the room understood it was also a weapon.
Her hair, dark and glossy, was pulled back like she had somewhere important to be after she ruined you. And that uniform—technically standard, practically obscene. Perfectly fitted, moving with her instead of against her, the fabric clinging in ways that made you wonder if physics had been bribed to look the other way.
Most beauty invites. Luna challenged. You didn't just want her—you wanted to survive her.
I'd met dangerous women before. Women who could make you ruin your life in increments. But Luna was economy of scale—she'd make you ruin everything in one night and leave you grateful for the efficiency.
And her body was something else...
Her body was the kind of anatomy lesson that got people expelled.
She stepped in like the world had just been rewritten with curves instead of rules.
First, the hips. Hot and lean and unapologetic, swaying with the kind of confidence that made the air itself lean in.
She was so thick, no, Luna was just those kind... hot in a way that hurts. The fabric of that skirt clung to them like a second skin—no disguising what was there—each step a slow promise, a deliberate invitation to trace the outline in your mind and curse your restraint.
Her thighs followed, thick and toned, sculpted like they belonged to someone who understood exactly how much power comes wrapped in muscle and softness. The light caught the smooth skin just right, teasing senses before the brain could even protest.
Then the waist, that narrow betrayal, pulling in sharply to make the curve of her hips impossible to ignore, a line so clean it screamed ownership. It was a rhythm that could make a man forget how to breathe, let alone think.
Her waist pulled in just enough to make the flare of her hips look almost impossible, the slope smooth and deliberate, a natural invitation to grip and claim.
And the chest—God, the chest. Full, heavy, and round like gravity had a personal vendetta, pressing against the nurse's top so tight it threatened to snap the buttons, the cleavage deep and sharp enough to cut through the morning haze. It was a subtle scream of sin wrapped in cotton.
Her ass? High, tight, and sinful, moving with every step like a slow-motion punch to the gut. Two perfect crescents under that skirt that begged for worship and threatened ruin.
It wasn't just a shape—it was a damn sentence... the kind of shape that made you imagine bending her over anything with a flat surface. Even the way she shifted her lean weight from one leg to the other had a rhythm that could trigger crimes.
She wasn't walking into the room. She was making an event out of every inch of her body, and I was front row, forced to admire the masterpiece and curse my own damn discipline.
Her walk was a rhythm that could make a man forget how to breathe, let alone think.
Every inch of her wasn't just beautiful—it was a problem. The kind of body you don't just touch. You risk everything for it, knowing you'll lose, and still begging for another round.