Page 10 of Claimed by the Grumpy Shifter (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #5)

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I, Christine Parker, the girl who blushes when men look at her, who has spent twenty-six years being safe and predictable, am about to pull down my pants in a public parking lot for a man I've known for less than three days.

It's insane. Reckless. Completely unlike me.

And yet my fingers are already working the button free, already sliding down the zipper with a metallic hiss that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet truck cab.

"That's it," Marc encourages, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones. "Show me."

His amber eyes are fixed on my hands, watching every movement. I've never been looked at like this before, like my body is a gift he can't wait to unwrap.

I wiggle my hips, pushing the denim down my thighs.

The cool air hits my skin, making goosebumps rise in its wake.

I'm suddenly, painfully aware of my black cotton panties—practical, comfortable, definitely not meant for seduction.

If I'd known this morning that I'd be exposing myself to the most gorgeous man I've ever seen, I would have chosen something lacy and sophisticated.

But Marc doesn't seem disappointed. If anything, the sight of my ordinary underwear makes him growl low in his throat, a sound of pure approval that makes my pulse spike.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and his voice makes my cheeks burn.

There's something I should tell him. Something important. But the words stick in my throat, lodged behind embarrassment and the fear that he'll stop if he knows the truth.

Twenty-six years old and completely, utterly inexperienced in anything beyond kissing. And even that's been limited to a handful of awkward encounters that never led anywhere. Never felt like this—this desperate, consuming need that makes me willing to expose myself in a gas station parking lot.

His large hand slides up my thigh. When he reaches the edge of my panties, he pauses, his eyes finding mine in the dim light.

"Still okay?" he asks.

"Yes," I whisper, though my heart is racing so fast I'm sure he can hear it. "Please."

I don't have to ask twice. His fingers slip beneath the cotton, and then he's touching me—actually touching me—in a place no one else has ever reached. The contact makes me gasp, my head falling back against the seat.

"So wet," he growls, his fingers sliding through my folds with a delicious friction that makes my toes curl. "So perfect."

I should be embarrassed by how ready I am, how my body has completely betrayed any pretense of restraint. But the naked hunger in his expression makes embarrassment impossible. He wants this. Wants me. Just as I am.

When one thick finger slides inside me, I can't contain the cry that escapes my lips. It feels nothing like when I touch myself. His hands are larger, rougher, and he knows exactly how to curl his finger to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"Marc," I gasp, my hips lifting to press against his hand.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let me feel you." He adds a second finger, stretching me in a way that's both uncomfortable and impossibly good. "So tight. So hot."

I grip the edge of the seat, my arms trembling with the effort to stay upright. Every nerve ending in my body feels electrified, concentrated on the place where his fingers are working their magic. I force my eyes to stay open, partly to watch his face and partly to make sure we're still alone.

The parking lot is empty, shrouded in darkness except for the circle of light from our headlights. There's no one around to see what we're doing, no one to witness this moment of complete abandon.

Just us. Just this.

Marc's expression is a study in concentration, his amber eyes almost glowing in the dim light.

His jaw is clenched, tendons standing out in his neck like he's physically restraining himself from doing more.

There's something wild in his face, something primal and hungry that should frighten me but instead makes me feel powerful.

I did this to him. Me. Shy, ordinary Christine Parker has reduced this powerful man to a state of barely contained desire.

"You're perfect," he growls. "Every inch of you. So beautiful."

His free hand traces the curve of my hip, the softness of my belly, with something like devotion. There's no disgust, no disappointment in the extra weight I carry. If anything, he seems to relish it, his large hand splaying across my skin like he's trying to touch as much of me as possible.

"I can't—" His voice breaks, and I see his throat work as he swallows hard. "I can't hold back anymore. I need all of you. Need to feel you, taste you, claim you."

The raw honesty in his voice, the desperation, it calls to something equally desperate in me. Something that's tired of being careful, tired of waiting for a perfect moment that might never come.

"I want that too," I whisper, and the words are both a confession and a surrender. "I've never felt anything like this before."

His fingers still inside me, and for a moment, I think I've said something wrong. But then I see the flash of understanding in his eyes, the sudden comprehension.

"You've never...?" he asks, confused.

There's no point hiding it now. "No. Never."

"You're a virgin?"

I nod, unable to meet his eyes. "I know it's ridiculous at my age, but I just never found the right person, never felt like this with anyone else, and I…"

"Christine." My name on his lips stops my rambling. "Look at me."

I force myself to meet his gaze, expecting to see disappointment or, worse, pity. Instead, I find nothing but heat and a fierce kind of possessiveness.

"You're giving me a gift," he says, his fingers still buried inside me. "The most precious gift anyone has ever given me. Are you sure you want this? With me? Like this?"

"I'm sure," I say, and I've never been more certain of anything in my life. "I'm just... I'm afraid I'll be bad at it. That I won't know what to do, how to please you."

A smile, soft and surprisingly tender, curves his lips. "No one is born knowing how to do this, sweetheart. It's something we learn together." His thumb circles my clit, making me gasp. "And I'll teach you everything. Even if we have to practice a thousand times."

The promise in his voice, the heat in his eyes, makes me giggle despite the tension coiling in my belly. "I hope so."

"Get in the back," he commands suddenly, his fingers withdrawing from me with a slick sound that should be embarrassing but is somehow incredibly erotic.

I don't hesitate. Awkwardly shuffling with my jeans around my thighs, I climb between the seats into the back of the truck cab. Marc follows, and reaches forward to push the front seats as far up as they'll go, creating more space for us.

The moment he turns back to me, I see it—the hunger, the need, the barely leashed control. He's like a predator, and I'm his willing prey.

He strips off his suit jacket first, then his tie, fingers working the buttons of his shirt with an urgency that makes my pulse race. When he pulls the shirt off, I can't help the small gasp that escapes me.

He's magnificent. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every inch covered in hard muscle and scattered with scars that speak of battles I can't imagine. A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, trailing down to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants.

"Your turn," he says, and there's a challenge in his voice.

I reach for the hem of my sweater with hands that aren't entirely steady. The blue fabric slides over my head, leaving me in nothing but my bra and the jeans still bunched around my thighs. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but the way Marc is looking at me makes me feel powerful instead.

"Perfect," he growls, and then he's on me.

His lips are softer than I expected, but there's nothing soft about the way he kisses. All heat and hunger and demand. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me from the inside out, and I yield to him completely, my arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

One large hand cradles the back of my head while the other slides down my back, unhooking my bra with a dexterity that would be impressive if I had the capacity to think about anything other than the way his chest feels pressed against mine.

When he pulls back to remove my bra completely, the cool air makes my nipples tighten. Marc groans, a sound of pure appreciation, before his mouth descends to capture one stiff nipple between his lips.

I arch against him, desperate for more, for everything he can give me.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin, his tongue swirling around in a way that makes me whimper. "So perfect for me."

His hands are everywhere, learning my body with a thoroughness that borders on worship. He traces the curve of my waist, the softness of my belly, the fullness of my hips like he's memorizing every inch of me.

"Marc," I gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive underside of my breast. "Please."

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need."

"You," I say, beyond embarrassment now. "All of you. I can't wait anymore."

His amber eyes lock on mine, searching for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he nods once, reaching for the button of his pants.

"I need you to be sure," he says, "This is your first time. It should be special, not in the back of a truck in a gas station parking lot."

The consideration, the care he's taking with me, makes my heart squeeze in my chest. But I don't want to wait. I don’t want to second-guess this perfect moment of connection.

"It's already special," I tell him honestly. "Because it's with you. Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you right now." I reach for him, my hand brushing the impressive bulge straining against his pants. "I want you to claim me, Marc. Make me yours."

Something flashes in his eyes at the word "claim". Something wild and primitive that should frighten me but instead makes excitement curl low in my belly.

"Mine," he growls.