Page 8 of Claimed by the Grumpy Shifter (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #5)

Did I really just say that?

Heat floods my face so fast I'm surprised the wine doesn't start boiling in my glass. I can feel Marc's eyes burning into me from across the table, and I'm torn between the urge to hide under the tablecloth and the shocking realization that I don't actually regret the words.

Good in bed. That's non-negotiable.

What is wrong with me? I don't talk about sex.

Ever. Especially not with men who look like they could teach graduate-level courses on the subject.

I'm the girl who blushes when the pharmacist asks if I need anything else after buying tampons.

I'm the girl who has to leave the room during the steamy scenes in movies because I get too embarrassed to watch.

And yet here I am, on a first date with the most devastatingly attractive man I've ever met, casually discussing bedroom requirements like I'm some kind of sex goddess instead of a twenty-six-year-old virgin who's never even been properly kissed.

Oh God. I'm a twenty-six-year-old virgin who just told a former Marine that sexual performance is non-negotiable.

I take another sip of wine, hoping it will calm my racing heart, but it only makes the heat in my cheeks burn hotter. Marc is still staring at me with those amber eyes, and there's something in his fierce expression that makes my entire body tingle with awareness.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, his voice all gravel and promise, and I swear I can feel the words in places that have no business responding to the sound of a man's voice.

This is insane. I've known him for two days, and already I'm thinking about things I've never seriously considered with anyone else. The way his hands would feel on my skin. The weight of his body covering mine. The sounds he might make when—

Stop. Just stop.

But my traitorous brain doesn't want to stop.

It wants to catalog every detail of his appearance, from the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders to the way he holds his fork, like he's consciously moderating his strength.

Everything about him screams power, barely leashed intensity, and some primitive part of me that I didn't even know existed wants to be the one to unleash it.

"You're thinking very loudly over there," Marc observes, his voice cutting through my internal spiral.

"Sorry." I force myself to take a bite of salmon, though I can barely taste it through my embarrassment. "I can't believe I said that."

"Which part?"

"The... the bedroom part." I can't even bring myself to repeat the words. "I don't usually... I mean, I'm not normally..."

"Forward?" he suggests, and there's something almost amused in his tone.

"That's one word for it." I risk a glance at his face and immediately regret it, because he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour slowly. "I'm usually very shy around men. Especially men like you."

"Men like me?"

"You know." I gesture vaguely at his face, his body, his entire overwhelming presence. "Attractive. Confident. Capable of reducing grown women to babbling idiots with a single look."

"Is that what I'm doing? Reducing you to a babbling idiot?"

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

The question is soft, almost casual, but there's an edge to it that makes my pulse race. He's not just making conversation. He genuinely wants to know what he's doing to me.

"I..." I start, then stop, because how do I explain that he makes me feel like a completely different person? That around him, I feel bold and reckless and hungry for things I can't even name?

"Tell me." he says, and it's not quite a command but it's close enough to make my breath catch.

"You make me feel..." I struggle for the right words, settling on honesty because it's gotten me this far. "Brave. Like I could be someone different than who I've always been."

"Who have you always been?"

"Safe. Predictable. The good girl who never takes risks or says inappropriate things on first dates." I laugh, but it sounds shaky even to my own ears. "Apparently, that's changing."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Safe and predictable are overrated." He leans forward, "I like this version of you better. The one who says what she's thinking, who isn't afraid to tell me what she wants."

"What makes you think I know what I want?"

"Because you're here. Because you said yes when I asked you to dinner, even though every instinct probably told you to run." His eyes never leave my face. "Because you're looking at me right now like you want to find out exactly how good I am in bed."

He's right, that's exactly how I'm looking at him, with a hunger I didn't even know I was capable of feeling. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.

"I don't know what's gotten into me," I whisper.

"Maybe you're just finally letting yourself be who you really are."

"And who am I, really?"

"A woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it." He reaches across the table, his fingers finding mine again. "A woman who's tired of playing it safe."

Is that who I am? Is that who I've always been underneath the careful politeness and small-town expectations? The possibility is intoxicating, like being offered a glimpse of a different life entirely.

"What if I don't know how to be that person?" I ask.

"Then you learn." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "But I don't think that's going to be a problem for you."

"Why not?"

"Because you've already started."

He's right. Sitting here, having this conversation, feeling this way…

It's all completely outside my comfort zone.

The old Christine would have deflected, changed the subject, hidden behind safe topics and well-thought boundaries.

But this version of me, the one Marc seems to see so clearly, wants to lean into the discomfort and see where it leads.

"This is crazy," I say, but I don't pull my hand away from his.

"The best things usually are."

"Is that your philosophy? Embrace the crazy?"

"It is now." He smiles, and there's something almost boyish about it. "You're having a pretty significant effect on my worldview."

"Good effect or bad effect?"

"Jury's still out."

I laugh, surprised by how easy it is despite the tension crackling between us. "Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

"Give me time. I'm still processing the fact that you exist."

The words are casual, but there's something intense in the way he says them, like my existence is somehow miraculous. It's the kind of thing that should sound like a line, but coming from Marc, it feels like the simple truth.

"I exist," I confirm, trying to lighten the mood before the intensity burns us both alive. "Disappointing as that might be."

"Disappointing?" His grip on my hand tightens. "Christine, you're the opposite of disappointing. You're..."

He trails off, shaking his head like he can't find adequate words.

"I'm what?"

"Everything I didn't know I was looking for."

The confession knocks the air from my lungs and makes my heart race so fast I'm worried it might explode. How is it possible that this man, this beautiful, damaged, incredible man, is sitting across from me saying things that sound like they're straight out of my most secret fantasies?

"Marc..." I start, but I don't know how to finish the sentence.

How do I respond to something like that? How do I tell him that he's everything I've dreamed of but never dared to hope for?

"Too much?" he asks, reading my expression.

"Maybe. But in the best possible way."

"Good. Because I'm just getting started."

The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to ease the sudden ache between them. This is what desire feels like, I realize with startling clarity. This desperate, consuming need that makes everything else fade into the background.

I've read about it, dreamed about it, wondered if I was broken because I'd never felt it before. But now, looking into Marc's amber eyes and feeling like I might spontaneously combust from the desire coursing through my veins, I understand that I wasn't broken.

I was just waiting for the right person to wake me up.

"We should probably eat," I say, gesturing to our mostly untouched plates, "before they think we're just here to stare at each other."

"Aren't we?"

The question makes me laugh, breaking some of the tension that's been building between us. "Maybe a little."

"I'm not complaining."

"Neither am I."