Page 26 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

"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 ofbeing 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?"

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