Page 107 of Rogue Riders Duet

His face is buried against my neck, lips brushing my skin with every breath, like he’s been whispering secrets into my sleep all night. He murmurs something now, a breathy string of French that I don’t catch, but it’s softer than I’ve ever heard him.

Like he’s dreaming of me.

I shouldn’t want this.

I shouldn’t want him.

Not when I’m a lie and every heartbeat in his arms is a stolen one.

But I do.

I want to press back into him, to twist around and see his face, really see him. I want to hear him say my name, not the version I’ve borrowed, not the lie, but mine. I want to know what it sounds like in his accent, whispered into the dark as a secret meant only for me.

My fingers twitch, drawn to him like they have a will of their own, and I stroke the back of his hand that’s still on my stomach, just once, a featherlight pass over his knuckles.

He sighs.

Then he kisses my neck.

It’s not a full kiss, more a brush of lips, and so slow it burns. Then his mouth opens slightly, and he nibbles just under my jaw, gentle teeth grazing skin. A quiet and desperate sound escapes me as my hips press back into him instinctively, my body acting before my mind catches up. Luc groans softly, and it hits me like a jolt of ice water—what I’ve just done, what I want to do.

My eyes fly open, and I only barely hold back a scream at the next surprise I find. Curled up on the pillow beside my face, like I’m the one lying in his space, is that damn rat.

What the actual fuck?

His whiskers twitch in his sleep, and a tiny rat snore escapes him.

I twitch hard, and Luc grumbles behind me. His arm tightens around my waist like it’s instinct, and even unconscious, he can feel I’m slipping away. The motion pulls me flush against him, grinding his morning wood right into the curve of my ass.

“T’es chaude,” he murmurs, low and slurred, lips brushing the skin just behind my ear again, making me shudder. The words melt into the heat already curling low in my stomach, the warmth of him seeping through every layer between us.

Then he shifts again.

A lazy, unconscious grind of hips, just enough friction to make my toes curl and send a surge of heat racing down my thighs. I try not to move, but I do anyway. My hips tilt invitingly, ever so slightly, but he notices. His breath catches, a soft hiss dragging against my skin.

“Mmm….” His hand on my stomach shifts, fingers spreading, flexing, claiming the space between us inch by inch.

Fuck.

My heart kicks against my ribs like it wants out, but I’m frozen in place as his breath deepens behind me, chest rising against my back, and I can feel every hard inch of him pressed to me now, every beat of his pulse syncing with mine.

His fingertips trail lower, skating the edge of my waistband, a silent question written in touch, and when I still don’t protest, when I lean into it instead, he slips his pinky beneath the elastic.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

I bolt.

Like, actually bolt.

One second, I’m in his arms, the next I’m rolling out from his embrace in a flurry of blankets, panic, and hoodie strings. My feet hit the floor with a thud, the sudden chill from leaving his arms cools my overheated everything.

“What the fuck?” Luc mumbles, somehow still half-asleep. He props up on an elbow, his hair a mess and eyes bleary. “Petit, come back to bed. I wasn’t done cuddling.”

Sure, you weren’t.

I yank my hoodie down over my hips like it can scrub away the memory of his finger in my boxers. He was about thirty seconds away from discovering my dick is made of rolled-up socks. Would he have stopped? Flinched? Freaked? Or would his sleep-fogged, horny brain have just gone on autopilot and fucked me anyway?

Why is that thought so hot?