Page 137 of Rogue Riders Duet

His eyes flick sideways, glancing at Otis like he’s checking for judgment.

Ah.

“What?” I laugh. “You worried about him? Otis doesn’t care.”

“True.” Otis shrugs. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want back there. I’m an ally.”

Petit’s gaze drifts farther back to Piper, who has settled into the seat next to Dane, leaning close, murmuring low. She laughs at something Dane says, her hand brushing his arm while he’s grinning.

“And those two?” I nod toward them, smirking. “Way too occupied to care what we’re doing.”

Petit hesitates for a breath, maybe two. Then he gives in, leaning against me, but it’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

I wrap my arm tighter around his waist and tug him in, guiding him until his legs stretch across my lap, fitting like they were always meant to be there. He lets out this tiny, involuntary gasp, and I feel it everywhere.

His breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. His head dips, his cheek brushing my shoulder, and I slide my hand up to stroke him in slow circles along his thigh, my thumb tracing gentle patterns while my other hand curls against the curve of his shoulder.

He shivers against me, and fuck, I could stay right here forever.

But even with Petit leaning into me like this, even with his head resting lightly against my shoulder, eyes closed, there’s tension.

His body hums with it.

The lines around his eyes are tight, his lips pressed flat like he’s holding something in and is trying too hard to be still.

I ease my fingers into his hair, push the strands back from his forehead, and whisper against the crown of his head, “Qu’est-ce qui fait mal, mon Petit? What hurts?”

He exhales this small, hollow sound, but his eyes stay closed. “What doesn’t?”

I have no idea how to fix this, so I do the only thing I know and let my hand drift lower, stroking down the curve of his shin over his sweatpants, then up again, tracing slow, steady circles along his back. Just grounding him, giving him something to lean into me, and he does.

His weight softens, finally sinking into me fully.

I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in again.

“What can I do to make it better?” I murmur against his hair.

He shifts just slightly, one hand curling lazily against my chest while the other spreads wide, pressing flat over my stomach.

“You already did,” he whispers.

That does something dangerous to me, setting off a whole swarm of butterflies in my chest, flapping wild and hard because, fuck, he really wants me here. He actually said it.

I breathe deeply, trying to settle it, but I can feel the grin pulling at the edges of my mouth. Still, there’s a weight I can’t ignore, pressing at the back of my mind.

“What happened yesterday? You were bleeding.”

Petit tenses again, curling in on himself in that instinct to hide.

“I got hurt racing,” he answers, clipped.

“How?”

“It’s embarrassing.” He grips my chest a little tighter, the words appearing to cost him something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I ease my hand back into his hair, letting my fingers slide slowly through the strands, trying to get him back to that relaxed state.