Page 400 of Rogue Riders Duet

Green lights flash.

The crowd explodes.

I throw my head back and laugh, breathless and high on everything, the race, the noise, and horny as hell.

Whoever ends up losing today, I’m going to enjoy every second of this.

Every squeal.

Every curse.

Every filthy, perfect inch.

The house is a war zone of half-empty Gatorade bottles, crumpled race kits, and three bodies sprawled like casualties. Luc’s face-down on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping handlebars. Alaina’s curled in the armchair, legs tucked under her, braid unravelled into a messy halo. I’m flat on my back on the rug, staring at the ceiling fan like it owes me money.

Two hours of press, photos, and podium champagne that tasted like victory and battery acid, my legs feel like someone replaced the bones with wet cement.

“Don’t think we forgot,” Luc mumbles into the cushion, voice muffled and smug. “That you’re the one getting the pink treatment tonight, mon Payne au chocolate.”

I flip him off without looking. “You came in second, genius. That’s still losing.”

“By point-two seconds,” he whines, rolling onto his back.

“I beat you both.” Alaina snorts, eyes closed. “I’m the only one who gets to gloat and top.”

“Cruel,” Luc sighs dramatically. “Beautiful, cruel woman.”

I drag a hand down my face. “We’re all too dead to fuck. My quads are staging a coup.”

“Same,” Alaina murmurs. “I could fall asleep mid-thrust and suffocate someone.”

Luc lifts his head with a grin. “I volunteer as tribute.”

A low, pained sound escapes me—half groan, half laugh.

“Was that a groan or a moan?” Luc perks up.

“Both.”

Alaina laughs. “Everything hurts. Even my soul is bruised.”

The door clicks open, and I turn my head the tiniest bit to see Finn stepping in, carrying a tray like he’s done this a hundred times. Which, let’s be real, he has. He’s got the dad instincts of a saint and the patience of a sniper.

“Mon Dieu.” Luc cracks one eye open. “Papi’s here to tuck us in.”

“Shut up,” Finn says, but there’s no heat in it. He sets the tray on the coffee table. Pain pills. Muscle rub. Bottles of water. A stack of those fuzzy blankets Élise brought with her last time she visited that smell like lavender and safety.

Finn tosses a blanket over Luc first, who immediately burrows in like a feral cat. Then he drapes one over Alaina’s shoulders, tucks it under her chin, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She sighs, already half-gone.

I’m last. He kneels, slides a pillow under my head, and covers me with the softest damn blanket I’ve ever felt. His fingers brush my hair back, and I lean into it like a touch-starved idiot.

“Ibuprofen,” he says, pressing two pills into my palm. Then he uncaps the muscle cream, warms it between his hands, and works it into the calf that gave me grief this season, with slow, firm strokes.

This time, I groan for real.

Luc watches through one squinted eye. “If you start jerking him off, I’m gonna remind your nose what a fist feels like.”

“Jealous?” Finn asks, not looking up.