Page 85 of Rogue Riders Duet

My heart kicks.

“Ever had one?” I ask, trying to hide how desperately I want to know the answer.

He halts abruptly and turns to face me, full-on.

“No.” His voice has an edge now, and he looks at me like I’ve prodded something I shouldn’t have. “Why are you asking me that?”

He looks suspicious, which is fair, but underneath that guarded expression is a flicker of something else. Not fear exactly, but wariness. The kind that comes with a closely-held secret. Maybe he is gay or somewhere in the vicinity.

Elite sports are still stuck in the Stone Age. Guys can fly down mountains at sixty-five kilometers an hour, but God forbid they admit they want to kiss another guy.

“I was just wondering if that’s why you won’t talk to me,” I say with a thoughtful hum. “If there’s someone in your life who doesn’t want you talking to guys like me.”

His eyes narrow. “Guys like what? Annoying?”

With a grin, I push his shoulder, just enough to back him against the nearest tree. My leg slips between his thighs on instinct, and he stills completely, his eyes wide.

“Tell me, Petit. Give me the real answer. Is there someone who thinks they’re dating you right now?”

My fingers curl under his jaw, tilting his face up so he has no choice but to meet my eyes. His breath stutters, the tiniest hitch, just like I hoped it would. Maybe even prayed. Something flutters in my chest at the contact.

“Why?” he asks on a breath, his voice soft like it’s trying not to tremble.

“Because they should know, I am a threat.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, defiance, fear, want, I don’t know, but it makes my pulse spike. He’s trying to build a wall, but I can feel the cracks spiderwebbing underneath.

“You…” he starts, then falters. His eyes narrow as he forces the words out like they cost him something. “You think you could have me?”

I shouldn’t smile, but I do, wicked and entirely sincere. My knuckle brushes along his cheekbone, a whisper of touch that makes his long lashes flutter. “Couldn’t I, Petit?”

He doesn’t answer, but his throat bobs once in a rough swallow.

Putain.

His lips are parted, but his shoulders are rigid, locked between the bark and my chest. He smells like lavender and ointment, a herbal sharpness beneath the sweetness. It’s the scent of healing, of bruises not yet faded. Strangely intimate and real in a way that cuts through everything synthetic in my world. It shouldn’t be sexy, but fuck, it is.

I eye the patch of skin at his throat, the small sliver exposed beneath the edge of his hoodie, too delicate for someone who rides like the devil owns his soul.

I want to taste it, bite it.

Claim it.

My knee presses higher between his thighs, and I swear I feel him tense, like he doesn’t know whether he wants to push closer or bolt. My thumb drags across the corner of his mouth, and I tilt his head to the side, because I need more. I need access. I need him.

“Merde.” I breathe out, and my voice is hoarse with everything I’m holding back. Tiny freckles are scattered across his pale skin in little constellations no one else has discovered.

Mon Dieu.

My hand slides along his neck, fingers splayed, thumb teasing over the taut line of muscle. His pulse hammers against my touch, wild and terrified or turned on, maybe both. I lower my mouth to that tender place just under his ear and bite. Gently. Teasing. Just teeth, heat, and the faintest drag of tongue.

He jerks in my arms, then hiccups a split second later, and I can’t help but smile.

Fuck, that sound.

I chuckle low against his skin, drunk on it, already addicted. My body reacts before my brain can catch up, and my cock twitches, and I want…

No. Need.