Page 32 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

His words land like a punch to the gut, punching through my brain louder than they should, and jealousy hits me like a bad landing, leaving my teeth rattling and body stunned.

Of course, he wants to be friends with Greer.

Always calm, always composed, Finn Greer. He’s the kind of guy you let into your life without thinking twice.

I should know because I did, too, and maybe that’s what eats at me most. I might know how to make people laugh, distract them, seduce them, or make noise, but Greer gets space next to him while warming up without pushing between.

He gets a seat on the bus. I can easily imagine the casual talks and laughs shared between them.

I don’t get any of that.

And fuck, that image of Greer driving with Petit Crews in the passenger seat. Maybe asleep, maybe curled up in a hoodie, maybe trusting him with more than just directions.

I hate that image and how easy it is to picture, hate how it makes me feel, even though some part of me knows it’s bullshit, especially based on how tired Petit seems.

“Why?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

He frowns. “Why what?”

“Why them? ” My skin warms, the outrage mounting. “Why can you be friends with Payne and Greer but not with me?”

His jaw ticks. “Neither of them is my friend.”

I blink, thrown off by his quick denial. “Seriously?”

“I don’t do friends.”

We stare at each other for a beat in the wake of that admission, and my mind whirls.

Ah. So it’s not me? It’s probably not even them, either.

Petit is the problem. I didn’t see that coming, didn’t even consider it an option. He either doesn’t know how to let people in or maybe doesn’t believe he deserves to.

I file this new information away.

“ Well ,” I say, feeling almost normal for the first time in days, like a weight has been lifted. One that, if I had to guess, probably weighs barely more than fifty kilograms. “I guess I’ll just hang around and annoy you until you change your mind, then.”

That earns me a twitch of his mouth. Not a smile, exactly, but he doesn’t immediately say no, which I take as permission.

He starts walking again, and keeping my word, I fall into step beside him. The gravel crunches under our boots as we head toward the trees, leaving behind the noise of the camps and the clatter of wrenches and egos.

“What are we even doing here?” I ask after a while, looking around.

“ I’m getting some fresh air. You’re just hanging around annoying me .”

He needed fresh air?

He really isn’t okay.

We are alone, with no teammates, no audience, just me and the most confusing rider on the circuit, which gives me a chance for some real talk, to ask what’s up with him. I don’t really know shit about him, but the truth is I want to.

Except, he wouldn’t tell me, would he?

The least I can do is try to get that sadness out of his eyes.

“You know,” I start, glancing sideways at his hooded profile. “If you’re going to keep being allergic to actual conversation, I’m going to have to start filling in the blanks myself.”

He doesn’t respond, obviously, so I keep my word again.

I’m honorable like that.

“Okay, let me guess. You always wear your hood up because you hate your haircut.”

He flicks his gaze to me, and I have to suppress a smile.

I was joking, but it seems like I hit a mark.

Reaching over casually, I tug his hood down, letting my fingers glide through the soft, dark mess of his hair.

It’s even softer than I imagined, ridiculously so, and he immediately swats my hand away with a glare.

“You shouldn’t.” I lean back with a satisfied grin. “The cut’s nice, you look good.” So damn cute.

His cheeks turn pink, just a shade, but enough to make my chest tingle with dangerous satisfaction .

“You drink your coffee black, no sugar, like some kind of bitter cowboy. Or tea, but only the kind that tastes like a forest and sadness.”

He huffs. Or was it a laugh? Eh, borderline. Either way, I press on.

“You’re a cat person, obviously. Aloof and judgy. Hating my son for no reason. You probably hiss when someone wakes you up too early.”

Another eyeroll. Excellent.

“Your bike has a name, and I’m sure it’s something dramatic. Like… Berserker , Nightmare , or Vengeance. ”

The edge of his mouth twitches. There it is, the tiniest crack. Now’s my chance.

“You have a girlfriend.”

He frowns when his brown eyes come up to mine again.

Interesting.

“Boyfriend?” I hedge.

“No.” He presses his lips together firmly.

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.

I need him under me, over me, around me, twisting in my hands, calling my name. I’ve never needed anything like this. Never anyone like him.

I’ve never fucked a guy before, and sure, this might be a bit ambitious out here in the middle of nowhere, with no lube, no prep, and nothing but pine needles to cushion my Petit .

But I’ve got two hands and a vivid imagination.

Couldn’t I just slide one down, wrap it around both of us, and stroke us off together?

I barely hold back a groan, because fuck. Yes.

That sounds perfect.

My hips press forward instinctively, lining us up. I grind just once, causing a firm pull against the ache in my jeans, because God, I need something, anything.

I’m not teasing anymore, I’m begging. Not out loud, but in every touch, every breath, every inch of me straining toward him.

My eyes find his, searching, asking. Is this okay? Do you want this too?

And for a moment, it looks like yes. His lips are parted, his chest rising in shallow waves, and the tiniest moan escapes him, so soft I feel it more than I hear it.

I want to revel in it, but in the back of my mind, I know something is off. Pulling back just enough to glance between us, I freeze.

Why the fuck doesn’t he have a boner?

The realization crashes into me like a snapped chain at full speed.

He’s not hard.

But I am. Fuck, I’m so hard I feel feverish, aching with it, every nerve tuned to the pitch of him, and now I’m suddenly, horrifically aware of it.

I look up, panic already creeping into my lungs. His expression is carved from tension, mouth pinched, eyes wide but blank. Not dazed with pleasure or drunk on the same madness I’m drowning in.

Blank.

No desire or heat, just the ghost of everything I thought we were building. My stomach drops, shame chasing it down in a sick, hot rush. I don’t see the ache I feel in him, no heat.

I want him.

And he doesn’t want me.

I can’t tell whether I misread everything or if he did want me, but I ruined it because I came on too strong, moved too fast, assumed too much. Hoped too much.

Petit Crews is the first to unfreeze, and the first thing he does is push my face away.

I let him.

Then he hiccups loudly, ducks under my arm, and bolts, unable to get away from me fast enough. Without a word or even a backward glance, he literally sprints away from me, and here I am, breathing hard, and just hard.

And humiliated.

What the fuck was that? What the fuck did I just do?

Toulouse shifts inside my sleeve, a faint rustle of fur and warmth against my wrist.

“ Merde , sorry, mon amour . I forgot about you.”

I forgot about fucking everything.

Pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, I lean back against the tree and try to remember how to breathe like someone who isn’t a complete fuckup.