Page 40 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alaina

I wake to warmth.

Not the cheap, scratchy kind from my bus blanket. No, this is the kind that seeps into your skin, settles in your ribs, and dares you to let your guard down, and for the first few breaths, I do.

The bed is so soft, and the covers are halfway kicked off, but what remains is heavy over my legs.

My hoodie has ridden up to bunch around my chest, and there’s skin on my skin where there shouldn’t be.

A hand. A very warm hand. Palm flat on my stomach, fingers splayed low across my abdomen like it’s been there all night, holding me together piece by piece while I dreamed of things I’m not allowed to want.

And then there’s the breath, slow exhales, ghosting across the curve of my neck. It tickles, and I shift slightly, then freeze, because that hand is attached to an arm draped over my waist like a damn anchor. And the anchor has a boner.

A full mast anchor, if you will.

And it’s pressed snugly against my ass, even through the blanket that’s somehow managed to wedge itself between us.

I’m in Luc’s bed.

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?

Jesus.

I press my thighs together against the ache between them and scoop my phone off the bed where it’s fallen from my hoodie pocket. The screen flashes to life, and my heart sinks. “ Shit. We’re late for track walk.”

He groans and flops back down dramatically. “ Fuck track walk. C’mere. We were making progress. I was about to emotionally support you into next week.”

“I gotta go.” I’m already sliding on my shoes. “This is not how I get kicked off the circuit. Not by skipping a mandatory track walk to make out with a French himbo in bed with a rat.”

“Wow. Rude to Toulouse and me. That was premium-grade cuddling.” Luc lifts his head again, blinking at me. “Wait, did you just say we were about to make out?”

Yes. And if I stay in this room one second longer, I will crawl back into that bed and make some very bad decisions.

“No. See you later, Delacroix. ”

“Coward,” he calls after me as I yank open the door and nearly collide with a chest.

“Whoa,” the guy says, blinking down at me with his hand raised in a fist, mid-knock. Otis Fisher, top ten rider and one of Luc’s teammates, probably here to drag his fearless leader out of bed.

We both freeze.

He stares. I stare back and watch how his brows lift. “I was looking for Delacroix…”

I nod, brushing past him. “In bed.”

“Wait… that’s who you’ve been talking about?” I hear Otis ask right before the door closes, somewhere between shocked and delighted, but I don’t stick around to hear Luc’s response.

The lobby is already buzzing with riders, backpacks slung over their shoulders. I break into a sprint, ignoring how flustered I must look.

Dane is out cold in his bunk when I slip into the bus, which is a relief. I don’t have the emotional capacity to revisit last night’s fight or explain why I look like this.

Does he know I kissed his best friend? Will he be able to tell somehow?

Fuck.

I take the fastest cold shower known to man, two minutes, tops. As I towel off, I notice something strange. My hip doesn’t ache as much as usual. The pain is still there but dulled, like someone turned the volume down a little.

Huh.

Maybe it was the soft bed.

Or the warm company.

That thought sends an unwelcome tingle back between my thighs and somewhere stupid in my chest. I shove it down, hard, and take a couple of painkillers anyway, just in case. I’m not about to jinx a good morning .

Then it’s the binder, a roll of socks, and a fresh hoodie with the hood up. Armor locked.

I grab a bottle of water, an energy drink, and an apple from the refrigerator and shove everything into a drawstring backpack. Then I hesitate, open the refrigerator again, take another bottle, and grab a sticky note from the notepad wedged by the stove.

Off to track walk. Drink water.

I stick the note on the bottle, then set it carefully on the little shelf next to Dane’s bunk, within arm’s reach for when he wakes up. He doesn’t even stir.

The gondola station is at the edge of the pits, part of the ultra-modern setup that screams Austria’s racing royalty. After France, this is the biggest downhill stronghold in Europe, and it shows.

The gondolas are small, four-person max, but I catch an empty one and slide in alone, tucking into the corner.

As it climbs, the view hits—rugged peaks, trees like splintered glass. I trace the track lines carved into the slopes like veins, and the buzz in my bones builds again, the one I understand.

Past Alaina loved riding here.

By the time I reach the top, I spot the crowd of riders already on the hill, but they’ve only made it a few hundred feet down the course.

Feet flying over loose gravel, my brain shifts into race mode, flipping through terrain memory and junior race flashbacks. I know this mountain, know its teeth, and I immediately start picking lines, making mental notes, locking into the rhythm of the trail like I never left it.

By the time I hit the second segment, I’m in step with the pack. It feels weird doing this alone. Dane has always done track walks with me, his voice in my ear, his stride beside mine, cracking jokes and pointing out lines .

Everyone else is with their teams, clumped together in branded jackets, half-bent over trail features with someone squatting next to them drawing in the dirt, strategizing.

I step around a berm. This particular banked curve is cut tight but low in the slope. My eyes flick across the trail, and that’s when I see him. Finn is standing a little higher up, talking to his teammates, one arm crossed, the other gesturing toward a rock section like he’s mid-analysis.

His eyes meet mine, and everything stills. We stare at each other for a second too long, but then he blinks and looks away.

That’s it. No nod. No smile. No hey .

Nothing.

He turns back to his team and keeps talking like I don’t exist, and his hands weren’t on my skin, his mouth on mine. Like he didn’t whisper fuck, baby girl into my neck.

My next breath is ragged as another kind of pain slices through me. I know it was a mistake, but I didn’t imagine it. I didn’t hallucinate the way his chest felt against mine, the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted .