Page 51 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

“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.

“Nothing would be embarrassing to me. Believe me. I don’t even know how to feel embarrassed.

” I let that hang there because it’s true.

I don’t have the wiring for shame. “You could talk to me about anything , lay out your worst thoughts, your weirdest shit, and I’d probably ask for more details.

Nothing rattles me. Nothing makes me flinch. ”

The conflict is clear in his eyes. He wants to trust me. I can see it, feel it in every breath he takes against my chest, but he’s still afraid. Probably bracing for the moment I pull away. So I don’t. Instead, I press another kiss to his temple.

“You don’t have to tell me the details, just tell me you’ll be okay, please.”

His head dips, resting against me again in a slow, exhausted nod, his hand flattening more firmly over my stomach, and fuck , my cock stirs at the touch.

I grit my teeth through it. Not the right fucking moment, ami.

“Yeah,” he answers. “In a day or three.”

“Okay,” I murmur, my fingers trailing lazily down the curve of his spine. “We’ve got at least eight hours to kill, how about you tell me something about yourself?”

He shifts, eyes flicking toward Otis up front, who’s still driving like he’s got nowhere to be and all day to get there. His grin is plastered wide, nodding along to the music playing low through the speakers.

I jerk my chin at him. “Fisher, crank it up a little, yeah?”

Otis flashes a thumbs-up, turns the dial, and the bus fills with sound, some old-school French pop song, upbeat and ridiculous, but it makes Petit soften more into me, the edge of his mouth tugging toward a smile.

He lets out a soft huff of breath. “We already had me spilling my guts. How about you tell me something?”

“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”

“You said you weren’t well either,” he reminds me, his voice softer now. “I didn’t forget that. I just wasn’t… in the state of mind to ask. I’m sorry. You can tell me now.”

“You don’t seem in the state of mind now either,” I tease, keeping my voice light.

He tucks his head under my jaw. “Oh, right now?” he murmurs. “I’m perfectly fine.”

That flips something inside me. Hard.

“Well, I probably should save that kind of story for a friend.” Pulling back just enough to catch his eye, I smirk at him. “And like you told me…” I let my knuckles glide gently along his faintly flushed cheek and watch the way his lashes flutter at the touch. “You’re not my friend.”

“ Right. ” Petit hums, averting his gaze down to his hand as his fingers drift lower, skimming over the waistband of my sweats. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.

Heat pools low in my stomach, and I hold my breath, my pulse kicking. My hand flies to his wrist, catching hold before that innocent little touch turns me into a goddamn mess right here in kicking distance of Otis.

“Don’t tempt me, Petit, ” I murmur, linking our fingers as my lips brush the shell of his ear. “I’m already hanging by a thread.”

His lashes lift, and when those big brown eyes meet mine, there’s something there that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like maybe none of this is accidental at all.

“I’m pretty sure you’re just talk,” he whispers back.

Mon Dieu.

I let go of his hand, but only to slide mine up, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw until I catch his chin between my thumb and forefinger, so I can tilt his face toward me and ease him into my orbit.

My thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip slowly, feeling the soft give of it beneath my touch.

His breath stutters, lips parting just enough to let me feel it ghost against my skin. My eyes flick between his mouth and those wide, searching eyes, soaking in every flicker of hesitation, every crackle of want.

I lean in, closer still, until there’s nothing but heat between us. The faint brush of his breath mixes with mine, the space tightening until it feels like one wrong move will tip us over the edge.

“Give me permission,” I whisper, lips grazing his but never quite touching. “Let me show you just how much I’m not talk.”

I hold there, suspended in the space between us, the air charged and vibrating. The tension is so tight it could snap with a breath, and mon Dieu , I want it to. I want him to close the gap, to say yes , to let me.

But then he hiccups, breaking the spell just enough to pull a grin from me.

I chuckle and lean back, but only to gather him in again, and wrap him up, tucking his head to my chest like I’m afraid he might float away if I don’t hold him close enough.

His ear is right over my heart, and I know he can hear it pounding hard and fast like I just crashed out at full speed.

I’m so hard it hurts, every nerve thrumming with need. Just holding him, feeling his breath on my neck, his weight in my lap is enough to undo me.

I close my eyes, dragging in a breath that’s supposed to calm me.

Think about something else, Luc. Anything else.

Dirt trails. Bad espresso. Payne’s perfect little scowl. Wait! Fuck, not that.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to my maman ,” I murmur, the thought slipping out before I even think twice about it.

That tension snaps back in an instant.

Petit goes rigid, his body stiffening like I just threatened to tattoo my name across his chest.

“Luc,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to glare up at me, his brows furrowed hard. “I’m not your… boyfriend.”

I smirk, not even fazed, squeezing him close.

“ Non, but you’re mon Petit .” I feel him huff and know he wants to argue, but I steamroll right through it.

“And it’s France , Les Gets. My home mountain.

I grew up there. I can’t wait to show you everything.

The food’s amazing, the people are sweet, oh, and my birthday’s Friday.

” I grin, nuzzling into his hair again. “We’re gonna celebrate, and you’ll love it.

We still have to celebrate your win, so we can do both at the same time. ”

He tilts his head back, eyeing me. “This Friday? August second?”

“ Oui. ”

His lips twitch, one brow lifting. “How old are you turning?”

I lean back just enough to flash him my full grin. “Twenty-four. How old are you?”

“Twentyf…” He stops, winces, then mutters, “Twenty.”

“S o young. ” I grin, nipping at his earlobe just to feel that shiver run through him. Then I grin even wider. “Can I legally adopt you?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, smacking my face away with his palm, but it only makes me grin harder.

I love it when he does that.

“You can sleep,” I murmur, brushing my thumb in slow circles along his shoulder.

“I’ve got you. Close your eyes, and before you know it, we’ll be in France.

” I pause, not satisfied with the strain of his muscles against me, so I keep going, gentler now.

“Or…” I offer, letting my hand trail lower, smoothing over the curve of his back.

“If you’d rather stretch out in the back, I’ll take a turn driving and let you get some proper rest.”

“Stay,” he whispers brokenly, so soft it’s barely a whisper.

Merde.

I breathe deep, clenching my jaw against the way my cock stirs hard in response again. Dammit . That sound shouldn’t make me wild with the need to protect him, hold him, have him.

But it does.

God help me, it does.

“I’ll stay,” I say hoarsely. “I’ll hold you all the way there.”

The sound he makes then, a soft, contented hum, barely a breath, is pure fucking devastation. It slides straight down my spine and settles low in my gut, pouring gasoline on the fire already burning there.

And all I can think is, what would he sound like then?

Naked beneath me, flushed and writhing, my name catching on his lips between gasps.

I want to hear every sound, every sharp inhale, every moan, every desperate little noise he makes when I touch him just right, when I kiss him slow and deep, when I push him to the edge and guide him back, trembling.

I want to learn , memorize , and worship him.

But instead, I just hold him tighter, my arms wrapped around something far more fragile than he pretends to be, because he asked me to, and I’d burn the whole world down just to be the one he asks again.

My thoughts are still tangled up in all the things I want to do to him when Petit’ s breath evens out, his body sagging heavier into mine, sleep finally pulling him under.

My lower back protests the position and the weight on me, but I wouldn’t move for anything right now.

Toulouse stirs and crawls out from my hood. He stretches, then pads down to curl up in Petit ’s lap. He yawns, tiny teeth flashing, and curls tighter into a ball, tail flicking once before he dozes off again.

“Like father, like son,” I murmur under my breath.

Neither of us is good at giving space, and neither of us knows how to back off when someone needs us.

Petit claims Toulouse is gross. He says we’re not friends.

But that’s the thing about my son and me, we’ll keep showing up, inching closer, and refusing to back off.

Until Petit figures out what we already know.

That he wants us right here.

And we’re exactly what he needs.