Page 49 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mason

At the beginning of this season, all I wanted was to make that money for Dad. To get him somewhere nice to sleep, a real bed, and maybe scrape the mud from the Payne name in the process.

And somehow, I’ve ended up here.

I’m lying on the hotel bed, still a little damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweats.

The room is warm, the sheets soft in that expensive way I’ve never really felt before.

I’ve got my arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling, but I can’t wrap my head around this.

This shit is fancy.

Not one of those moldy motels Dad and I would have booked overseas. No, this is bloody ridiculous like five-star spa bullshit. Everything smells like clean wood and too much money. There are even complimentary robes. Robes.

And Dad got his own room.

His own fucking room .

All of it paid for by Alaina’s dad, who apparently owns half the goddamn world and flies around in a private jet like he’s too good for first class. Because that’s how we got here. In his fucking jet. I didn’t even know people outside of movies actually did that.

I hated it at first. Felt too much like charity, like we were being bought, but then Luc leaned in while we were hauling our shit up the stairs and muttered, “Take everything he gives. He’s a fucking dick. Petite deserves to milk him a little, so let her. You don’t owe him a damn thing.”

And, yeah, that helped.

It still feels weird, but at least it doesn’t feel wrong .

Especially not when I think about what the other option would’ve been—Dad and I crammed into some Airbnb with one creaky bed and no heating.

We would’ve made it work, but this? This feels like breathing room, and we haven’t had that in a long time.

I roll over and grab my phone off the bedside table, opening my music app and tapping on “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit. The beat kicks in fast and loud, and I settle back into the pillows, letting it fill the room.

Greer swears this is my song.

“Aggressive, but fun,” he said during track walk. “Like you, man. Not angry, just got that drive. That grit. That don’t-fuck-with-me energy.”

Still not sure I get his whole melody theory. I don’t usually listen to this kind of stuff. My dad raised me on AC/DC and Metallica, not this weird growl-pop rap shit.

But it’s not bad. There’s a rhythm to it, something in the beat that makes my foot tap against the mattress, allowing me to feel an echo of that adrenaline I only get when I’m racing or tuning my suspension, and I can’t exactly argue with the results of Greer’s coaching.

I fucking won Val di Sole.

A track I’ve hated since juniors. I’ve crashed there more times than I can count, but this time, with Greer’s line choices, I nailed it.

So yeah, I’ll keep listening to the song. Try to get into the melody . Even if the chorus still makes me feel like I’m about to get into a bar fight in a monster truck arena.

I listen over and over as the jetlag crawls under my skin.

It’s early evening, but my body is not buying it.

I’m not exhausted , but I feel like my blood is moving a half-step behind the rest of me, and if I give in and close my eyes now, that’s it. I’ll be wide awake at three in the morning and useless by race day.

I tell myself I just need to make it another two hours.

Just enough to tip into the right rhythm, to shift my clock onto this new time zone so I’m not dragging ass when it counts.

But once I’ve listened enough and turned the music off, the quiet is too quiet, the weight of the room pressing in like I don’t belong in something this clean.

I still don’t have Alaina’s number, which, why the hell don’t I? So I shoot Luc a quick text.

Wanna watch a movie? Try out the fancy room service? I need to do something or I’m gonna crash.

He replies immediately.

Luc

Get your pretty ass over here.

I smile. It’s dumb, but it lands low in my gut and stays there.

I don’t bother with a shirt, just slide on those damn hotel slippers and head out in my sweats, knocking on the next door over.

It swings open, and Luc is standing there in shorts and a fitted pink T-shirt that clings to him in all the right ways. His hair is still damp, curling around his ears, and he smells like lavender.

My eyes go to his chest before I can stop myself. I’m not even subtle about it.

“You can ogle me inside.” Luc smirks, grabbing my upper arm and tugging me into the room before shutting the door behind us.

“Do you have Alaina’s number?” I ask, taking in his room, which is already a mess of clothes and towels.

How the hell did he manage that so fast?

“Already tried texting her. She told me when we got here, she was gonna crash for a bit, said she was running on fumes.” He shrugs. “She hasn’t answered, so I’m guessing she’s out cold.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “I’d love to nap, too, but?—”

“Jetlag,” Luc finishes for me, flopping onto the bed. “Yeah. We should try to push through. I told her the same, but she was wrecked .”

He pats the blanket beside him. Toulouse is curled on the pillow, looking majestic and annoyed, and I cross the room to crouch next to the bed and coo at him like a damn fool.

Glancing over, my face warms at the crooked smile on Luc’s face as he watches me. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawls over the bed to me and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me toward him.

His hand is firm, but his lips are soft as he kisses me.

It’s over fast, and when he pulls away, I blink at him, heart stuttering. “What was that for?”

He grins a little bashfully, but his eyes are lit up from the inside. “For being you. I don’t know. I’m just… fuck. I’m so damn happy all the time now. It’s weird.”

I snort. “You’re always happy. That’s nothing new. ”

“Not when I’m alone,” he says seriously. “I wasn’t before this, but I am now.”

I kiss him back because I get it, and I don’t want him ever to feel alone again.

“I’m gonna try my best to make you happy as long as you’ll let me,” I whisper against his lips, and Luc smiles, then releases me and scoops up Toulouse with both hands, murmuring something soft in French as he sets the rat into his travel cage by the window.

Toulouse doesn’t fight it, just curls up in his hammock, tail hanging out.

Luc grabs the remote before he climbs back onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He opens one arm, gesturing toward me. “C’mere.”

I want to, but it’s weird .

Not bad weird, just different. In the past, I’ve always been the one doing the holding. Arm around someone else. But being the one held , leaning into someone instead, feels backward.

He gives me a little pout, and I can’t fucking resist it, so I crawl onto the bed and tuck myself into his side. His arm wraps around my shoulders like it was made for this, and after the first few seconds, it stops feeling weird and starts feeling good.

Really-fucking-good.

Luc’s hand trails lazily along my bicep as he asks, “What kind of film do you want to watch?”

“Anything’s fine,” I mumble, already too comfortable to care.

He clicks through the hotel streaming menu, then hits play on Legally Blonde .

I snort. “Seriously?”

“What? I like pink shit.” I roll my eyes, but my mouth twitches. “You wanna order something?” he asks, already reaching for the room service menu. “Maybe fries and a burger?”

I nod, even though the idea of moving right now feels criminal. The way his warm body molds to mine has my muscles forgetting what tension even is.

“You very hungry?” I ask. “Or can we wait a little longer?”

Luc pauses, then tips my chin up gently with his fingers, making me meet his eyes. “No, I can wait. You okay?”

I nod, my throat a little tight. “Yeah.”

He smiles and kisses me again. His mouth tastes like mint, comfort, and something that settles me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

Luc’s hand drifts over my chest, gliding across bare skin.

Goose bumps bloom in his wake, and I shiver, leaning closer, because I fucking missed this.

His mouth on mine, all warm lips and breath and that teasing stroke of tongue that always makes my stomach drop.

His fingers slide over skin and muscle, drawing circles with barely-there pressure.

I breathe in deep and press closer, feeling him hum against my mouth.

His fingers dip lower, tracing the line of my ribs, the dip of my waist, and when I shift, slotting a thigh between his legs, his breath hitches.

Luc is already half-hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright and dark all at once. “This okay?”

“That’s my line,” I rasp. “Yes, it’s okay. Is it for you too?”

“More than okay.” He grins and kisses me again, harder now, all teeth, tongue, and hunger. I match him, sliding a hand down his side to grip his hip before tugging him closer. His legs wrap around my waist, and I grunt at how well our bodies fit together like this, him under me, breathing fast.

His shirt rides up as we move, exposing a sliver of his stomach, and I push it higher so I can touch more of him. His skin is warm, smooth, addictive.

Luc lets out a soft moan, hips lifting into mine, and yeah, I’m hard now too.

His hair is a mess, cheeks are flushed, and his mouth is kiss-swollen.

He’s fucking beautiful.

I tug at his shorts, and he wiggles them off with my help. I can barely breathe as his cock springs free, already slick at the tip.

Fucking hell.

My pulse pounds in my throat, and my mouth waters, but then he tugs his shirt down, like he’s trying to hide the mess he’s made of himself, and I know it’s not modesty but nerves.

He’s nervous, and goddamn if that doesn’t go straight to my chest. Last time, he came so fast it shocked us both, and he’s probably still thinking about that.

I let my eyes flick down and back up. “What’s with that?”

“You make me feel shy,” Luc mutters, fingers curled tight in the hem of his shirt, which is still stretched to cover his cock.