Page 54 of Rogue Riders Duet

“What the fuck are you doing?” My hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard.

His back is solid beneath his soft T-shirt, stretched across his broad, muscular form, and he’s warm. Too warm.

“Giving you a piggyback ride.” He casually hooks his arms under my knees like this is something we do daily. Touching my bare skin. Fuck. “You hurting?”

All the fucking time.

“No,” I snap. “But let me down!”

“Non.” He shifts me higher on his back, completely unbothered by the way I tense, but I can’t help it. I can feel the movement of his muscles under my palms. “You Americans and your fear of touch.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed and starts walking, basically kidnapping me. “Just because I have my hands on you doesn’t mean we’re automatically gay.”

I flush, heat crawling up my neck. “I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he says smugly. “You were like, ‘Oh no, what if people see my thighs wrapped around this beautiful man’s waist and assume I’ve fallen in love with him, like everybody else?’ ” He gasps. “Scandal.”

“Delacroix,” I hiss out.

But he just laughs, easy and free, as always.

And I hate how much I notice it. Notice him. He smells like mint gum, sunscreen, and the faint, sharp edge of the lavender oil the physios use. The same oil I use every day to massage my tense muscles. His skin is warm against the insides of my thighs, and it makes my chest feel too tight. Or maybe it’s my pulse. Maybe it’s my entire nervous system.

This is so stupid, he’s not even doing anything, but my heart is pounding, my face is hot, and apparently, my body has decided to betray me entirely because when I open my mouth to snap something back, I…

Hiccup.

Luc comes to a sudden halt. “What was that?”

My nails dig into his shoulders. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” He twists his head to look at me, grinning like crazy. “Did you just hiccup?”

“No.”

“That was adorable, Petit Crews. Do it again.”

I dig in harder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I will kill you.”

He laughs again, and it vibrates right up my spine.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, all mock innocence.

“No.”

“Pity.”

He starts walking again, and soon the team pit comes into view. A big black and pink bus gleaming with sponsor logos, the flaps of the adjacent tent open, and people are milling around—young riders, pros, mechanics, and media.

Fuck.

“Let me down, Luc,” I whisper-shout. “People are going to see.”

“Good,” he says cheerfully. “Let them watch. I look hot today.”

“You’re impossible.”