Page 69 of Rogue Riders Duet

And he treats it like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

People come to me. I don’t chase them. They orbit, hover, pull at me for scraps, attention, a joke, a look, a brush of skin. Even when it’s fake, they want it.

But not him.

Instead, I’m the one standing here, peering around Raine like a creep, trying to get a glimpse of a guy who couldn’t care less if I existed.

I clench my jaw as Payne drops into the course, ignoring the echo of the shit-talking that would’ve volleyed back and forth right now this time last year. The beeps ring out into the mist, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the trail and the trees.

Good riddance.

To him and our rivalry.

Payne is a bitter, joyless dick half the time, and still, Petit likes him. What does he have that I don’t? I mean… okay. He’s decent-looking in a moody, scowly, broody kind of way. But still, I’m fun, I’m hot, and I’m the fucking main prize.

And I don’t have allegations following me around everywhere I go.

Well, not severe ones like he does.

And yet, I can’t get a smile out of Petit Crews.

“Rider up,” someone calls. Petit rolls forward to the gate, finally giving me the view I was looking for, and I take advantage of it.

His body is wired tight with tension. I can see it in the way he leans over the bars. His fingers flutter, not fidgeting, more coaxing. Calming. Like he’s talking to the bike without words, syncing his nerves to it. It’s weirdly mesmerizing.

I trace the curve of his back as he leans forward, the way his jersey wrinkles the number seven above the waistband of his pants. He’s small, but not fragile. My gaze drifts lower to the sharp taper of his waist, to the rise of his hips, to the way his pants cling just tight enough to suggest the curve of his…

My cock twitches, and I jerk upright so fast I almost lose my footing.

What the actual fuck?

Non. That did not just happen. I did not just get half-hard staring at Petit’s ass.

I wipe my gloved palms on my thighs, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my neck. I mean, he’s got a great ass, sure. Objectively. And he’s cute. Annoyingly so. Hiccups like a baby bird and talks like he’s got a cold, and somehow still rides like the fucking wind.

And I’m just me. I joke, I flirt, I get handsy. What can I say? I’m French. Physical affection is part of the export. But I’ve never actually done anything serious with a guy. Never wanted to. Never thought about…

Is that my problem?

Am I standing here, jealous of him smiling at Payne, all twitchy and obsessed because I want to fuck him?

Mon Dieu.

I exhale loudly, the sound shaky and entirely uncool, and try to get my shit together and focus on the race ahead. But my gaze is stuck on him as his hips wiggle while he finds his stance on the pedals. He moves his cute ass as if he knows I’m watching, even though I’m pretty sure he’d rather get hit by a truck than be ogled by me.

Which… fair.

Finally, Petit Crews drops into the track, and the wind seems to go with him, as if it loves him more than it loves gravity. I huff and press a hand to my chest like that’ll slow my heartbeat.

Before I can catch my breath, Raine rolls up to the gate. The beeps start. One, two, three, and he launches. And just like that, there’s nothing left at the top of the mountain but me, the roaring wind, and my muddled thoughts.

I flex my fingers on the bars and try to shake out the tension. This is the part I normally love. The quiet before the storm. The calm before the chaos. The moment when I become everything I’ve built myself to be.

Beep. Beep.

A particularly strong gust of wind whistles through my helmet, and instead of focusing, my brain offers up what I told Petit earlier.

“You just want someone to bite you first, hmm?”