Page 106 of Rogue Riders Duet

“What the hell does that even mean?”

He chuckles, his breath fanning across the bridge of my nose, and I swear I feel his smile against my skin.

“It means…” he murmurs, “… you don’t have to chase the whole sky, Petit. You can just lie here with someone warm, under a cheap blanket, in a borrowed bed, and decide this is enough. That this little dream is real, safe, and entirely yours.”

“That’s…”

Ridiculous.

Beautiful.

Before I can settle on one, he reaches over and turns off the light. He comes right back, curling around me and gently situating me until my back is against his chest. His arms band tightly around me like he means to keep everything bad out, like his body could hold back the world, and I can’t help but let out a contented sigh.

“See?” he murmurs, smug as ever. “Therapeutic and hot. You’re welcome.”

I huff a laugh. It’s barely a sound, but it’s real.

Then the world goes quiet, and it’s exactly as he said. It’s enough for now.

My hip still throbs, and my thoughts still vaguely linger around Dane, Finn, and the wreck I’ve made of everything, but here, snuggled in Luc’s arms, they don’t linger.

“Are you asleep?” I whisper after a long while.

“No.” His voice is low and a little rough. “Just listening to you breathe like a total creep.”

I laugh again. More miracles.

“Say something in French for me, Luc,” I whisper, and there’s a beat of hesitation before I add, “Please.”

His body shivers, but stops abruptly, so close I can feel it in my spine. He clears his throat and takes a long, deep breath. And then, softer than I’ve ever heard him speak, he says, “Je pourrais passer l’éternité à te tenir comme ça.”

His shiver transfers to me, but I let it play out, feeling every moment of it.

I angle my head toward him, seeking him in the dark. “What does that mean?”

Luc exhales a laugh into my hair. “It means… ‘No guillotine could take away the head I’m giving you as soon as you let me.’ ”

I elbow him. “Luc!”

He snickers, making me smile, and my chest hurts in that warm, confusing way.

Luc kisses the back of my head. “Sleep now.” A second later, he adds, in barely a whisper, “Dors maintenant, mon Petit.”

TWENTY

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.