Page 255 of Rogue Riders Duet

“You wanna tell me what I can and can’t do now?” She asks, her voice sharp as she stands, and the sun hits her, no hoodie, no binder, just a tee and bike shorts that hug her like a second skin.

Damn, she’s hot.

Her thighs are thick with muscle and cut from years of racing, flexing with every subtle shift of weight.

Strong. Beautiful.

“Uh-oh.” I smirk. “You made her mad.”

“No.” Mason puts up his hands in surrender. “But you can’t hold on to a motocross like that. Not properly.”

She folds her arms and pushes her perfect tits up with the movement. “I can hold onto a bike just fine. I’ll have to next week.”

“But your downhill bike isn’t shooting forward at seventy kilometers an hour,” Mason argues, and honestly, I’m impressed he stands up to her like that. I would have already folded.

I tilt my head. “Good thing we brake with our forefinger and middle finger, or you wouldn’t be racing next week either.”

She turns to me, raises a brow with that smug curve to her lips that hits me right in the fucking chest. “You brake?”

Goddamn.

Fuck, I love this woman.

I’m about to kiss her just because I can and because she’s perfect for me, when Mason sighs and stands, wiping his hands on a cloth, looking biteable.

“I just don’t feel like it’s a good idea.”

“Come on.” I throw my arm around his shoulder. “Don’t be like that. If she wants to go, we go. If it doesn’t work, she sits behind you or me.”

Mason glares up at me. “We’re not gonna make her backpack on a motocross, that’s way too dangerous.”

“Yeah.” Alaina grins now. “If anything, you guys are going to backpack while I ride away from you both.”

I throw my head back and laugh, while Mason mutters something under his breath, probably a prayer or a curse, but he doesn’t say no, so we load up the van.

Mason is quiet again, and I’d tease him for it, but he’s hyperfocused, strapping the motocross into the rear hangar. Alaina rolls her eyes at how meticulous he’s being, but I catch the way her gaze lingers on his hands. Greasy, skilled, and currently cinching down the last strap with a grunt that’s way filthier than it should be.

Yeah, Petite, our pretty boy is hot as fuck.

“Can I drive?” I ask casually, twirling the van keys around my finger.

Mason wipes his hands on a rag again and shrugs. “I can. It’s my van.”

“But I know the way,” I say, nodding toward the cab. “Easier that way.”

He considers me for a second, then nods. “Sure. Fine.”

We climb in, me in the driver’s seat, Mason opening the passenger door, and Alaina hovering, gaze flicking between the two of us. Her eyes land on the crowded bench of the back row, half buried in tools and spare parts. It’s a death trap on wheels back there.

“I can be in the back,” she offers, already halfway turning.

“No way,” Mason says instantly. “It’s way too dangerous with all the tools rolling around when we’re in motion. You can sit with me.”

He sits down and reaches out, catches her waist, and pulls her effortlessly into his lap, before he pulls the seat belt over both of them and clicks it into place.

“That okay, Bambi?” he murmurs, voice low and brushed with something that makes my neck flush.

Alaina’s cheeks go crimson as she nods once, eyes wide and shimmering, and damn, she really does look like a startled deer right now. Soft, wide-eyed, a little breathless.