Page 399 of Rogue Riders Duet

The doors slide open, and the roar hits me like a wave—cowbells, cheers, whistles, the unmistakable electricity of a finish line. I step out into the light, Luc’s stolen sunglasses coming in handy now, and walk toward the rail, glancing at the Jumbotron. Otis’s name is sitting pretty in the hot seat by a few tenths, and he appears thrilled and vaguely shocked.

“Attaboy.” I grin, stupidly proud. The kid found his melody and hit it until it purred.

A murmur rolls through the corral, and the split screen flashes pink, black, and blue, tightening on a rider dropping through the trees like a hurricane.

Luc-fucking-Delacroix, green at the first split.

Of course he is.

The crowd’s pitch climbs a notch, the way it always does when a rock star walks on stage, and the amps hum. The whole mountain seems to lean forward.

My hood stirrs as Toulouse pokes his nose out for a heartbeat, whiskers twitching like he’s catching the same current running through the crowd for his daddy. Different tiny paws flex against my neck, making me shudder. Even half-asleep, they seem to know it’s Luc on the course.

My pulse kicks up right with them.

I rest my forearms on the rail, breath tightening in anticipation.

“All right, Frenchie,” I mutter, eyes glued to the screen. “Show me something dumb and glorious.”

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about sliding into Mason’s perfect, clenched, oh-God-yes ass.

Another berm, another root. I’m flying, heart kicking like a drum solo in a strip club, brain short-circuiting on leftover adrenaline and very, very bad ideas.

Focus, Delacroix. Line, brake, pump. Not the thing. Definitely not the thing. Not the way Mason’s back would arch, all that muscle going tight as I ease in slowly, his breath hitching like he’s trying not to beg.

The course flashes by in streaks of mud and pine. My hands tighten on the grips. The bike hums under me, alive and mean and not vibrating like I did the first time I let Mason finger me open.

You’re a world champion, I remind myself. A man of control. Precision. Discipline.

Then a flash of his tanned ass hits my brain again, and I snort mid-corner, nearly eating shit on a slick rock.

“Merde,” I hiss out, saving the slide with a foot tap and a prayer. “Get your shit together, Luc, or karma’s gonna make this real personal and shove him up your ass instead.”

I shift my weight, lean into the next drop, air roaring in my ears. Every rock garden hits like a dirty thought I didn’t order.

Mason’s thick fingers curling just right, his cock dragging over that spot until I see stars.

Fuck.

I laugh because the rush and the memory blend until I can’t tell which one’s the drug—speed or the idea of Mason on his knees later, cheeks flushed, biting the pillow while Petite murmurs filthy praise, and I sink in deep.

“Come on, bébé,” I mutter to the bike. “Let’s fly. Let’s win. Let’s make sure someone is walking funny tomorrow.”

I pump once, twice, launch off the lip, and the wind tears a shout from my throat. The track below blurs—roots, dirt, glory—and for a single heartbeat, I’m nothing but speed and chaos and every wild thing I’ve ever loved.

Alaina’s laugh.

Mason’s growl.

The way they both look at me like I’m the prize.

Not in his ass. Not in my ass. Maybe in Petite’s ass? God, that would be glorious. Her perfect little peach, all flushed and trembling, taking it slow while Mason and I take turns kissing the gasps off her lips.

I land hard, both on the ground and in my pants, the suspension groaning in approval, and drive for the line like my life depends on it. Because it kind of does.

Because third place means consequences, and I am not losing my own bet.