Page 97 of Twisted Trails
“Harder,” he pleads, voice ragged, reaching up to grab my arm, fingers digging in like he needs to ground himself.
So I give him harder. My grip tightens, the strokes faster now, rougher. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and Luc’s legs fall open wider beneath me as he writhes, his muscles trembling with restraint.
His lashes brush his skin as his eyes flutter shut, cheeks flushed that perfect pink. I can’t decide where to look, my gaze getting caught on the contrast of our bodies—his fair skin flushed beneath mine—before jumping to his parted lips, and then our cocks. I’m panting, barely holding on, but I won’t let go until he does.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, dragging my thumb in slow, tight circles over the head of his cock, feeling it twitch in my palm. “Think you’ve got one more in you? Just for me?” And then, softer, pressed right to his ear, I add, “Please.”
That’s what does it.
His whole body arches, a sharp inhale breaking into a cry as his cock pulses against mine. Lucshattersin my hand, shaking, swearing in rapid French, eyes squeezed shut, and lips parted as he spills across both of us.
It’s fuckinggorgeous.
Watching him come andfeelinghim come against me snaps whatever thread was keeping me together.
My balls draw tight, my breath catches, and I lose it with a groan of his name, spilling across my knuckles and his stomach.
I collapse onto him, not caring about the slick between us, just needing to be close. I kiss him rough and deep, like I can pour everything I’m feeling into it—lust, relief, the sheer awe that it’shim.
Luc kisses back like he’s drowning in it too. His fingers find my hair, and his fist tightens, pulling me even closer like he never wants to let go.
Fuck.It’s never felt like this before. Never this wild or thisright.
And we’re a mess of sticky, panting bodies trembling from the release.
Luc’s lips find my ear, his breath hot as he laughs against my damp skin. “I’m so fucking bi.”
I huff out a broken laugh, still trying to catch my breath. “Same.”
Fucking same.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Alaina
The garage smells like dust, chain grease, and ghosts.
I stand still in the doorway, arms crossed, spine locked, every muscle tense like my body knows what this room means before my brain lets me feel it. It’s cold in here—colder than it should be in October—but maybe that’s just me.
Four bikes line the left wall. All Dane’s. Each of them is a timestamp, a fucking shrine.There’s the one from his first World Cup win, still crusted with mud, like it was too sacred to clean. Next to it stand the ones from the seasons of his other overall wins, and the last one, the one he raced the year I crashed, still has the mechanic’s marker on the rear suspension.
Across from them are two bikes that used to be mine.
One of them still has the teal grips I begged Dane for on my birthday last year.It looks smaller than I remember, like it shrank while I was busy learning how to walk again.
The one that broke under me isn’t here, though. I don’t know whether the factory retrieved it to check for the failure or if Dane disposed of it, but either way, it vanished, as if it had never existed.
Like it never happened.
I step closer, boots echoing off concrete. My fingers brush the handlebars of my old bike, and they tremble. It’s ridiculous how much this hunk of carbon owns me. How my chest clenches like it remembers the feel of air ripping out of my lungs, but if I want revenge, then I have to start here.
I slide the bike out of its rack, and my ribs already protest the movement, as does my hip.
It’s fine.
I don’t need to be whole. I just need to be fast.
The tires are low, but the bike still rolls, and that’s enough for what I want right now.I push it outside, past the porch, down the gravel, and to the trailhead just behind the house.
