Chapter 24 #2
Petit’s gaze drifts farther back to Piper, who has settled into the seat next to Dane, leaning close, murmuring low. She laughs at something Dane says, her hand brushing his arm while he’s grinning.
“And those two?” I nod toward them, smirking. “Way too occupied to care what we’re doing.”
Petit hesitates for a breath, maybe two. Then he gives in, leaning against me, but it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
I wrap my arm tighter around his waist and tug him in, guiding him until his legs stretch across my lap, fitting like they were always meant to be there. He lets out this tiny, involuntary gasp, and I feel it everywhere.
His breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. His head dips, his cheek brushing my shoulder, and I slide my hand up to stroke him in slow circles along his thigh, my thumb tracing gentle patterns while my other hand curls against the curve of his shoulder.
He shivers against me, and fuck, I could stay right here forever.
But even with Petit leaning into me like this, even with his head resting lightly against my shoulder, eyes closed, there’s tension.
His body hums with it.
The lines around his eyes are tight, his lips pressed flat like he’s holding something in and is trying too hard to be still.
I ease my fingers into his hair, push the strands back from his forehead, and whisper against the crown of his head, “Qu’est-ce qui fait mal, mon Petit? What hurts?”
He exhales this small, hollow sound, but his eyes stay closed. “What doesn’t?”
I have no idea how to fix this, so I do the only thing I know and let my hand drift lower, stroking down the curve of his shin over his sweatpants, then up again, tracing slow, steady circles along his back. Just grounding him, giving him something to lean into me, and he does.
His weight softens, finally sinking into me fully.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in again.
“What can I do to make it better?” I murmur against his hair.
He shifts just slightly, one hand curling lazily against my chest while the other spreads wide, pressing flat over my stomach.
“You already did,” he whispers.
That does something dangerous to me, setting off a whole swarm of butterflies in my chest, flapping wild and hard because, fuck, he really wants me here. He actually said it.
I breathe deeply, trying to settle it, but I can feel the grin pulling at the edges of my mouth. Still, there’s a weight I can’t ignore, pressing at the back of my mind.
“What happened yesterday? You were bleeding.”
Petit tenses again, curling in on himself in that instinct to hide.
“I got hurt racing,” he answers, clipped.
“How?”
“It’s embarrassing.” He grips my chest a little tighter, the words appearing to cost him something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I ease my hand back into his hair, letting my fingers slide slowly through the strands, trying to get him back to that relaxed state.
“Nothing would be embarrassing to me. Believe me. I don’t even know how to feel embarrassed.
” I let that hang there because it’s true.
I don’t have the wiring for shame. “You could talk to me about anything, lay out your worst thoughts, your weirdest shit, and I’d probably ask for more details.
Nothing rattles me. Nothing makes me flinch. ”
The conflict is clear in his eyes. He wants to trust me. I can see it, feel it in every breath he takes against my chest, but he’s still afraid. Probably bracing for the moment I pull away. So I don’t. Instead, I press another kiss to his temple.
“You don’t have to tell me the details, just tell me you’ll be okay, please.”
His head dips, resting against me again in a slow, exhausted nod, his hand flattening more firmly over my stomach, and fuck, my cock stirs at the touch.
I grit my teeth through it. Not the right fucking moment, ami.
“Yeah,” he answers. “In a day or three.”
“Okay,” I murmur, my fingers trailing lazily down the curve of his spine. “We’ve got at least eight hours to kill, how about you tell me something about yourself?”
He shifts, eyes flicking toward Otis up front, who’s still driving like he’s got nowhere to be and all day to get there. His grin is plastered wide, nodding along to the music playing low through the speakers.
I jerk my chin at him. “Fisher, crank it up a little, yeah?”
Otis flashes a thumbs-up, turns the dial, and the bus fills with sound, some old-school French pop song, upbeat and ridiculous, but it makes Petit soften more into me, the edge of his mouth tugging toward a smile.
He lets out a soft huff of breath. “We already had me spilling my guts. How about you tell me something?”
“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
“You said you weren’t well either,” he reminds me, his voice softer now. “I didn’t forget that. I just wasn’t… in the state of mind to ask. I’m sorry. You can tell me now.”
“You don’t seem in the state of mind now either,” I tease, keeping my voice light.
He tucks his head under my jaw. “Oh, right now?” he murmurs. “I’m perfectly fine.”
That flips something inside me. Hard.
“Well, I probably should save that kind of story for a friend.” Pulling back just enough to catch his eye, I smirk at him. “And like you told me…” I let my knuckles glide gently along his faintly flushed cheek and watch the way his lashes flutter at the touch. “You’re not my friend.”
“Right.” Petit hums, averting his gaze down to his hand as his fingers drift lower, skimming over the waistband of my sweats. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.
Heat pools low in my stomach, and I hold my breath, my pulse kicking. My hand flies to his wrist, catching hold before that innocent little touch turns me into a goddamn mess right here in kicking distance of Otis.
“Don’t tempt me, Petit,” I murmur, linking our fingers as my lips brush the shell of his ear. “I’m already hanging by a thread.”
His lashes lift, and when those big brown eyes meet mine, there’s something there that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like maybe none of this is accidental at all.
“I’m pretty sure you’re just talk,” he whispers back.
Mon Dieu.
I let go of his hand, but only to slide mine up, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw until I catch his chin between my thumb and forefinger, so I can tilt his face toward me and ease him into my orbit.
My thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip slowly, feeling the soft give of it beneath my touch.
His breath stutters, lips parting just enough to let me feel it ghost against my skin. My eyes flick between his mouth and those wide, searching eyes, soaking in every flicker of hesitation, every crackle of want.
I lean in, closer still, until there’s nothing but heat between us. The faint brush of his breath mixes with mine, the space tightening until it feels like one wrong move will tip us over the edge.