Page 112 of Full Tilt
I laugh and lean back in the chair, watching the way he moves—sure, graceful, the way he always is when he’s in his space. It hits me then, not for the first time, how much I missed him over these last couple of weeks. And how fucking glad I am to be here now.
Because this? This feels like home.
Even with the needles, and the ink, and the low buzz of the machine warming up behind me—this is where I want to be.
With him.
And if I have to endure a few hours of pain and his smug teasing to make art that stays with me forever? Hell, sign me up. Especially if I get to feel his hands on me the entire time.
Brent flips the stool around with a practiced flick of his foot and rolls it into position beside the chair. “All right, Captain Crawford. Get comfortable.”
I chuckle low in my throat. “You say that like you don’t enjoy bossing me around.”
His lips twitch as he pulls on his gloves. “Oh, I do. But only because you look like sin when you listen.”
I stretch back into the curve of the chair like I own the damn place. “So what you’re saying is I’m your favourite client.”
He taps the tray beside him and checks the fresh needle cartridge. “I didn’t say that.”
I shoot him a look.
He grins as he preps my skin. “But yes. Obviously.”
After he’s applied the stencil, the machine hums to life, a sharp little buzz that crawls over my skin before he’s even touched me. He leans forwards, one gloved hand steadying my arm, the other guiding the machine towards the top of my shoulder.
“You ready?” he asks, all teasing gone from his voice.
I nod, already braced. Then the first sting hits. Hot, precise, a slow burn as the needle drags that fine black line into the muscle of my shoulder. It’s pain, but it’s also something else. Something grounding. It pins me here, in this chair, in this room—with him.
Brent’s breath is steady as he works, his touch confident. His body leans in just enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—something warm and woody and definitely unfair. The sleeves of his T-shirt ride up just a little, exposing strong forearms dusted with ink. I focus on that. On him.
“You know,” I murmur after a minute, “this is how all this started.”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes not leaving the line he’s pulling. “Me stabbing you? I thought I only did that in my head.”
I grin. “Me coming in here to talk tattoos and walking out with a crush I tried to convince myself I didn’t have.”
He glances up just briefly, that damn lip ring caught between his teeth. “How’d that work out for you?”
“Terribly,” I say. “I fell. Hard. Fast. Full tilt.”
There’s a beat of silence, soft and charged. His gaze flicks up again, warmer this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
The machine buzzes on. He leans closer as he works the curve of the design around my bicep, thumb dragging gently across the skin as he wipes excess ink. I flinch slightly at the contact, but not from pain. From heat.
The whole damn room feels hotter with him this close. My skin’s singing—not just from the needle, but from the way his fingers settle on me with something just shy of reverence.
“You’re doing good,” he murmurs. “Better than most. Some big guys get cocky and end up squirming like toddlers.”
“Rugby players don’t squirm,” I shoot back.
He tilts his head. “You sure about that? ’Cause I’ve seen you post-match. You whine when you’re sore.”
“Lie,” I mutter, even though he’s not wrong.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m lucky?” I say, voice catching as he starts a new stretch of linework just under my arm. “I’m the one getting art and innuendo.”
