Page 19 of Full Tilt
It’s too easy.
I don’t know him. That’s rule one. No letting people in who haven’t earned it.
But Brent’s already sliding under my skin like he belongs there. And all it took was two meetings and a few too many text messages I looked forward to more than I do payday.
On top of that, he’s attractive. Like, really fucking hot.
It tends to be smaller guys who expect me to throw them around and call me daddy or some shit who clamour for my attention. Brent’s almost as tall as I am. Broad in the shoulders, lean through the waist. His T-shirt clings to muscle in a way that’s completely unfair—but not in a poser kind of way. Just… natural. Like he actually uses his body for something instead of living in the gym mirror.
When he took off his hoodie earlier, I nearly swallowed my bloody tongue.
He’s got a lip ring I’d kill to pull on and eyes that always seem amused by something I haven’t said.
And I’d like to.
The thought slams into me like a kick to the ribs.
Shit.
I clear my throat and stand abruptly, knocking the underside of the table with my knee. “I’ve got to head off.”
Brent blinks once. If he’s surprised or put out, he doesn’t show it. Just nods, still calm. “Yeah,” he says. “Long day. I should probably head home too. I’ve got tomorrow off, and getting in bed before eleven sounds amazing. Gonna sleep like a log.”
My brows pull together. “Wait—what time is it?”
He glances at his phone. “Quarter to eleven.”
I blink. “How the hell…?”
Time does not just disappear on me. Not with people I barely know. Not when I’m this… me. But somehow, it’s happened.
I shoot my teammates a nod on the way out. Rafi gives me a wave. Jules throws me a wink. Lachie—of course—bounces his bloody eyebrows like he’s already halfway through composing a filthy group chat message.
Internally, I flip him off. Externally, I keep walking. He probably thinks I’m getting lucky.
If only.
I’m so tempted. My body is halfway to leaning in, pinning Brent against a wall in some quiet alley, my brain already composing headlines I’ll regret. But then I remember—he’s going to be working on me soon. Needles. Intimate skin. Long hours.
Talk about awkward.
Outside, I brace for that uncomfortable goodbye. The lingering too-long moment. The hand hovering in mid-air. Instead, Brent grins, warm and easy, and holds out his palm for a shake. No weirdness. No expectation.
“Had a good night,” he says. “Shoot me a message when you want to chat more about the ink, if you want.” Then he turns and walks away down the street like he hasn’t just made my brain short-circuit and my chest ache in ways I don’t have the training to deal with.
I watch him go. And fuck—I’m not ready to say goodbye.
“Brent,” I call out, my voice low, uncertain, and not at all connected to the part of my brain that usually stops me from doing stupid shit.
He turns immediately, hands tucked into his pockets, smile soft around the edges, curiosity in his eyes. “Okay?”
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I was just….” Words vanish. Just gone. I have no idea what I’m doing. I am absolutely not about to sayI’m not ready for the night to end. Jesus. “Nothing. Just… uhm… get home safe, yeah?”
His tongue dips out, brushing over that cursed lip ring, and I watch it happen in real time—helpless. He doesn’t look away. That gaze of his is clear and steady, assessing without pressure. Calm. Open. Meanwhile, my heart’s doing laps in my chest like it’s training for the bloody Olympics.
That lip ring. It’s going to be the death of me.
