Page 21 of Full Tilt
“Okay?” he murmurs.
I nod.
Once.
Twice.
My feet shift instinctively, and he nudges one of his in between mine until I lower slightly, just enough to meet him where he is. I swallow thickly, awareness ricocheting through me like static.
Then he kisses me.
No hesitation. No nerves. He just takes it—the thing I wanted but was too scared to reach for. And I’m gone. Completely, utterly gone.
The moment his lips touch mine, everything else drops away. The noise from the street. The faint scent of bread from the bakery. The thrum of blood in my ears.
Gone.
All that’s left is Brent—his warmth, his calm, and that wicked little lip ring that presses cold against my bottom lip before his tongue follows, hot and confident and so damn in control that my knees nearly buckle.
He kisses like he’s done this a thousand times and knows exactly how to undo me with one tilt of his head, one subtle shift of pressure. My dick punches against the inside of my dress pants, sudden and sharp, and I grunt—low and rough—into his mouth.
He doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even flinch. He just deepens the kiss, a hand curling at my hip to steady me as if he knows I’m coming undone.
I don’t let people take control. That’s not who I am. Not off the pitch. Not in life. And definitely not in this.
But Brent doesn’t ask. He takes. And I let him.
When he finally pulls back, I chase him without thinking—mouth following his like I’m starving for something I only just realised I’ve been missing. It’s instinct and embarrassing as fuck, but I can’t help it.
He pecks my lips once more, gentle, like sealing the moment. Then his voice, low and calm, breaks the tension. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get off the street.”
It’s like a bucket of water to the chest. Right. We’re outside. Still. Alley-adjacent.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I mutter, dragging in a breath. “Let’s do that.”
We fall into step again, walking quickly now. My head’s a mess—buzzing, stunned, a little dazed. I half expect him to takea turn towards a flat or side street, but instead, he leads us towards Black Salt Ink.
The shop’s shutter is halfway down, lights dimmed except for the one above the main station. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gestures me inside. It smells like antiseptic and ink. Familiar. Clean. Calming.
He flicks on another light and walks to the counter, grabbing a portfolio and an unopened bottle of water, which he tosses to me without missing a beat.
I catch it by pure luck.
“Sit,” he says, nodding at the station table.
I do—grateful, honestly, for something solid under me. My knees are still not okay. Across from me, he flips the portfolio open. Quiet. Professional. Like he didn’t just kiss me like he wanted to take me apart in the street.
Christ.
Brent lays out the sketches, the ones he took photos of and sent me yesterday. His hands are steady, fingers stained faintly with ink even now. He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives me a moment to look.
“These are what I’ve got so far,” he says, sitting down across from me. “Based on what we talked about before. Obviously, I haven’t had a chance to work in the notes you gave me tonight yet, but I’m glad we’re on the same page about direction.”
I nod slowly, scanning the bold shapes, the clean flow of lines. It’s good. Really fucking good. Even before adjustments, it’s already speaking to something in me.
“I like this,” I murmur, tapping the one that mirrors the structure from my right arm. “This one flows better than the others.”
