Page 45 of Full Tilt
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Not when I can feel the tremble in his skin and the truth of it all in the weight of his body still leaning against the door—undone, unguarded, mine for the moment.
His eyes flutter open, glazed but locked on mine. “Holy fuck,” he breathes.
I smile, still kneeling, my heart pounding. “You good?”
He huffs out a laugh, but it’s breathless—more a sound of disbelief than amusement. “I’m not sure I remember my own name.”
Carefully, I rise to my feet, placing a steadying hand on his chest as I go. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me when I lean in and press a kiss to his lips—soft and brief. There’s no heat in it, no push for more. Just contact. Just truth. Just… us, right now.
His eyes open slowly, and when they meet mine, I see the haze still lingering there—pleasure, yes, but also something quieter. Something that looks a lot like trust.
“I meant what I said,” I murmur, letting my fingers rest lightly over his heart. “I’ve got you.”
And I do.
Not just here in this moment, with his back against the door and the taste of him still on my tongue, but entirely. I’ve got his tension, his silence, his mess. I’ve got the parts of him he doesn’t know how to share yet.
And when I say it—when I see how his expression shifts, like something inside him unclenches—I feel the truth of it settle in my chest with a kind of rightness I haven’t felt in years.
He lets out a breath, slower this time. It’s controlled, but there’s something in the way he leans into my hand, just the barest shift of weight, that tells me everything I need to know.
He believes me—or maybe he’s starting to. And fuck, if that doesn’t mean everything. Every complicated, hard-earned piece of him.
He’s still leaning against the door, lips parted, breathing slowly like he’s trying to recalibrate the world. I take a step back, giving him space, even though every part of me wants to stay close. Not to start anything again, but just to stay near.
Camden exhales, drags a hand down his face, and clears his throat. “I could, uh… return the favour.”
My heart does something funny at that—something low and aching. Not because I wouldn’t love that, but because the way he says it sounds more like an obligation than a desire. Like he owes me something for letting go.
I shake my head. “Cam, what I did wasn’t a favour.”
His gaze flicks to mine, uncertain.
I soften my voice. “I wanted to. It was… honestly, it was my pleasure.” A breath escapes me. “Literally and otherwise.”
He huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, though it’s tinged with discomfort.
“And yeah,” I add with a self-deprecating grin, “I’m hard enough that a few strokes would probably end me right now, but that’s not the point.”
Camden shifts, eyes dipping as he tugs up his pants, putting himself back in order while very clearly avoiding my gaze.
“I don’t want this to be some kind of transaction,” I say gently. “I don’t need anything back. I don’t want out—I want in. Time. Connection. Something that isn’t just about getting off.”
That finally gets him to look at me. It’s not quite shock in his eyes. More like wariness. Like the idea of someone sticking around without strings, without a hidden agenda, is so unfamiliar he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
I glance at the clock. “It’s nearly eleven. You have training tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. “No. Recovery day.”
Relief unfurls through my shoulders. “Good. Then how about we watch a movie?”
He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust the suggestion.
“I’m serious,” I say. “No tricks. Just your couch, a stupid film, and me probably falling asleep with my head on your shoulder halfway through.”
He studies me like he’s trying to figure out what angle I’m working. But then something shifts—just a flicker—and he nods once. “All right.”
He leads the way through the flat, moving a little stiffly, like the tension hasn’t completely bled out of him yet. He heads to the kitchen while I hover near the sofa, trying not to stare at his arse as he walks—and mostly failing.
