Page 47 of Full Tilt
I’m still standing in his bedroom, near the doorway, staring at the en suite door like an idiot, when the shower cuts off. A few heartbeats later, Camden appears.
Fuck me.He’s in nothing but a towel. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, droplets of water still trailing down the thick column of his neck, his beard, and across his chest. He’s massive—all over—built not like a model but like a fortress. No six-pack, just pure, necessary strength carved from years of brutal games and weight rooms and discipline.
And right now, he looks unsure. Vulnerable.
I don’t let the moment pass. “I want you,” I say, voice low and honest.
His eyes widen, breath hitching slightly. I glance down. He’s hard, so fucking hard it makes my mouth go dry.
My gaze snaps back up. “How do you feel about being on your knees?”
For a beat, he’s frozen. I brace for the brush-off. For the shutdown. For him to pull the wall back up and send me back to the couch. But instead… something in him melts. He exhales—one long, ragged breath—and the tension in his shoulders sags like he’s just dropped ten pounds of weight.
His lips part. He doesn’t say no. His eyes give me the answer first. And it’syes. Hell, it’splease. And before his mouth even moves, I know he’s going to let me take care of him again. And this time, it’s not just physical. It’s permission. It’s trust. And that’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
He doesn’t speak—not with words. But the way he looks at me, wide-eyed and flushed, tells me everything I need to know. He wants this. Wants me. Maybe not in a way he knows how tosay yet, but it’s there—clear as the hard line beneath that towel and the slight tremble in his fingers as he stands still, waiting.
I cross the space between us slowly, giving him every second to change his mind.
He doesn’t.
My hand comes to his chest, warm and broad beneath my palm, and I feel his heart skip. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, not even when I lean in and press our lips together.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. But that doesn’t last.
He groans against me—low and deep—and I take the invitation, tilting my head and kissing him harder. His mouth opens to mine like it’s instinct. Like he’s craving this, and Jesus, the way he melts into me makes my knees weak.
He tastes like mint and heat and something distinctly Camden. I wrap an arm around his waist and feel him lean in, big and solid and mine, just for now.
When I tug gently at the edge of the towel, he hesitates for only a moment before letting it fall to the floor. I draw back enough to look at him, just for a second. And fuck, he’s glorious. Thick thighs, powerful chest, strength carved from years of battle on the pitch, but it’s the vulnerability that knocks the breath from my lungs.
I lead him to the bed, easing him down until he’s flat on his back, propped on his elbows, watching me with that uncertain hunger written all over him.
I strip, then climb onto the mattress slowly, kissing my way down his body. Every inch of him is mine to explore. My lips drag across the swell of his pecs, tongue tracing the lines of his tattoos. I pause at each design, already imagining how I’ll connect them. How I’ll help complete the story he wears on his skin.
He lets out a sound—half groan, half breath—when I mouth over one of the new patches of ink on his bicep.
“You’ve got no idea how much I’ve thought about doing your sleeve,” I whisper, lips brushing his skin. “How much I want to mark you up in all the ways that matter.”
He exhales sharply, hands twisting into the sheets.
I move lower. Across his stomach. Over the sharp plane of his hip. But when I reach his groin, I bypass his cock entirely.
He groans, head falling back, hips twitching. “Please… fuck, Brent?—”
I smile into his thigh. “Not yet.” I ease his legs open, and his breath stutters as I settle between them. I run my hands over his thighs, awed, possessive. I kiss his skin just above his knee, then drag my mouth higher.
When I reach the sensitive stretch behind his balls, he gasps—loud and unguarded—and I breathe him in. That’s when I realise what he’s done.
“You made yourself ready,” I murmur against his skin, voice almost reverent.
His cheeks go pink. His eyes don’t meet mine. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running sprints. He stammers, “I-I didn’t know if?—”
I cut him off with a kiss to the inside of his thigh. “You’re perfect.”
He shakes his head once, eyes squeezed shut, like he doesn’t believe it.
I kiss him again, lower this time. Then again. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Camden. Strong. Sweet. And mine for tonight.”
