Page 65 of Full Tilt
“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, tattooing someone or sketching a phoenix mid-flight across someone’s ribcage?”
I hum. “Probably. But I’d rather be here.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flicker—just briefly—and something unspoken passes between us.
I kneel at the side of the bath, drag the wet cloth gently over his shoulder, then down one thick arm, watching the tension slowly ease from his posture. He doesn’t stop me when I move to the other, just watches. Quiet. Maybe even a little curious.
The bruises are a patchwork of purples and yellows, blooming on his ribs and hip. A particularly gnarly one above his knee makes me wince. “Fuck,” I murmur. “How’re you walking?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Occupational hazard.”
“Still,” I say, running the cloth down his sternum now. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone taking care of you.”
His mouth opens like he might argue, but then he closes it again. I take that as another win.
I let my fingers glide a little lower, circling lazily over the flat of his chest, then teasing gently at one nipple. It tightens under the cloth, and his abs flex beneath the surface of the water.
“Thought this was about TLC,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. His voice is quieter now, rougher and less certain.
“It is,” I say softly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”
His gaze flickers, jaw tightening. There’s resistance—but no real desire to stop me. I keep going. Gentle circles. The other nipple now. His breathing changes, and I’m aware of every sharp inhale, every faint shift in his hips under the water.
My hand moves lower, the cloth slipping aside, and I wrap my fingers around his cock—slow and unhurried. He’s semihard already, the water lapping softly against his stomach as he lifts his head and meets my eyes.
“Brent….”
“I know,” I whisper. “You’re tired. You don’t need to do anything. Let me take care of you.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push me away. He just leans his head back against the tub and exhales hard.
I stroke him slowly. A steady rhythm. Not chasing anything. Not demanding a reaction. Just coaxing pleasure from the stress-clenched body in front of me. His cock swells in my hand, thick and heavy now, twitching slightly under the water.
Camden’s groans are low and guttural, a sound that punches heat straight to my gut. His legs shift—parting just enough—and I adjust, kneeling in closer, letting the water slosh against the sides of the bath.
I mumble to him, the words spilling out as my hand continues its slow rhythm. “You’re gorgeous like this… soft and wrecked and letting go.”
“Shut up,” he grits out, but his hips buck into my hand, and I know he doesn’t mean it.
“Let go for me, Cam,” I murmur, dipping my forehead briefly against his damp knee. “You don’t always have to hold it all in.”
He whimpers—actually whimpers—and it makes me slow down.
“Brent… please.”
I almost come just from that.
The edge flirts with us, dances around us. I back off, then bring him close again, over and over, watching him unravel bit by bit until his hand is gripping the side of the tub like he’ll snap the porcelain in two.
His eyes are dark now, fevered. His chest is heaving. And I can tell—he’s right there. But he won’t come unless I tell him to.
So I do.
“Now,” I whisper, voice gravelly. “I’ve got you.”
He comes with a shudder, hips jerking, water sloshing over the sides. I hold him through it, slow and steady, until his body slumps back, boneless and trembling.
There’s a long silence.
