Page 73 of Full Tilt
I follow him to the bathroom without a word, but my pulse drums in my ears like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear. The room fills with the sound of running water. I lean against the doorframe as he adjusts the temperature.
When he turns, steam curling behind him, he holds out a hand. “Come on, Captain. Let me take care of you.”
And fuck, I let him.
I step close and his hands go to my shirt, fingers brushing over my abs as he lifts the hem and pulls it up and off. I’m big. I know I am. Broad through the chest, heavy through the thighs. Most of the time I feel like a tank—intimidating, powerful, built to hit and be hit.
But the way he looks at me makes me feel good. Not for what I can do. Not for what I am on the pitch. Just for being me.
He trails his fingers down my torso, tracing the lines of old bruises and the fresh ones from yesterday. His touch is reverent. Gentle. He undoes my belt with the kind of calm focus that makes my breath catch. Then my jeans. Then my briefs.
By the time I step under the water, my skin’s already burning for him—and he hasn’t even kissed me again yet. I turn, water pouring down my back, but before I can say anything, he’s stepping in behind me, fully naked, and sliding his arms around my waist.
And just like that, I melt. All that tension I didn’t realise I’d been holding? Gone.
His lips press to my shoulder. “Let me look after you.”
I nod, voice gone somewhere I can’t reach. My chest cracks wide open as he takes the cloth and soap, lathers up, and begins to wash me—slow, deliberate strokes over my chest, down my ribs, across my stomach. His hands glide over me like I’m something precious, not someone who’s spent a decade being told to toughen the fuck up.
And every time he touches me, I believe him a little more.
That I deserve this.
That I can want this.
That I can have it.
The soap-slick cloth circles my chest, then glides down my belly. My abs flex without permission. His fingers follow, taking their time, brushing lower, slower, until his knuckles graze my cock. It’s already heavy, semihard just from the way he touches me.
“You always like taking care of people?” I manage, voice hoarse.
He grins against my shoulder. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”
His hand closes around me—not tight, not rushed, just warm, firm, achingly sure. I brace a hand on the wall, legs already starting to tremble. “Fuck.”
Brent kisses down my spine, water beading across my skin. He takes his time, like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like he’s been waiting to do this properly. My cock pulses in his grip. He strokes once, then again, letting the slickness build while he sinks lower, trailing kisses down the curve of my back.
When his hands part me, I jolt. “Brent?—”
“Let me,” he murmurs, already kneeling in the shallow pool of water around our feet.
The next thing I feel is the heat of his breath, the shocking softness of his tongue flicking across my rim. My thighs twitch. My hand slams flat against the tile.
“Oh fuck?—”
He groans like he fucking means it, tongue lapping, then circling with practiced ease. Every time he presses in deeper, I swear I could cry. The way he holds me open, the care he takes—it’s not filthy, it’s worship. I’ve never had anyone eat me out like they were starving. Like the sounds I make are their favourite song.
All while his other hand strokes me—slow, wet, rhythmic.
“Brent… fuck… you don’t have to?—”
“Wanna,” he growls, tongue pushing in just enough to make my knees buckle.
I can’t stay upright. I lean into the wall, letting my weight fall forwards, giving him all of me.
Because I want this.
Because I trust him.
