Page 74 of Full Tilt
And when he strokes me again—tightening just slightly, twisting at the head—I lose whatever scraps of composure I had left. Every nerve ending lights up, and I don’t just feel good—I feel known.
He knows exactly how to touch me. How to work me up and keep me there, toes curling, teeth gritted, desperate and dangling on the edge.
I moan, loud and rough. “Fuck—don’t stop?—”
He doesn’t.
I shudder through the tension, hips jerking, and then I’m gasping his name as I come hard, heat pulsing through me in waves.
Brent doesn’t let go until I’ve ridden it out, until I’m slumping forwards, forehead resting on the cool tile, heart hammering.
There’s silence for a beat. Then I feel his mouth press a kiss to the base of my spine.
Gentle.
Grateful.
Real.
When I turn, his eyes are still dark with want, but his touch is firm as he helps me shift, holding me like I’m something worth catching.
“Jesus,” I mutter, chest heaving.
He smiles, brushing water from my brow. “You good?”
I nod, unable to speak. Because yeah, I’m good. I’m more than good.
I’m fucking his.
16
Brent
The photoof me leaning inside Cam’s car and kissing him has been printed in a couple of less reputable tabloids and pages on social media. Cam told me there were some of the same paps hanging around the stadium after training, but since he’s not given them anything to photograph, let alone a usable quote, interest seems to have dwindled.
Thank fuck.
I’ve got no issue with the spotlight—I can handle a camera flash without flinching—but I’d much prefer not to be reduced to clickbait. Especially if I’m being painted as the reason Captain Camden Crawford’s been “off his game.”
Which… I’m not. (And if I am, it’s in a “he’s well laid and emotionally supported” kind of way.)
It’s been a weird week. Good weird. Cam’s opened up more. I’ve slept over a few nights. We’ve had real, actual conversations about things like future games and summer plans. We’ve even gone grocery shopping together like a couple of domestic boyfriends. (He takes cereal choices very seriously.)
So yeah. Things are progressing.
And now comes the fun part: telling my family.
Cam had been quiet at first when I’d brought it up. Understandable. He’s a private guy, and after the media bullshit, he’d looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole anytime someone even mentioned the wordrelationship. But when I reminded him that my family werenotthe media—and also not entirely unfamiliar with him—he’d relented.
I think what pushed him over the edge was the idea that if anythingdidleak further, the last thing either of us wanted was for my family to hear it from a gossip site. It was about respect, about not letting strangers shape the narrative before we had a chance to speak for ourselves. He nodded slowly after that, even mentioned that he’d probably have to do the same soon with his folks, and though I didn’t press him, the fact that he said it out loud felt like something quietly significant. Like he was starting to believe that this—we—might be worth acknowledging beyond just the walls of his flat.
Which is why we’re here now: sprawled on his couch two nights before his next match, our knees brushing, the TV playing something neither of us are watching, and my hand hovering over my phone like it’s about to explode.
Cam eyes me from beneath his lashes. “You’re gonna regret this.”
“I already do.”
He hides his face in the throw pillow. “Cosmo is going to be unhinged.”
