Page 114 of Full Tilt
The second the door closes behind us, I spin him around, press him against it, and kiss the breath out of both of us.
His hands go to my waist, pulling me in. I shove my fingers into his hair, tasting the salt of his skin, his breath, the low groan in his throat that sets off a chain reaction in mine.
He tastes like home.
“I missed you,” I say against his mouth, my voice rough.
“I can tell.” He palms my arse. “I could feel you staring at me the whole damn session.”
I grin into his mouth. “Not my fault your stupid sexy face makes it hard to focus.”
His laugh rumbles through my chest, hot and low. Then, before I can blink, he hitches his arms under my thighs and lifts me.
“Brent!” I bark out, half shocked, half thrilled, arms flailing for a second before I lock them around his shoulders. “Jesus, are you trying to rupture something?”
He grunts under his breath, adjusting his grip, and keeps walking—like I don’t weigh nearly two and a half stone more than him.
“You weigh less than the tattoo chair,” he says, breath warm against my ear. “And I move that solo every morning.”
“You are so full of shit,” I laugh, tightening my grip around his neck as my back hits the hallway wall for a second—his mouth crashing into mine like he’s making a point. It’s fast, filthy, and God, I want more.
“You think I can’t handle you?” he murmurs against my lips.
I snort, breathless. “I think if you throw your back out mid-thrust, it’ll kill the vibe.”
“Then I’ll just get creative,” he growls, tightening his grip with a cocky smile and carrying me the rest of the way with purpose. His shoulders strain under my hands, muscles flexing like he’s showing off.
Maybe he is.
And maybe I like it.
When he kicks open the bedroom door and half drops me onto the mattress, I bounce once—legs splayed, chest rising—and he’s on me before I can so much as blink. Hands everywhere. Mouth dragging a trail down my jaw like I’m his reward for surviving two weeks apart.
“You’re a menace,” I murmur, fingers sliding under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the cut of his ribs.
Brent looks at me, eyes dark with something wicked. “You say that like you don’t want more.”
I grin, tugging him in. “I want everything.”
And I mean it.
Brent watches me for a beat, gaze roaming my face like he’s memorising the moment. Then his hands lift, fingers ghosting over my hips, slipping under the hem of my T-shirt like he’s asking permission with the touch alone.
“You’re sure?” he murmurs, voice low and almost reverent. “It’s been a long day, and I know your arm’s?—”
I kiss him before he can finish. Not gentle, not patient—just full-on, mouth to mouth, tongue sweeping his bottom lip until he opens to me. His groan is immediate, muffled but hungry, and suddenly we’re moving together again—uncoiling tension that’s been wound too tight for two weeks.
“I don’t care about my arm,” I pant when we break apart. “I just want you.”
His pupils blow wide at that, and I swear I can feel the moment he gives in completely. We fumble our way out of shirts, jeans kicked off in haste, our mouths barely leaving each other for more than a breath or two.
When we finally fall back onto the bed—him over me, skin to skin—everything goes soft and sharp at the same time. I run my hands along his back, feeling the curve of his spine and the shiver that races through him when I drag my fingertips lightly up to his nape.
Brent kisses me again, slower this time, almost careful—like we’re both trying to savour every second. His hands are everywhere, brushing the curve of my hip, cupping my jaw, sliding across my chest in a way that sends heat spiralling through my gut.
We move together in a rhythm that feels familiar now—like we’ve been doing this forever. There’s no awkwardness. No nerves. Just… us. Tangled up in each other and breathing the same air.
I arch up, his name a whisper against the curve of his ear, and he responds by mouthing down the line of my throat, across my collarbone, and lower—his hands warm and grounding on my sides, steady even as everything inside me turns molten.
