Page 23 of Full Tilt
“I can’t—” My voice comes out rough. “I just need—Sorry. I need to go.”
I’m already moving. Already ducking out into the reception like the building’s on fire and I forgot how to breathe. Because if I stay one second longer, I’ll fall harder. And I’m not ready for what that means.
Not yet.
Not with someone who might actually matter.
By the timeI crawl into bed, my brain’s still tangled in Brent. In his stupid lip ring. His voice. The way he’d looked at me with zero judgement, just patience and curiosity and a quiet kind of focus that shouldn’t be as disarming as it is.
I’m exhausted, but sleep’s clearly not on the cards—not with my thoughts racing like they’ve just snorted a line of preseason adrenaline. So I do what I shouldn’t. I reach for my phone. It’s past midnight, but the screen lights up the second I touch it—and my stomach swoops.
There’s a Messenger notification from Brent. My breath hitches. I tap it open.
A voice message that’s over two minutes long.
I freeze. It’s late, definitely too late for casual conversation and even for tattoo sketches or rugby updates or shared memes. My heart does a weird stumble. I press Play before I can think better of it.
It starts instantly.
A sharp breath. A low groan.
“Fuck—Camden…”
My cock twitches.
He’s panting. The sound of slick skin on skin is unmistakable, and Jesus Christ, it’s him—Brent. His voice, rough and breathless, wrapping around my name like a fucking prayer.
My balls pull tight. I lie here, stunned, heat pulsing under my skin, cock swelling fast beneath the sheets as the audio keeps going. He’s not holding back. It’s raw. Dirty. Him chasing release with my name wrecked on his tongue.
“God, you—”A ragged moan.“—looked so fucking good tonight… Been thinking about your mouth all day…”
I’m frozen, rooted to the mattress while my dick fights for space against the waistband of my boxers. Just as I reach down—just as my palm brushes the ache beneath my waistband—there’s a scuffle in the audio. A muted curse. A bump.
“Oh fuck, no. Shit… shit?—”
Then silence.The recording ends abruptly, and I almost drop my phone when it pings.
Brent: Please don’t listen to that.
Brent: It wasn’t meant to be listened to.
Brent: Fuck.
Brent: Please just delete it.
Brent: Ignore me. I’m an idiot.
Another ping.
Brent: I’m so sorry.
Brent: Shit. Camden, seriously…
Brent: I didn’t mean to send that. Just… delete it, okay?
I stare at the messages, at the little timestamp, at the fact that it says he’s still online with the cursor moving, probably mortified. Probably pacing his room, wondering if I’m going to ghost him or sue him or show up to slap him upside the head.
I don’t know what to say. My cock’s still hard. My body is still burning. But my head? My head is a mess.
