Page 43 of Full Tilt
At the front door, I fumble with my keys for half a second longer than necessary. My fingers feel clumsy. Everything feels a little too loud in my chest.
He leans in slightly, voice low. “Lead the way, Captain.”
The way that word lands in my gut could be classified as an international incident. The door opens with a push and a soft creak, and we step into the entryway, our footsteps echoing lightly against the quiet.
Up the stairs to the second floor is my flat. I get the door open, and then I freeze. Because now we’re here. Inside. Together. Just him and me and whatever the fuck is about to happen.
I turn to say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell him the bathroom’s down the hall or that I’ve got nothing but protein bars and cold pizza in the fridge.
But I don’t get the chance, because he’s already moved.
He pushes the door shut behind us, then steps into my space, calm and sure, and suddenly I’m the one against the door, his body pinning me there, heat radiating between us like a living thing.
His hand lands on my chest—firm, grounding, warm. His gaze meets mine, and there’s no teasing in it now. No smugness. Just clarity. Confidence and intention. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and firm and so fucking certain it steals the air from my lungs.
I suck in a breath, and my whole body locks up. His hand slides lower, fingers brushing over the front of my jeans, and I swear to God, I almost fucking come. Just from that. From him. From the weight of his hand and the promise in his voice.
“I know exactly what you need,” he whispers.
And holy crap on a cracker, he does. Somehow, this man I barely know—who’s patient and cocky and kind and watching me like I’m something worth handling with care—has already read me like a book.
And fuck me, I want him to turn every page.
10
Brent
Camden’s breath catches.His body tenses like a bow drawn tight, muscles straining under control he’s clearly used to maintaining—on the pitch, in public, probably even in private.
But right now? Right now, I want to be the one he doesn’t have to hold it together for.
His pupils are blown wide, gaze fixed on mine like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, like if he moves, he might unravel completely.
Good. Because I’m here to catch him.
“Cam,” I say, low and steady, my palm pressing just enough for him to feel it. “Let me.”
His mouth opens slightly, like he might speak. Like he might argue.
I shake my head, just once, leaning in closer. “You think too much. I know why. I get it.”
And I do. I’ve read the articles. The way the press chewed him up years ago and spat him out like a headline. I’ve seen what that kind of exposure does—what it takes. He’s lived with that spotlight turned sharp and punishing for too long.
But this isn’t the press. This isn’t a story. This is me. And I’ll earn every bit of his trust if that’s what it takes.
I slide my hand up his chest again, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm. “You don’t have to hold it in with me,” I murmur. “You don’t have to do anything but let go. I’ve got you.”
His throat bobs, and that breath he’d been holding shudders free. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s not sure if he should grab me or push me off. So I move unhurriedly. Carefully but with purpose.
I sink slowly to my knees in front of him, palms dragging down the sides of his thighs as I go—claiming space, not asking for it.
Camden exhales sharply, one word tumbling out in a voice that’s all grit and need. “Fuck.” It sounds like it’s been ripped out of him. Not performative. Not polished. Just raw.
I look up. He’s staring down at me like he doesn’t know what hit him—chest rising fast, lips parted, a flush blooming up his throat. Every line of his body is drawn tight with restraint, with tension that hums under his skin like a current. His hands hover in the air—uncertain, twitching.
I wait and let him come to me.
And he does. One trembling hand finally lowers, threading into my hair like he’s testing the reality of this moment. His grip is tentative, questioning. His thumb grazes my temple. “You sure?” he asks, voice quiet, wavering, like saying it out loud costs him.
