Page 44 of Full Tilt
I tilt my head and kiss the inside of his thigh once, deliberately slow. “Camden.”
His breath hitches. His fingers tighten.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
That hand stills. And this time, when he exhales, it’s shaky—but it’s surrender.
And it’s beautiful.
I press my cheek against the front of his jeans and feel the strain there. Hard. Throbbing. Fuck, he’s sexy like this. He’s already trembling, and I haven’t even touched him properly yet.
I kiss him through the denim. Once. Slow. Then again, right over the spot that makes him gasp. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say against him. “But if you don’t? I’m going to make you feel so fucking good that you’ll forget what it felt like to hold back.”
He doesn’t speak, but his fingers contract in my hair, and that’s all the answer I need.
A lamp burns low in the sitting room—thank fuck, because the last thing I want to do is risk moving him. If he gets a second to overthink, he might shut it all down. So I stay right here. Right in front of him. And when I finally undo his jeans and take him into my mouth, his head hits the door with a soft thunk, followed by a deep exhale that sounds suspiciously like trust.
He gives in—beautifully, entirely. And I know, without question, I’ve got him.
His hips jerk just slightly, instinctive, and then freeze again like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. Of hurting me. Of losing control.
It hits me right in the chest—that restraint. That tight, aching grip on himself.
Even now, even with my hands on him, with my mouth on him, Camden’s still holding on by his fingernails. That’s not what I want. Not with me.
So I rest one hand on his hip, the other around the base of him, and lift my gaze to his. “Cam,” I say softly, voice rough with heat and conviction, “you don’t have to be careful. Not with me.”
He doesn’t say a word. But his hand slides deeper into my hair, and when I take him again—slow and deep and steady—he makes a sound that’s shattered.
The weight and heat of him fills my mouth, heavy and impossible to ignore. I move carefully, tasting him, learning every sound he makes in response. The catch of his breath. The whispered cursing. The breathless, almost disbelieving noise when I hollow my cheeks and go just that little bit deeper.
His legs widen, his back hits the door harder this time, and one hand thumps against the wall beside him.
I can feel it—him unravelling. Piece by piece, his control slips with every pass of my tongue, every pull of suction, every breath I steal from him and return with care. He tastes clean and heady, salt and skin and something wholly him.
I hum around him, and his whole body shudders.
“Fuck—Brent—” His voice is wrecked, like gravel and want and disbelief all rolled together.
I pull back just slightly to breathe, to stroke him with my hand, and look up. He’s flushed. Eyes glazed. Mouth parted. A goddamn vision.
“You’re all right,” I whisper, lips brushing the head of him. “You’re doing so fucking well.”
That’s all it takes.
His head drops back, jaw going slack, the long line of his throat on full display. The cords strain as he gasps, his hips pushing forwards in one instinctive, desperate motion—his whole body suddenly wound tight, coiled at the edge?—
And then he breaks.
Not quietly. Not politely. It tears through him like a wave slamming into the shore—powerful, overwhelming, raw.
His body arches, a low, rough sound torn from his chest as pleasure shudders through him in deep, rolling pulses. I stay with him, my mouth and hand soft now, careful, coaxing him through every twitch, every aftershock. I can feel him unravel in my hands, feel how hard he worked to hold it together—and how completely he’s stopped trying now.
It’s beautiful, watching a man like him let go.
When he finally slumps, boneless and flushed, his breath comes hard and fast, each inhale shaky, like he’s forgotten how to breathe without restraint. His hand slips from my hair and drifts down—slow, aimless—until his fingers find my jaw. His thumb brushes over my cheek like he’s grounding himself. Like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.
I press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. It’s slow and intentional. A thank-you and a promise all in one.
