Page 66 of Full Tilt
I brush the cloth down his stomach, cleaning him gently, even as his eyes flutter closed and his throat works around a swallow.
“I fucking hate how good that was,” he mutters eventually.
I smile. “Then we’re even.”
He opens one eye. “For what?”
“For how fucking hard you make it not to fall for you.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look away either. And that silence? It says enough for now.
The water has barely settled before it sloshes violently to one side, slapping the edge of the tub and cascading onto the floor.
“Cam—”
I barely get his name out before a strong, wet hand fists the front of my shirt and yanks me forwards. My knees slam into the bathmat, and then I’m crashing into a very large, very naked man, the fabric of my tee soaking instantly as I tumble halfway over the edge. Camden’s grin is feral, his eyes lit with something wild and determined.
“You asshole,” I gasp, breathless with laughter. The sound barely makes it past my lips before his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like the slow, teasing brushes we’ve shared before.
It’s not polite.
It’s not sweet.
It’s possession.
And I fucking melt.
His lips are hot and wet and demanding, slanting over mine with an urgency that makes my heart stutter. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other braced against the side of the tub, trapping me between the slick slide of his chest and the porcelain edge. His tongue brushes against mine, and I open for him without hesitation—eager, hungry, lost.
The kiss deepens.
Our tongues stroke, swirl, collide. There’s nothing shy about the way we come together now—just hunger and the kind of trust that creeps up without warning. My fingers find his hair, curling tight, and he groans into my mouth like it does something to him. Like it matters.
And maybe it does.
Because this—this mess of wet skin, open mouths, unspoken heat—isn’t just a kiss. It’s a surrender. A claim. It’s him sayingI’m here, and me sayingI feel it too.
I slide closer despite the ridiculous squeeze of two grown men trying to fit into a tub clearly built for one. My jeans dig into my knees, but I don’t give a damn. His cock presses against my hip, mine trapped painfully behind denim, but it’s the kiss I’m drowning in.
It’s slow now—aching, thorough. Our mouths learn each other’s rhythms, our breathing syncs, and every drag of his lips over mine sends heat coiling low in my belly. His teeth scrape my lower lip, and I gasp, hips twitching before I even realise I’ve moved.
His hand trails down to my jaw, tilting my face just enough to change the angle. The next slide of his tongue against mine is softer and lingers, and I swear I feel it down to my fucking toes.
When we finally pull apart, we don’t go far. Our foreheads rest together, breath mingling. My pulse is thunderous in my ears. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for the edge of a cliff he already knows he’ll jump off.
And me?
I’ve already jumped.
Camden tasteslike mint and morning heat, and it takes everything in me not to drag him back to bed. He leans into the kiss—one of many—his mouth lingering just long enough for it to toe the line between affectionate and filthy.
“Brent,” he warns, voice low and already breathless, “you’re gonna make me late.”
I grin and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then you should’ve left five minutes ago, Captain.”
He rolls his eyes but kisses me again anyway. One hand slides around my waist like he’s trying to memorise the shape of me, and then he pulls back with a soft, reluctant groan.
