Full Tilt, page 11
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.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Not when I can feel the tremble in his skin and the truth of it all in the weight of his body still leaning against the door—undone, unguarded, mine for the moment.
His eyes flutter open, glazed but locked on mine. “Holy fuck,” he breathes.
I smile, still kneeling, my heart pounding. “You good?”
He huffs out a laugh, but it’s breathless—more a sound of disbelief than amusement. “I’m not sure I remember my own name.”
Carefully, I rise to my feet, placing a steadying hand on his chest as I go. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me when I lean in and press a kiss to his lips—soft and brief. There’s no heat in it, no push for more. Just contact. Just truth. Just… us, right now.
His eyes open slowly, and when they meet mine, I see the haze still lingering there—pleasure, yes, but also something quieter. Something that looks a lot like trust.
“I meant what I said,” I murmur, letting my fingers rest lightly over his heart. “I’ve got you.”
And I do.
Not just here in this moment, with his back against the door and the taste of him still on my tongue, but entirely. I’ve got his tension, his silence, his mess. I’ve got the parts of him he doesn’t know how to share yet.
And when I say it—when I see how his expression shifts, like something inside him unclenches—I feel the truth of it settle in my chest with a kind of rightness I haven’t felt in years.
He lets out a breath, slower this time. It’s controlled, but there’s something in the way he leans into my hand, just the barest shift of weight, that tells me everything I need to know.
He believes me—or maybe he’s starting to. And fuck, if that doesn’t mean everything. Every complicated, hard-earned piece of him.
He’s still leaning against the door, lips parted, breathing slowly like he’s trying to recalibrate the world. I take a step back, giving him space, even though every part of me wants to stay close. Not to start anything again, but just to stay near.
Camden exhales, drags a hand down his face, and clears his throat. “I could, uh… return the favour.”
My heart does something funny at that—something low and aching. Not because I wouldn’t love that, but because the way he says it sounds more like an obligation than a desire. Like he owes me something for letting go.
I shake my head. “Cam, what I did wasn’t a favour.”
His gaze flicks to mine, uncertain.
I soften my voice. “I wanted to. It was… honestly, it was my pleasure.” A breath escapes me. “Literally and otherwise.”
He huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, though it’s tinged with discomfort.
“And yeah,” I add with a self-deprecating grin, “I’m hard enough that a few strokes would probably end me right now, but that’s not the point.”
Camden shifts, eyes dipping as he tugs up his pants, putting himself back in order while very clearly avoiding my gaze.
“I don’t want this to be some kind of transaction,” I say gently. “I don’t need anything back. I don’t want out—I want in. Time. Connection. Something that isn’t just about getting off.”
That finally gets him to look at me. It’s not quite shock in his eyes. More like wariness. Like the idea of someone sticking around without strings, without a hidden agenda, is so unfamiliar he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
I glance at the clock. “It’s nearly eleven. You have training tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. “No. Recovery day.”
Relief unfurls through my shoulders. “Good. Then how about we watch a movie?”
He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust the suggestion.
“I’m serious,” I say. “No tricks. Just your couch, a stupid film, and me probably falling asleep with my head on your shoulder halfway through.”
He studies me like he’s trying to figure out what angle I’m working. But then something shifts—just a flicker—and he nods once. “All right.”
He leads the way through the flat, moving a little stiffly, like the tension hasn’t completely bled out of him yet. He heads to the kitchen while I hover near the sofa, trying not to stare at his arse as he walks—and mostly failing.
The space surprises me—not because it’s flashy, but because it isn’t. Warm lighting, books stacked on low shelves, mismatched cushions, an old Exeter Seagulls fleece draped over the back of a chair. It’s not cold or staged—it’s lived-in. Personal.
And somehow, it makes my chest go all stupid and soft.
I call out, “You making tea?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice faint.
“Gross,” I reply with a grin. “That’s the most British thing about you.”
He snorts.
“Honestly, I’ve tried. It tastes like boiled regret and lost hope. Ted Lasso absolutely nailed it.”
His laugh carries from the kitchen—short, surprised, and real.
He returns a moment later with two mugs. He hands me one, and our fingers brush. I make sure of it. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sits beside me, close enough that our legs touch. The tension’s still there in his posture, but I rest my arm on the back of the sofa behind him—not touching, not forcing, just letting him feel the option of closeness without pressure.
“You good with something easy?” I ask, flicking through the streaming menu.
He nods. “Yeah. Easy sounds great.”
I hit Play on something ridiculous and let the noise fill the space. The kind of movie that requires zero thought and rewards zero attention. My body’s still buzzing with everything that happened—every sound he made, the way he melted for me—but I keep my touches light, occasional, never pushing.
Just enough to remind him I’m here. That I meant what I said. That he doesn’t have to carry everything alone tonight.
He sips his tea. I sip mine, regretting every second of it. But I don’t say a word. Because Camden’s next to me on a sofa in his flat, his knee brushing mine, and for the first time all night, his shoulders have started to relax.
And I’ll take that over tea-flavoured disappointment any day.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but the first thing I register is a low voice and the soft press of a hand on my shoulder.
“Brent.”
My eyes peel open slowly. Everything’s dark, except for the low amber glow from a nearby lamp. The TV’s gone quiet, the screen black. Camden is crouched beside the couch, looking at me, sleep-rumpled and steady.
My heart stumbles.
He’s trying to get rid of me. That’s my first, knee-jerk thought, and it stings. I sit up fast, blinking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to crash. I can grab a cab, no big deal—”
“No,” he says firmly, cutting me off before I spiral. “I just didn’t want to wake you too hard.”
I pause, staring at him, brain still rebooting.
He stands and offers me his hand. “Come on,” he says, quieter now. “You’ll sleep better in bed.”
For a second, my whole system malfunctions. My blood wakes up fast, and not just in my chest. My dick twitches, my pulse jumps, and the idea of his bed slams into me like a freight train. “Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Sure.”
He doesn’t look at me while he leads the way, just points to a half-open door off the hall. “Bathroom’s through there. There’s a new toothbrush on the sink.”
When I step in, the light flicks on automatically. Everything is crisp and neutral—grey tiles, soft towels, a faint clean scent that might be eucalyptus. And sure enough, on the edge of the basin: a still-packaged toothbrush and a tiny cup with toothpaste already squeezed out.
He thought about this before waking me. The idea gives me stupid, swooping butterflies.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to get my heart rate under control. No luck. When I step out again and pad quietly towards the bedroom in nothing but my boxer briefs, I hear the water running in what’s clearly his en suite. Camden’s showering. Probably needed to decompress—his version of resetting.
But my body isn’t nearly as calm as my thoughts.
Just knowing he’s behind that door, water sluicing over that strong, solid frame… the image is enough to punch my cock straight up against the tight cotton of my boxers. The head slips past the waistband, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I’m still standing in his bedroom, near the doorway, staring at the en suite door like an idiot, when the shower cuts off. A few heartbeats later, Camden appears.
Fuck me. He’s in nothing but a towel. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, droplets of water still trailing down the thick column of his neck, his beard, and across his chest. He’s massive—all over—built not like a model but like a fortress. No six-pack, just pure, necessary strength carved from years of brutal games and weight rooms and discipline.
And right now, he looks unsure. Vulnerable.
I don’t let the moment pass. “I want you,” I say, voice low and honest.
His eyes widen, breath hitching slightly. I glance down. He’s hard, so fucking hard it makes my mouth go dry.
My gaze snaps back up. “How do you feel about being on your knees?”
For a beat, he’s frozen. I brace for the brush-off. For the shutdown. For him to pull the wall back up and send me back to the couch. But instead… something in him melts. He exhales—one long, ragged breath—and the tension in his shoulders sags like he’s just dropped ten pounds of weight.
His lips part. He doesn’t say no. His eyes give me the answer first. And it’s yes. Hell, it’s please. And before his mouth even moves, I know he’s going to let me take care of him again. And this time, it’s not just physical. It’s permission. It’s trust. And that’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
He doesn’t speak—not with words. But the way he looks at me, wide-eyed and flushed, tells me everything I need to know. He wants this. Wants me. Maybe not in a way he knows how to say yet, but it’s there—clear as the hard line beneath that towel and the slight tremble in his fingers as he stands still, waiting.
I cross the space between us slowly, giving him every second to change his mind.
He doesn’t.
My hand comes to his chest, warm and broad beneath my palm, and I feel his heart skip. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, not even when I lean in and press our lips together.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. But that doesn’t last.
He groans against me—low and deep—and I take the invitation, tilting my head and kissing him harder. His mouth opens to mine like it’s instinct. Like he’s craving this, and Jesus, the way he melts into me makes my knees weak.
He tastes like mint and heat and something distinctly Camden. I wrap an arm around his waist and feel him lean in, big and solid and mine, just for now.
When I tug gently at the edge of the towel, he hesitates for only a moment before letting it fall to the floor. I draw back enough to look at him, just for a second. And fuck, he’s glorious. Thick thighs, powerful chest, strength carved from years of battle on the pitch, but it’s the vulnerability that knocks the breath from my lungs.
I lead him to the bed, easing him down until he’s flat on his back, propped on his elbows, watching me with that uncertain hunger written all over him.
I strip, then climb onto the mattress slowly, kissing my way down his body. Every inch of him is mine to explore. My lips drag across the swell of his pecs, tongue tracing the lines of his tattoos. I pause at each design, already imagining how I’ll connect them. How I’ll help complete the story he wears on his skin.
He lets out a sound—half groan, half breath—when I mouth over one of the new patches of ink on his bicep.
“You’ve got no idea how much I’ve thought about doing your sleeve,” I whisper, lips brushing his skin. “How much I want to mark you up in all the ways that matter.”
He exhales sharply, hands twisting into the sheets.
I move lower. Across his stomach. Over the sharp plane of his hip. But when I reach his groin, I bypass his cock entirely.
He groans, head falling back, hips twitching. “Please… fuck, Brent—”
I smile into his thigh. “Not yet.” I ease his legs open, and his breath stutters as I settle between them. I run my hands over his thighs, awed, possessive. I kiss his skin just above his knee, then drag my mouth higher.
When I reach the sensitive stretch behind his balls, he gasps—loud and unguarded—and I breathe him in. That’s when I realise what he’s done.
“You made yourself ready,” I murmur against his skin, voice almost reverent.
His cheeks go pink. His eyes don’t meet mine. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running sprints. He stammers, “I-I didn’t know if—”
I cut him off with a kiss to the inside of his thigh. “You’re perfect.”
He shakes his head once, eyes squeezed shut, like he doesn’t believe it.
I kiss him again, lower this time. Then again. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Camden. Strong. Sweet. And mine for tonight.”
When I press open-mouthed kisses to his rim, he gasps—full-bodied, shaking—and his legs fall wider. “Fuck… Brent… I can’t—”
“You can,” I murmur. “You are.”
I taste him—salt, skin, heat, and something intimate, something that’s purely him. It’s earthy and clean, almost electric, like the spark that catches on the back of your tongue right before lightning strikes. It’s real and raw. I swear, I could drown in it.
I worship him, and he breaks. He’s vocal—so damn vocal—and every breathy curse, every ragged moan, lights me up from the inside out. His voice wrecks me.
