Page 18 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

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.

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.