Page 19 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

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.