Page 20 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

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.

“Jesus—don’t stop… please… oh my God—” His fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles white, hips jerking helplessly. He’s undone. Alive under my mouth. And he gives it all to me—no shame, no holding back, just pure, desperate want.

And I swear, every sound he makes brings me this close to losing it. But not yet. I want to feel him fall apart again, and this time, I’ll be right there—eyes open, mouth on him, heart full.

He nods before I even finish telling him I want him. That alone undoes me a little. The way Camden gives himself over—like he knows I’ll handle him right—there’s nothing casual about it. It’s trust, and it’s loud, even in silence.

I ask, “Back or knees?” and watch him freeze. His cheeks flush. He hesitates just long enough for me to know what this is: not uncertainty but exposure. A kind of shyness that doesn’t match the way he arches into me when I touch him—but it’s there, and I respect it.

I make the call. “Hands and knees.”

He exhales like I’ve just given him permission to breathe again. Like the decision being made for him somehow lets the tension slip off his shoulders. He moves into position.

But before I reach for him, I pause. “Cam,” I say quietly, brushing a hand over the curve of his back, “we should talk protection.”

He glances back at me, flushed and a little dazed, but nods. “Yeah. Good idea.”

“I’m negative,” I say. “Tested a month ago. I can show you the results, if you want.”

He hesitates for a second, then shakes his head. “I believe you.”

I still and let the weight of that settle. “You trust me?”

He looks over his shoulder, cheeks pink, eyes dark with something more than arousal. “Yeah. I do.”

I shift forwards, pressing a kiss to the space between his shoulders. “Okay. Then I’ll ask—do you want me to wear one?”

His voice is low, breath catching. “No. I want… fuck, I want to feel you.”

I swallow hard. My hands tighten where they rest on his hips. “You sure?”

He nods again. “Raw. I want all of you.”

Jesus .

I let the words sink deep, settle under my skin, stoke something low and intense in my belly. And somehow, it’s not just about the physical—it’s about the gift he’s giving me in this moment. That trust. That choice.

There’s no rush. I ask for the lube, and he reaches back to hand it to me without a word. He’s already trembling, open from my tongue, but I still take my time.

Two fingers. Slow and careful.

He gasps, hips twitching back towards me like he can’t help it.

“You’re doing so fucking well,” I whisper, pressing kisses along his spine as I move. “Just breathe. Let me take care of you.”

Then three fingers, stretching him wider. He moans, loud and unfiltered, and the sound lights me up from the inside. He’s needy, desperate, pressing back against my hand with ragged little sounds. Noisy and breathy. It nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Fuck, Camden,” I groan. “You feel incredible.”

“Please,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to stop.” I kiss the base of his neck. “I’m going to fuck you so good you forget how to think.”

He moans again, fingers curling tight in the sheets.

I keep him there, stretched and slick, trembling and waiting. And when I finally pull back, lining up behind him, I take a breath—because I already know, when I push inside, I’ll lose every bit of control I have left.

“Please,” he whispers, and it undoes me. “Please, I need you.”

Jesus Christ. I have to stop. Just breathe. I press my forehead to his back, my dick nudging against his hole while I try not to come from just the sound of his voice. He’s everything—soft and raw and wild and mine.

“Hands off your dick,” I growl, and his fingers curl into the sheets instead.

He listens. God, he listens.

I line myself up again and push in, inch by inch. He’s hot and tight, and it feels like I’m slipping into something I’ve been waiting for without realising it. Like the final piece clicks into place.

I freeze once I’m fully in—just for a second—because if I move, I’m done. And I need this to last. I need to give him more than just the rush of it.

When I start to move, it’s careful at first. But I can hear it in his voice—he doesn’t want careful. He wants to feel it. To stop thinking. And I can give him that. I want to.

“You want it hard?” I murmur, reaching the edge of my own control.

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

So I give it to him.

Exactly what he needs.

Hard. Fast. Dirty.

Every thrust drives deeper, sharper, and he takes it—arching into each one with a gasp that curls in my gut like fire. He’s gripping the sheets, muscles flexed, knees spread wide, and his back bows beautifully as I work into him.

“Jesus, Cam,” I groan, hands tight on his hips. “You feel so fucking good—so tight. You’re taking me like you were made for it.”

He shudders at my words, breath catching. “Brent—oh fuck?—”

Each time I hit that spot inside him, his voice cracks.

It’s a desperate, broken sound that’s half shock, half pleasure.

His thighs tremble beneath my hands. He’s undone.

But it’s not the kind of wreckage that leaves someone undone.

It’s honest. Grounded. Present. He’s here with me in every shake and gasp and curse.

And fuck if I don’t want to burn this into memory.

“That’s it,” I growl. “You take me so well, baby. So perfect. Every inch.”

He cries out again, voice dissolving into open-mouthed moans. I see the way his arms tremble, his head dropping forwards, sweat sliding down his neck. He’s holding on. Barely.

I know the feeling. I’m getting close—tight in my gut, breath coming harder—and I need more.

Need him. So I slow just long enough to slide my arm around his torso, pulling him upright.

He comes easily, back flush to my chest, his body slick and hot beneath my hands.

I wrap one arm around his waist to keep him grounded while the other finds his cock.

“Hold on,” I whisper into the side of his throat, voice ragged as I pump him in time with each thrust. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His head tips back against my shoulder, exposing the arch of his neck. He’s panting, groaning, completely lost to the rhythm. I drive harder now—deeper, chasing the edge.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur again, voice catching. “Come for me, Cam. I want to feel you let go.”

He moans, louder now, gasping as my hand works him and my hips snap against him with precision. His body jerks—and then he’s gone.

He cries out, every muscle tensing before releasing all at once as he spills over my hand, ropes of cum painting his stomach and my fingers. His head lolls, lips parted, voice hoarse from the sheer force of it.

I keep going. Just a little longer. Just enough to push me over too—his heat, his voice, the way he gives himself to me finally tipping me past the brink.

I bury myself deep and freeze, trembling against his back as release rips through me like wildfire. The world narrows to him—his breath, his warmth, his strength—and I stay there, chest to his spine, heart pounding so loud it echoes in my ears.

The air between us hums. And in the silence that follows, his hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together and grounding us both.

Neither of us says anything. We just stay like this. Breathing, linked, and settled in something that feels too big to name. As the last of the tension seeps from my body, I wonder—quiet and breathless—what the hell we’ve just started.

Whatever it is, I don’t want to stop. I just hope, when morning comes, Camden doesn’t start building those walls back up again.